The Pasha of Cuisine

by Saygin Ersin

  The cook stood at the rear. Master İsfendiyar and Şakir Effendi, the Chamberlain of the Kitchen, entered the room, and everyone fell silent, bowing their heads.

  Master İsfendiyar and Şakir Effendi sat on a divan, leaving a space between them for the Chief Cellar Steward, who was responsible for reporting to the sultan about the kitchens and the cellar.

  After a period of silence, the Chamberlain of the Kitchen said, “Aghas, effendis, brother cooks. As you know, we are running low on stock. But this is a temporary state of affairs. We must be more careful, and more considerate, during these difficult times—”

  Without waiting for Şakir Effendi to finish, the Chief Confectioner interrupted him. Irritably he said, “And how long is this situation going to last? We’re being more inconvenienced each day.”

  The Chamberlain of the Cellar patiently went on, “Not much longer. As you’re aware, Treasurer Halil Pasha had to retire because of ill health, so there have been some delays in payments. But there’s no need to panic. The Imperial Council will be meeting in three days. A new treasurer will be appointed, and the payments will continue as usual.”

  The Chief Confectioner nodded, but his frown indicated that he wasn’t entirely satisfied. Şakir Effendi’s explanation only made him feel more uneasy; Treasurer Halil Pasha had retired only the day before, but the troubles in the cellar had been going on for weeks. He surmised that if the Chamberlain of the Cellar was using the retirement of the Treasurer as an excuse, the problem ran deeper.

  Şakir Effendi attempted to continue, but the Chief Baker interrupted him: “Please, Your Highness, find a solution to this problem as soon as you can. Otherwise we’ll all be brought to ruin. I have less than a week’s supply of flour in my cellar.”

  Şakir Effendi exclaimed, “What? How can that be?”

  The Chief Baker took a step forward. “It is so, Effendi. For weeks no flour has been delivered. We’re making do with what was delivered at the beginning of winter.”

  Şakir Effendi glared at the Market Steward. “Ömer Effendi, is this possible?”

  The Market Steward, Ömer Effendi, had been responsible for the supply of goods to the Imperial Cellar for years, and years of haggling with vendors had etched a forced smile onto his face. He appeared as calm as ever. “There’s no money,” he said. “No one wants to sell goods on credit, and the few who do ask for bonds. And interest rates are high.”

  The Chamberlain of the Cellar roared, “How is that possible? What insolence! We,” he said, pounding his chest, “buy ingredients for the Palace Bakery. What better debtor could they find?”

  “This is how matters stand,” Ömer Effendi replied, as patient as ever. “Ever since the famine, no one has sold a grain of rice or a dirham of flour without being paid in cash.”

  Silence fell over the room and Ömer Effendi bowed his head in contemplation. He knew that the famine wasn’t the reason behind the dearth of grain; the real reason was that the Treasury had been broke for months. Merchants and bankers had sensed an oncoming financial crisis and were acting accordingly. Ömer Effendi, who had worked with the merchants for years, knew that they no longer trusted the palace’s word when it came to promises of payment.

  Şakir Effendi sighed. “Find a solution, Ömer Effendi. If need be, purchase your supplies from shopkeepers. Do whatever it takes. The day that the Royal Bakery doesn’t produce a single loaf of bread will be the day of our doom.”

  The Market Steward replied, “Of course, Master Chamberlain.” At the time, he was thinking, You can’t make a mill turn with buckets of water. Buy from shopkeepers, he says … and what am I supposed to give the shopkeepers in return? Beads?

  The Chamberlain of the Cellar looked down with a lost expression on his face for a few moments. “Do not worry, Effendis. In any case, that’s not why we are gathered here today. God willing, our stoves will always burn and our soup will always boil. But, as I said before, we have to take certain measures to overcome these difficult times. From now on, all of you will choose what to cook based on what ingredients we have in the cellar.”

  The cooks in the room started murmuring to each other. Master Asım, who was standing toward the front, gave voice to the cooks’ concerns: “Şakir Effendi, how are we supposed to do that?”

  “Quiet, please, quiet!” the Chamberlain of the Cellar snapped. Then, attempting a smile, he said, “We’ll take stock of what remains in the cellar. Everyone will cook accordingly. It’s all very simple, you see.”

  The Head Cook of the Royal Kitchen, who was standing next to Master Asım, angrily objected, “It’s not simple at all, Şakir Effendi. Suppose our sovereign desires fresh fava beans? There aren’t any left in the cellar. What shall I say to him? Shall I tell him, ‘There are no fava beans left, but we have string beans, would you like those instead?’ That would bring shame on a well-to-do mansion, let alone the palace itself!”

  The cook’s concern was so legitimate that Şakir Effendi had to acquiesce. “Very well. We’ll make an exception for the Royal Kitchen.”

  This stirred up an even greater uproar among the cooks. Çuhadar Agha’s cook shouted, “Are we lesser men than the cooks of the Royal Kitchen? Do you not know how irritable the residents of the Inner Palace can be?”

  The Chief Treasurer’s cook leapt to the defense of his kitchen-mate: “He’s right! Our heads are in the lion’s mouth, too!”

  Şakir Effendi was at a loss for words. He knew that if he were to grant the same privilege to the Aghas’ Kitchen, the other kitchens would rebel as well. Master İsfendiyar stepped in and bellowed, “Enough! Are we at a council meeting or at the hammam?”

  The murmuring quieted down. Master İsfendiyar used his cane to get to his feet and said, “You are cooks! Use your minds. A cook can create much out of little, little out of much, something out of nothing. Do I have to teach you your job at this age?”

  The cooks fell silent. Master İsfendiyar continued, “We’ve explained to you that this is a time of shortage. Adversity creates wisdom. We’ll work together and persevere. Is there anything else you don’t understand?”

  When no reply came, the master sat back down and the Chamberlain of the Cellar continued the discussion. Eventually it was decided that careful stocktaking would be carried out at the cellar and a group of senior cooks would decide on weekly lists of the dishes each kitchen would prepare, particularly those that served many people, and “important” kitchens such as the Royal Kitchen, the Aghas’ Kitchen, and the Imperial Council Kitchen would borrow funds from the Cooks’ Union for emergency supplies.

  When the meeting was over, the cook slowly walked to the courtyard, keeping an eye out for Master İsfendiyar, who had been talking to Şakir Effendi. Their eyes had met during the meeting and the cook felt that Master İsfendiyar’s gaze had been telling him to wait for him.

  He decided to wait in a corner of the courtyard. Some of the cooks had gone back to their lodgings, while others had returned to the kitchen. Yet others had congregated in the courtyard and were talking amongst themselves. He eavesdropped on the conversation between two cooks on his left.

  “What happened to the Chief Treasurer?” the younger one asked.

  “Paralysis. God forgive me for saying this, but he couldn’t have found a worse time.”

  “Who will be appointed in his place?”

  “Either his scribe, Sadık Agha, or the Interior Minister, Lütfü Pasha.”

  “Neither would do. They can’t take the place of Halil Pasha.”

  “You’re right on that point. He’s been Treasurer for so many years. Who could take his place? He was a great man. May God grant him a speedy recovery.”

  “Amen,” the younger one said. They began to walk toward the kitchen. The cook watched them go, thinking that they were right. Particularly at such a tumultuous time, no one would want to take that position. The cook had heard the praises of the Pasha sung a long time ago. Under his sweet-natured facade lay an intelligent, capable man of state who love
d his job. His word counted for legal tender not just in Constantinople, but in the whole of the empire. When he had led the Treasury, he’d steered the empire through many difficult times. Halil Pasha knew how much to borrow, from where and when, and how to pay it back when the time came. And he was brave. The time he secured an audience with the sultan prior to the sovereign’s sister’s wedding and told him in no uncertain terms that the money spent on banquets and her dowry should be cut was still the stuff of legend.

  That was the sort of man Halil Pasha was, and the cook knew that his absence would make their financial troubles even more difficult to handle.

  Just as he was getting tired of waiting, he saw Master İsfendiyar emerge from the building. He was joined by the Chamberlain of the Kitchen, the Chief Confectioner, the Chief Privy Chamber Page’s personal cook, and a few other senior cooks, including Master Bekir, the Chief Sword Bearer’s previous cook.

  Master İsfendiyar looked around as he walked. The cook began to slowly walk toward the kitchen. After he took two steps, Master İsfendiyar’s voice thundered behind him.

  Quickly repressing a smile, the cook turned and gave him a questioning glance.

  Master İsfendiyar called him over.

  The cook folded his hands and walked toward Master İsfendiyar and Master Bekir. He bowed his head and said, “Yes, Master?”

  “Master Bekir has matters to attend to. I need you to oversee the Odalisques’ Kitchen.”

  The cook feigned surprise. “But Master—”

  “No excuses! You think you can lie on your backside all day after cooking three dishes? That won’t do here!”

  The cook bowed his head. “As you wish, Master.” He appeared so crestfallen that Master Bekir pitied him. “My assistants are very capable,” he said gently. “They’ll handle everything. You’ll just need to check on them a few times.”

  Without raising his head, the cook began to murmur “Thank you,” but Master İsfendiyar interrupted him. He was clearly enjoying the game. “What are you saying, Master Bekir?” he asked. “He can’t leave the cooking to your assistants. A real cook would do the job himself. So let him see what it’s like to really work. We’ll have no layabouts here!”

  Master Bekir looked at Master İsfendiyar with pleading eyes. It seemed there was a special place in his heart for the cook who had put an end to his toil trying to please the Chief Sword Bearer. “It is unkind to say such things,” he said in a trembling voice. “His job is more difficult than everyone else’s. You wouldn’t understand unless you’ve been in his place. Don’t push the boy too much.”

  Master İsfendiyar had no time for his entreaties. “Off to work with you,” he said to the cook, pointing toward the kitchen with his cane. Then he turned to the other cooks around him and said, “And off to work with you, too.”

  As the Head Cook started walking toward the cellar, the cook remained for a moment, head bowed and hands folded. Then he turned and quickly made his way to the kitchens. Mahir was waiting for him by the table. He’d brought the apples and the cloves, cleaned up the table, and even prepared the ingredients for that night’s dinner.

  “Good work, Mahir.” The boy beamed, but his smile fell when the cook explained that they were going to be working at the Odalisques’ Kitchen. “What will we do, Master?” he asked anxiously. “Will we have enough time to handle both?”

  “Don’t worry about that,” the cook replied. He seemed completely at ease. “Fill a large pot with water. Crush the cloves and put them in the pot, then bring it to a boil. Cut the apples in half, and when you can smell the scent of the cloves rising from the pot, add the apples. Count to one hundred, take them out, and place them on a plate to cool.”

  Mahir stared uncomprehendingly at his master. “Is this for the Odalisques’ Kitchen?”

  “Yes, Mahir!” he replied sternly. “It’s for the Odalisques’ Kitchen. Now do as I say. Remember, count to one hundred and then remove the apples. Not ninety-nine, not one hundred and one, but exactly one hundred. Understood?”

  “Understood, Master,” replied Mahir. “One hundred.”

  He glanced timidly at the cook, who realized that the boy wanted to tell him something. “Yes, Mahir?” the cook asked. “What is it?”

  Mahir’s voice was just as timid as his gaze. “Can I cook the rice?”

  With difficulty, the cook stopped himself from refusing, which was what first came to mind. “Will you make it well?”

  Mahir nodded. “I’m very good at it, Master.”

  The cook looked at him for a few moments. The boy seemed self-assured, but the cook had seen how inept he was. Well, he can’t make such a mess that I won’t be able to put it right, he thought. “Very well.”

  “Thank you, Master,” he said with a smile, but his master was already rushing toward the Odalisques’ Kitchen.

  The cook arrived at the Odalisques’ Kitchen to find that Master Bekir’s assistants were almost halfway through the dinner preparations. Two huge cauldrons were boiling on the stove and six large pots of rice soaking in water had been placed on the table. Based on the scent of the steam filling the kitchen, the cook knew that lentils were boiling in the cauldrons.

  One of the assistants saw him and said, “Welcome, Master. Master Bekir already explained the situation to us. We’ve begun as usual and had no problems.”

  The cook nodded. He lifted the lid of one of the pots. “Don’t overcook the lentils. As they cook, make sure you remove the foam from the top every few minutes. After taking them off the stove, run them under cold water to remove the skins.”

  “Yes, Master,” the assistant said.

  The cook replaced the lid of the cauldron and looked into the pots of rice. “When did you add the water?”

  A young apprentice standing by the table answered, “Before the call to prayer, Master.”

  The cook nodded again, pleased with the situation. He had no desire to prepare the food there, because he had other matters on his mind. “Continue as you were,” he said. “But make sure you tell me when you decide to cook the rice.”

  The assistants went back to work.

  The cook spent the rest of the day shuttling back and forth between the two kitchens.

  Everything proceeded smoothly at the Odalisque’s Kitchen, and Mahir not only managed to cook the apples properly but also performed nothing short of a miracle by making a pot of rice with spinach. He boiled the spinach in a pan of water and strained it first through a sieve and then a piece of muslin cloth.

  When the cook asked him how he’d learned how to cook rice so well, Mahir’s eyes misted over. With a sigh he said, “My late father taught me.” The cook was curious but decided to ask him more at a later time.

  Seeing as the rice was done, the cook had little else to do. The meat for the stew was already cooked, and vermicelli soup was a dish he could make with one hand. Only the fruit blancmange was demanding, as he had to wait until it took on the right texture. Setting aside the pudding to cool, he drained the water from the pot of lamb and placed the meat in a hot oven. After it was properly seared, he cut it into thin slices and placed it on a porcelain plate, which he sprinkled with pepper, oregano, and cumin.

  After preparing the Chief Sword Bearer’s dinner, the cook began making palace fritters. When Mahir asked what the sweets were for, he got such a stern glare in reply that he regretted having opened his mouth to speak. Even so, he couldn’t bring himself to leave the table as he enjoyed watching his master work: how he mixed the flour with whipped egg whites, tore off bits of dough with such precision, fried the bite-sized balls in sesame oil to perfection and dipped them in the honey that was simmering on the next stove. His master was so adept, and his hands moved with such magical grace, that it was impossible not be in awe of his skills. But his talent also aroused a strange feeling of mistrust, and even Mahir sensed that the cook had a talent that went far beyond hard work, aptitude, and experience.

  Just as the cook finished frying the last three fritters
and dipping them in honey, an assistant from the Odalisques’ Kitchen appeared in the doorway. “The rice is ready, Master.”

  “I’ll be there in a moment,” the cook replied as he waited for the fritters to soak up the honey. Gesturing toward the Chief Sword Bearer’s dinner, he turned to Mahir and said, “If they come to get the food before I return, tell them to wait.”

  Mahir nodded. The cook removed the last fritters from the oil, placed them in a copper pan, and closed the lid. Then he took the apples Mahir had boiled with the cloves and made his way to the Odalisques’ Kitchen.

  The lentils and rice were ready.

  The cook tasted both dishes. He could’ve mentioned dozens of faults, from the oil to the temperature, but kept quiet. “Well done,” he told the assistants. They were all looking curiously at the plate of apples. The cook called an assistant and an apprentice over and told the others to start spooning out the lentils into smaller pots.

  The cook set to work on the rice. He placed half an apple at the bottom of one of the large copper pans lined up on the table and told an assistant waiting with a massive spoon, “Put the rice over the apples.”

  Both the assistant and the apprentice, who was struggling to keep a firm grip on the cauldron which was nearly as large as himself, were dying of curiosity about the apples. However, they didn’t dare ask any questions of that man whose talent had become the talk of the kitchen on the very first day he showed up.

  As the assistant filled the first pot with rice, the cook moved on to the next, placing half an apple on the bottom of the pot. Once the rice was spooned into all the pots with half an apple concealed at the bottom of each, he told the assistants to put the lids on the pots and wait. Soon afterwards, eight meal-bearers led by a Black Eunuch entered the kitchen. The eunuch stood by the stoves and watched the men expressionlessly as they started gathering up the pots. After a while, he suddenly fixed his gaze on the cook. As luck would have it, right at that moment the cook looked at the eunuch. He had piqued the cook’s interest not just because he was the largest man he had ever seen, but also because he worked in the Harem. He greeted the eunuch with a short nod.