The Pasha of Cuisine

by Saygin Ersin

  The cook replied, “It would be my pleasure.”

  As Firuz Agha quickly made his way toward the Inner Palace, the cook took a sack from the kitchen to the cellar. The morning rush had not abated. Carrying bags and sacks, apprentices fetched ingredients for their masters and water-bearers carried pitchers of water on their shoulders to the kitchens. No sooner had the cook stepped aside to make way for an apprentice, carrying on his back a sack as large as himself when he heard someone shout, “Easy boys, easy!” Two fire-stokers were carrying a massive charcoal burner filled with burning cinders to the kitchens where they would feed the fires of the stoves. The charcoal burner was so hot that the cook had to back away when they passed by.

  The cook walked out into the courtyard to escape the hustle and bustle of the kitchens. He thought about what he was supposed to cook for the Chief Sword Bearer. His Highness the Agha had requested just one dish per meal, leaving the rest for him to decide, and he realized that it was a perfect opportunity. He thought, If the agha wants to revisit his past, then I’ll help him. When he walked through the huge door of the cellar, he knew what he’d be cooking that day.

  He was greeted by a cacophony of angry voices. Some apprentices, assistants, and a few cooks had gathered by the sacks of rice, grain, and legumes, and all of them were shouting.

  The cook made his way toward the crowd, passing a long table behind which the Chamberlain of the Cellar and his scribes were sitting. The Chief Cellar Steward, who was standing behind the sacks, was holding a basket woven from date palm leaves over his head as he begged, “Aghas, pashas! I swear to you, there’s not one grain of Dimyat rice left. It all got sent to the Royal Kitchen. All that’s left is Plovdiv rice. Please stop your bickering!”

  But they were quite right to grumble—the most popular dish at the palace was rice. Everyone from the most inexperienced palace guard to the highest-ranking agha requested rice, and each day cauldrons of it were prepared with vegetables and fruit of all sorts. So naturally every cook wanted to use the best rice that soaked up the most water.

  The cook turned right, avoiding the disgruntled crowd, and made his way to the butcher’s room, grateful to find that there was no shortage of meat. Lamb, chickens, geese, and duck hung from hooks on the ceiling, and two cellar stewards were standing there with cleavers and knives tucked into their belts disinterestedly listening to the argument over rice.

  The cook asked for a fat thigh of lamb and had the stewards cut out the bone. He placed the meat in a sack and took another right turn as he headed to the dairy room, where he got six eggs, a quarter oka of cheese, and fifty dirhams of pastrami. Then he got some pastry dough, carrots, spinach, dill, and parsley, as well as a few green stalks of celery. The bickering had died down in the grain room so the cook got in line. When his turn came, he asked for a quarter oka each of lentils, rice, and sugar, as well as fifty dirhams of vermicelli and ten dirhams of starch. As he walked out, wanting nothing more than to get out of the stifling cellar as quickly as possible, he suddenly stopped, realizing that he’d forgotten to get the ingredients for the dessert he’d planned on making. He was chagrined to realize that the dried fruits were at the farthest end of the cellar. For a moment he considered having the Confectionery Kitchen prepare the dessert, which he was allowed to do as a master cook, but he thought better of it. The cooks there were naturally quite skilled and he knew that anything they prepared would please the Chief Sword Bearer, but if his plan was going to work, he would need to handle everything the agha would eat. He made his way toward the sacks of dried fruit and selected ten dirhams each of dried figs and raisins, as well as twenty dirhams of dried plums. He then walked back to the long table behind which the Chamberlain of the Cellar and his scribes were sitting. He greeted the scribes, who were sitting on tattered cushions on the floor. From dawn till dusk they sat there with their inkwells and pens, keeping track of everything that left the cellar, the sparkle in their eyes long since dulled by keeping meticulous records. That was one of the oldest and strictest rules of the Imperial Kitchens. Everything that left the Imperial Cellar had to be documented, even a single clove of garlic. No one would dare dream of taking goods and selling them off because an inspection of the books would reveal the crime and the culprit would be accused of stealing from the sovereign’s treasury and heavily punished.

  The cook went back to the kitchen as fast as his feet could carry him. There was very little time, as he had to prepare eight different dishes, four for lunch and another four for dinner. However, when he walked into the kitchen he was surprised to see that Master İsfendiyar was waiting for him with Mahir by his side.

  “You can’t do all this alone,” the master said. “What would we say to the Chief Sword Bearer if you couldn’t finish on time?”

  The master slapped Mahir’s back and said, “Here’s a strapping young assistant for you. He’s yours for the taking.” The other cooks in the kitchen sniggered. “He’ll do as you say and bring you whatever you need.”

  “Thank you, Master,” the cook replied.

  Master İsfendiyar turned to Mahir and ordered him to kiss his new master’s hand. Mahir dashed over to the cook and, taking the cook’s hand, kissed it three times. Then he looked up and asked with sparkling eyes, “Is there anything you need?”

  The cook realized that his new assistant must have been terribly bored watching over the lodgings and that he would do anything to please him, which was exactly what the cook wanted. The tastes and smells that arose in his thoughts when he first saw Mahir spoke of a slimy ball of greed and ambition buried deep down, traits that the cook knew could prove to be useful indeed. The cook wasn’t yet able to fully understand the sensations that had appeared in his mind but he decided it was worth trying. He hoped the means—Mahir himself—would be worth the trouble.

  He shot a glare at Mahir, who was still standing there with laughter in his eyes, and snapped, “First of all, you can take these things.”

  Chuckles echoed through the kitchen again. For an assistant to ask his master who was standing there with a sack on his back whether he needed anything was at best a laughable display of foolishness, and from what the cook could tell, Mahir had entertained the occupants of the kitchen once too often in the past with such displays. Everyone started laughing, from the apprentices to the head cooks, but a sudden bang cut their titters short.

  The lid of a large pot had fallen to the ground next to Master Asım’s feet and was still spinning in place. With eyes filled with fire, Master Asım glared at everyone around him and told his assistant to pick up the lid. Everyone fell silent and went back to work.

  The reinstated solemnity of the Aghas’ Kitchen pleased Master İsfendiyar. After wishing the cooks a good day, he started walking out, casting a secretive look at the cook as he stepped out the door.

  Mahir was still standing there sheepishly holding the bag. The cook could see that his new assistant, stupefied by nervousness, could do nothing of his own accord.

  “Empty it,” he said, pointing to the bag. Mahir was just about to empty the bag on the table when the cook stopped him. “Slowly! There are eggs inside.”

  The other cooks in the kitchen were biting their lips to hold back their laughter as Mahir placed the items on the table.

  The cook glanced at the pastrami he was going to use for the eggs. He sniffed the slice he was holding, and, noticing that Mahir was finished, said, “Go and fetch me an armful of onions. Also, put the lentils into a pot with some water and put it on the stove to boil.”

  “Yes, Master,” Mahir responded. He thought for a moment and then grabbed a pot, filled it with water, poured the lentils into it, placed it on the stove, and set off to get the onions. The cook watched him out of the corner of his eye, thinking that if nothing else, his new assistant was quick on his feet.

  Soon enough he brought the onions. The cook inspected them one by one, picking the ones he would use, when his assistant suddenly broke his concentration by asking, “What did the
Chief Sword Bearer ask for?”

  The cook cast him an annoyed look. “Eggs for lunch and lamb stew for dinner.”

  Mahir looked at the items on the table in confusion. “Who are all the other things for, then?” he asked after a moment.

  Of course, it was unthinkable that Siyavuş Agha could do with only one dish per meal. At the palace, the number of dishes one was served followed certain rules. Even the youngest apprentice knew that for every meal the lowest-ranked residents—the odalisques, orderlies, and new page boys—would get two dishes, aghas four, pashas six, the sultan’s favorite concubines eight, the sultan’s chief consort sixteen, the sultan’s mother and children eighteen, and lastly the sovereign would get between twenty-four to thirty-two dishes per meal.

  He replied to Mahir with a question of his own: “Mahir, how long have you been working here?”

  Mahir thought and then said, “A little more than two years, Master.”

  “And for how long did you look after the lodgings?”

  “It would’ve been exactly eighteen months next week, Master.”

  The cook was now even more curious about the young man’s past but decided he would ask later. “For His Highness the Agha’s lunch we’re going to make lentil soup, cup pastries, plum compote, and eggs,” he explained. “And for his dinner we’re going to cook green rice, vermicelli soup, fruit blancmange, and stewed lamb. Every day, for every meal, we’re going to prepare four different dishes for him.”

  Mahir nodded.

  The cook pushed a few carrots, along with the onions he’d selected, toward him. “Go on and start peeling these.”

  Mahir got to work and the cook finally got the peace and quiet he needed. He decided that he would make the plum compote first, since it would take time to cool down, and then move on to the eggs, soup, and pastries.

  He dissolved some of the sugar in the water, added the plums, and placed the small pot on a stove to cook at a medium heat. In the meantime, Mahir had finished peeling the onions and moved on to the carrots.

  “Cut four or five of the onions into small cubes,” the cook said, “and split one in half and put it in the pot of lentils. Then slice the carrots and put them in with the lentils as well. Leave them to boil, and then mince the dill and parsley.”

  Mahir stared at him uncomprehendingly. At first, the cook thought he’d asked for too much, but the truth came to light when the boy asked, “What should I do with the dill and parsley, Master?” The cook realized that Mahir knew nothing about the terms that every apprentice learns. There was “halving,” which obviously meant cutting something in half. Then there was “cutting,” “chopping,” and “shredding.” Very fine cutting was referred to as “mincing.” Then there was “grating” and “pounding” with a pestle and mortar.

  At that moment, he had neither the time nor inclination to explain everything to his assistant, so he grabbed a large onion, sliced it in half, and threw it into the now-boiling pot of lentils. The he took the bunch of dill and minced it.

  “Now you do the same with the parsley,” he said to Mahir. The young man nodded, unable to take his eyes from the knife which his master wielded so expertly.

  Mahir placed the bunch of parsley on a chopping board and began carefully chopping it up. To make sure they wouldn’t be late, the cook began to work his knife ever faster, slicing four onions in the blink of an eye. After melting a generous amount of butter in the pan, he added the onions. Then he poured a little water into a smaller pan and, as he was putting in the pastrami, he noticed that the pan of onions was sizzling a little louder than it should have been.

  He said to Mahir, “Reduce the heat.”

  Mahir crouched by the fire and sprinkled some ashes on the cinders.

  The sizzling now satisfyingly quieter, Mahir went back to mincing the parsley, which was proving to be a challenge for him. The cook cast a disappointed glance at the green mound of mush in front of the boy. He knew that the amount of force used while mincing something was critical and that Mahir had pushed too hard, meaning that the juice of the parsley had been pressed out. The pastry would turn out a little tasteless, but there was nothing he could do at that point.

  Just then the cook noticed with irritation that the pot of lentils was steaming. “Forget about the parsley for now,” he told Mahir in a quiet but firm tone. “Put the carrots into the pot. Otherwise the water will boil away and they won’t cook right.”

  Mahir set to work, peeling and cutting the carrots. The cook returned his attention to the pastrami. After placing the strips of meat in a pan over the lowest heat he could manage, he stirred the onions. The pastrami softened and the herbs on the edge of each slice dissolved into the oil, and when the onions became translucent, the cook slid the pastrami into the pan of onions and blew on the fire underneath the stove. After stirring the pastrami for a while, he added a dash of vinegar and a pinch of sugar. With a dash of salt the pastrami became even softer, approaching the consistency of a paste. The cook whisked the contents of the pan and five minutes later his work was done; the pan now contained a pungent light red puree. The onions had nearly dissolved, and all he had to do was to wait a moment before cracking the eggs into the pan. Before covering it with a lid, the cook whispered a mysterious word over its contents.

  The cook took the plum compote off the stove and added a few cloves and a small piece of mastic to give it flavor as it cooled. He mixed the dill and parsley with some cheese in a bowl and then spread the mixture between the layers of pastry dough he’d laid out on the counter. After using up the mixture, he started cutting the dough into circles using a small bowl so that the pastries would be ready to be fried in olive oil and served up hot.

  In the meantime, Mahir was straining the lentils. His surprising strength finally came into use as he worked the lentils, onions, and carrots through a sieve. The cook tasted a bit of puree on the edge of the sieve; just as he had guessed, the carrots weren’t cooked through. He whispered another word and tasted the puree again. The carrots may still have been undercooked but their taste blended into the background. He could now move onto melting some butter for the soup.

  The cook managed to prepare all the dishes a quarter of an hour before they were expected and was able to start working on the stew for the evening, adding the lamb to a pot of water along with two onions, half a bunch of parsley, and one clove of garlic. The plum compote had cooled down sufficiently and he poured the soup into a porcelain bowl. The eggs and the pastries were ready, being kept warm in copper pans with lids over coals.

  All they had to do was wait. Soon enough, Master İsfendiyar’s voice would ring out: “Time!” Then the bustle would begin anew as servants from all around the palace poured into the kitchens to pick up the dishes and deliver them to their masters.

  As he waited, the cook watched the others at work in the kitchen. He’d only just met them, but he soon realized that all of the cooks were fairly proficient. Their mastery of the art of cuisine was evident even in the way they held their knives.

  The cook was most impressed by Master Asım, the Chief Privy Chamber Page’s cook. He was quiet and disciplined, and while he wasn’t very fast, he used his time well. Most notably, he used a massive meat cleaver to perform almost every task that required cutting. This crude knife, which could split a leg of lamb in half with a single stroke, became the most precise of instruments in Master Asım’s hands, and he could slice a shallot into the thinnest of slices.

  He was also fascinated by the personal cook of Rikabdar Agha, who used the same table as him. He was a meticulous man, and the cook assumed that he’d learned his art in the kitchen of a wealthy household. He worked carefully with the various knives he lined up on the table and decorated his dishes so well that they were as elegant as they were delectable; that day he had adorned, for example, a tray of stuffed meatballs with roses he’d carved from radishes.

  The cook suddenly realized that he couldn’t remember the name of the cook with whom he shared a table�
�all he knew was that he was Rikabdar Agha’s cook. It also occurred to him that the only person he knew by name was Master Asım and that the rest of the cooks were just titles and ranks to him. That struck him as odd, and he wondered if his mind was just focusing on what really mattered to him as he put his plan into motion.

  As he attempted to figure out what the cooks of Çuhadar Agha and the Chief Treasurer were preparing by sniffing at the air, Master İsfendiyar’s voice echoed through the kitchens. But instead of saying “Time!” as usual, he said, “All cooks are hereby summoned to the Stewards’ Room! The Kitchen Council will gather.”

  Many of the cooks looked at each other and muttered, “Hopefully it’s not bad news.” The Kitchen Council only gathered to discuss matters of the greatest importance. Led by the Head Cook, all the cooks working in the kitchens and the confectionery, the cellar scribes, the Chief Baker, and the Market Steward would meet in the Kitchen Chamberlain’s office to discuss whatever was at hand.

  The announcement that the assistants would be expected to deliver lunch alarmed Mahir as he’d never had to deal with officials before. He looked at his master with inquiring eyes, too shy to question him directly.

  The cook smiled. “It will be fine,” he said. “Simply greet him and place his food on the tray. But if Firuz Agha has any instructions, listen well.”

  “Yes, Master,” replied Mahir. “Is there anything you need?”

  The cook thought for a few moments, stroking his chin. “After you take the agha his lunch, go to the cellar,” he said. “I saw some apples there earlier. Get two oka of those and a handful of cloves.”

  “Of course, Master,” Mahir repeated.

  One by one the other cooks were leaving. The cook told Mahir to make sure that he cleaned up and started making his way toward the Stewards’ Room, which was adjacent to the cellar. The large room was filled with people.

  The cooks from the kitchens and the Confectionery were standing on the left side of the room in order of rank. At the front stood the Chief Confectioner and the Chief Baker, and Master Asım and the other high-ranking cooks were standing behind them. On the right were the staff of the kitchen and the cellar, headed by the Market Steward and the Chamberlain of the Cellar.