by Saygin Ersin
After the meal-bearers had placed the pots on large metal trays which they balanced on their heads, the eunuch thanked the apprentices and left the kitchen.
Their work was complete. The cook turned to the assistants and apprentices and said, “Good work, everyone.” Then he returned to his own kitchen, leaving their minds swirling with questions.
The Privy Chamber Page was waiting for him along with two other page boys. From their expressions he could tell they had been waiting a while.
“Forgive me for making you wait,” the cook told them.
The page replied, “It’s no matter,” but his expression was dour. “You’ve had no trouble, I hope?”
The cook smiled. “No, Master. His Highness the Agha’s food is ready. You may take it to him now.”
The page gestured to the novices standing beside him. As the boys placed the porcelain dishes on a tray which they had brought to the kitchen, the cook approached the stove. “This is why I made you wait,” he said as he picked up the pan of fritters. “A small gift for my brothers in the Privy Chamber. I hope it will please you.”
The page opened the lid, a confused expression on his face. When he saw the golden fritters gleaming with honey, his eyes widened. The scent alone was enough to fill him with joy. He bit into one and exclaimed, “Oh, my! This is most kind of you. You shouldn’t have gone to all this trouble!”
The cook bashfully looked away. “It’s nothing really. Especially compared with how difficult your job is at the Inner Palace. If I can bring but a little sweetness into your lives, that would make me most happy.”
The page’s eyes were starting to fill with tears. He stammered, struggling to come up with a pompous expression of gratitude, but then gave up. In the end, he managed to say with profound sincerity, “Thank you very much.”
“I hope you enjoy it,” the cook replied. Then, lowering his voice, he added, “It would be better if His Highness the Agha did not hear of this. You know …”
The page closed the lid of the pan and said gravely, “Do not worry about that. I swear on behalf of all my brothers that this will remain a secret between us.”
The cook thanked him. The page bowed to the cook and left the kitchen with the two novice pages.
Now there was nothing for the cook to do but wait. He knew how the food he sent to the Inner Palace would be received and that mattered little to him. But the dishes he sent to the Harem…. The more he thought about it, the more his stomach knotted up as he wondered if he would get the result he desired. He prepared himself for the worst but was determined to go through with what he had planned.
After performing his evening prayers at the cooks’ masjid, he slipped downstairs and hid under the kitchen portico so he could hear what was happening at the Harem. As the sun set, the palace grew quiet. The cook waited, listening …
As the sky grew dark, a bright quarter moon emerged. The cook looked up at the moon, hoping it might inspire him with hope, but as soon as he did so, the sorrow he carried within became an arrow that struck his heart. “No,” he muttered. “I’m not going to give in to despair this time.” He refused to allow his pain to turn into anger and his yearning to turn into hatred. Still, the night was quiet, as if out of spite. “It’s okay,” he said to himself. “I’ll try again tomorrow. I’ll find another way.”
Just as he decided to go back to the kitchen, he heard a voice for the briefest moment. The cook stopped. His heart seemed to have stopped as well. He listened carefully. The voice was very faint. His mind was asking, Could it be?, but his heart was certain. No matter how far away, only one voice on earth could make his heart beat so.
He emerged from the portico and proceeded on tiptoe. The voice was so faint that even the sound of the grass crunching under his feet roared in his ears. The cook stopped under the nearest tree and listened. The voice seemed to have fallen silent but then it rose again. It was a song, and the cook could make out the words:
What do the astrologer and the timekeeper know of the longest night—
Ask someone who is addicted to sorrow how long each night is …
The cook began to sob. He fell to his knees, tears streaming down his cheeks. “Thank God,” he said. “Thank God.”
It was her. He had never been so certain of anything in his life.
An angry voice interrupted the song and the singing stopped, as did the cook’s tears. Jaw clenched, the cook looked beyond the Tower of Justice where the domes of the Harem could be seen. “Wait,” he whispered between his teeth.
As he walked toward the lodgings, his heart was filled half with anger and half with joy, but his happiness grew with every step he took, washing away the fury and the pain. By the time he passed through the small vaulted gate and reached the courtyard in front of the lodgings, the cook was smiling.
Just as he was about to enter, a voice called after him: “Where have you been? I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”
The cook turned and looked. It was Master Bekir. He was walking toward him, his arms open. “What a cook you are!” he exclaimed, embracing him. “What gave you the idea of putting apples under the rice?”
The cook smiled bashfully. “Did they like it?”
Master Bekir chuckled. “Like? They loved it! The whole Harem was talking about it. They say even Haseki Sultan asked for a portion of the concubines’ rice, but I can’t tell you whether that’s really true. Now, tell me where you learned that trick.”
The cook smiled. “It’s a long story, Master, from my childhood. I’ll tell you sometime.”
4
The House of Pleasure
THAT DAY, MASTER Adem was surprised to see one of his old assistants with a five-year-old boy asleep in his arms. When he learned that it was İsfendiyar, another one of his old assistants, who’d sent the boy, his surprise became curiosity.
Master Adem gently set the boy, who was still asleep and smelled of rubbish, on some flour sacks in the corner and offered his old assistant who’d traveled so far a bowl of yogurt soup and some moussaka left over from the night before. As his old assistant ate, Master Adem tried to find out more but his efforts were in vain. İsfendiyar had told the man very little, only requesting that he take the boy to Master Adem, who accepted the charge without thinking much about it. İsfendiyar was one of the few men left in the world whose judgement he could still trust.
He saw his old assistant out and returned to the kitchen, only to see the boy had awoken and was nibbling on a piece of stale flatbread. When the boy saw him, his eyes filled with fear and he sat there perfectly still, the piece of bread still in his mouth.
“Are you hungry, boy?” the master asked, smiling. The boy smiled back and continued gnawing on the bread. Then Master Adem called out to his assistant in the large kitchen: “Selman! Is the soup ready?”
His assistant called back, “It is, Master. I just seasoned it.”
“Good. Bring me a bowl.”
A few minutes later Selman entered the small kitchen carrying a steaming bowl. He was surprised to see a child there, but without saying a word he went back to work.
“Come!” Master Adem said to the child, pointing at the bowl. The boy stared at the bowl, sniffed the air a few times and then timidly approached the table, still clutching the piece of bread. Master Adam gave him the smallest spoon he could find. The boy sniffed the soup a few more times, glanced at the master, and then brought a spoonful of soup to his mouth. Immediately a grimace appeared on his face and he spat the soup out, looking at Master Adem all the while.
“What a little devil!” Master Adem said. “Don’t you like tripe?”
The boy nodded but there was a certain meaningfulness in his refusal to eat. His gaze still locked on Master Adem, he stuck his finger into the bowl and traced the shape of an egg in the air.
The tips of Master Adem’s long gray moustache quivered. “It can’t be,” he muttered to himself. “What could a child his age know about …”
He got up in a rage
and went to the large kitchen, where he snapped at his assistant, “For God’s sake, Selman, the seasoning of the soup is off again. Don’t your hands know what they’re doing? Do you not have brains in your head?”
He told Selman to empty the cauldron and start over. When he returned to the small kitchen, what he saw not only calmed his anger but also filled him with awe. The boy was standing in the middle of the kitchen holding out a bulb of garlic.
After gazing at the child for a few moments, Master Adem got down on his knees and stroked the boy’s face. “Who are you?” The boy said nothing in response but merely held out his other hand which was locked in a fist. That’s when Master Adem noticed the piece of paper the boy was holding. When he opened it, the smile on his face vanished: “The Pasha of Cuisine.”
“Ah, İsfendiyar!” he muttered to himself. Now he understood why his old assistant hadn’t told him anything about the boy’s identity—because standing before him was a miracle. The boy had a unique talent, and his kind came into the world ever so rarely.
A legend every cook on earth had heard of but never seen … a living miracle! The Pasha of Cuisine was said to be in possession of the perfect palate, the ability to distinguish and wield power over every flavor down to the smallest detail, the blessed one of the culinary arts, the sovereign of every dish in the world.
And here he was, standing right in front of him.
His existence was important not just for himself, but for all the cooks in the world. It was said that the power of the Pasha of Cuisine would increase the skill of all cooks everywhere and render exquisite the flavor of every dish they made. Old tomes said that during eras in which Pashas of Cuisine lived, food went through golden ages. Not only food but fruits, vegetables, spices, and even meat became more flavorful, the tastiest crops grew, and the most abundant harvests were made. The light radiating from the Pasha of Cuisine spread across fields, gardens, orchards, and farms, and from there penetrated kitchens, the hands of cooks, and palates, beginning a new era of opulence, prosperity, joy, and health. In short, a new golden age of taste.
The child had to be taught.
Master Adem knew what he needed to do. He’d learned it from his master, and his master had learned it from his own master. He was part of a long line of cooks who had been waiting to train the next Pasha of Cuisine for generations. That sacred task was now his.
Master Adem never wondered about the boy’s past and didn’t ask İsfendiyar any questions about him during his rare visits. He gave the boy a new name and introduced him to the other cooks as his nephew.
The master gave the boy time to get used to being with him in his new surroundings. He could tell that his heart was filled with fear. Whenever the boy seemed to be on the verge of falling asleep, he would awake with a jolt and open his eyes, looking around breathlessly. And when he did actually fall asleep, he would call out for his mother and wake up crying, drenched in sweat. Master Adem stayed by his side after every nightmare, and tried to calm him down.
As time went by, the nightmares became less frequent. Soon enough the boy got used to the people around him, and they got used to him being around. He was quiet and didn’t fuss. On the rare occasion when he threw a tantrum, he would make up for it with a sweet smile. With his green eyes, gentle manner, and tenderness, he quickly became the darling of the entire House of Pleasure.
Master Adem was the head cook of the House of Pleasure, which had five mansions, one hammam, and lodgings for the servants. High walls ran around the House of Pleasure, sealing it off from the rest of the world.
True to its name, the House of Pleasure offered every kind of earthly delight, but it wasn’t just a brothel, tavern, or opium den. In the five mansions, visitors had their own rooms where they could enjoy the purest opium and the best wine in the land, carouse at sumptuous banquets, enjoy the company of the most beautiful young women of Constantinople, listen to music, and dance with the sultriest female dancers. If they so desired, they could go downstairs and converse with the other visitors, listen to poetry, play dice, ride horses, stroll through the gardens, watch the most skilled of wrestlers, or go to the hammam to be bathed in rosewater and musk and take part in revelries.
That was the House of Pleasure. Anyone who knew how to open his purse strings could find a pleasure to suit his tastes there.
The owner was a woman by the name of Sirrah. The House of Pleasure was located on the far side of Bosphorus, two hours on horseback from Üsküdar in a secluded copse of woods behind a hill. From the outside, all that could be seen were the high stone walls which concealed the mansions and exquisite gardens and an iron gate that was often locked shut.
Sirrah had once been a dancer herself, so she was well aware of the importance of secrecy, and she assured her customers that all they experienced within those walls would remain a secret. But not everyone could get into the House of Pleasure. Before admitting anyone new into her house, Sirrah required that the newcomer to be vouched for by a reliable customer. Of course, all her clients were wealthy influential men, so much so that if their names were ever to be mentioned in reference to the House of Pleasure, Constantinople would be shaken to its foundations and heads would roll.
Sirrah would greet every customer at the door with four handsome servant boys by her side. With honeyed words dripping from her tongue, words that only became sweeter with age like wine, she would flatter her customers and inquire how long they would be staying, taking payment in full up front. The boys would then dress the newcomer in a long silken shirt embroidered with gold thread. They would lock all his possessions in a safe, the key for which the visitor would wear on a gold chain around his neck, and the customer would be seated on a chair with cushions of goose feather and carried by four muscled slaves to the hammam. There he would be bathed and pampered, and then the butler of the mansion where he was staying would see him to his room. The rest was up to his tastes and desires.
Unless something important happened, the visitor would see Sirrah again only at the end of his stay. Sirrah knew about everything that happened in her house, and when it was time for a visitor to leave, she would pay him a goodbye visit, bringing whatever it was she knew to be his favorite, be it a woman, wine, or opium, and tell him it was free of charge. Then the sweet talk would begin: “We’ve never seen the likes of you here,” “We can’t get enough of your company,” “So-and-so singer still pines for you,” and lastly, “Wouldn’t you like to stay a few more days?”
Seasoned visitors of course did not fall for her trap, but newcomers would remove the golden key from around their necks and request that gold be taken from his purse to cover the cost of three or four more days’ stay.
Regular visitors who vouched for the stay of a young relative or friend feared that final visit most of all. They would try to find out how many days the person they vouched for would be staying, and if they had not yet left by the time they said they would leave, they would try to recuse the poor man from Sirrah’s clutches.
Sometimes, however, certain men, particularly merchants and politicians, would convince their rivals to agree to a stay at the House of Pleasure, and they would pay Sirrah extra to ensure that his reputation would be ruined before he could even step foot in the place.
All earthly sins could be found at the House of Pleasure and as such it had its dangers. It had caused the ruin of many a life, broken countless households, and devoured riches. So many men had lost their prestige, reputations, homes, and even themselves at the House of Pleasure. Master Adem was one of the latter.
The earliest memory the cook had about the House of Pleasure was the first cooking lesson he received from Master Adem.
The kitchens were located in the basement of a three-story building called the Great Mansion, which was located at the entrance to the House of Pleasure. It consisted of three sections. At the entrance there was the small kitchen, which was adjacent to the main building and extended a few paces from the wall. It was connected to the large kitchen
, which took up most of the basement, by a narrow corridor a few meters in length, and another corridor running parallel to the large kitchen led to the lodgings of the cooks and assistants.
On the day of that lesson, the cook could not remember how long he had been there, but he supposed that it couldn’t have been more than a couple of weeks. He was playing with some dried beans in the small kitchen and Master Adem was working at the table beneath the window. Master Adem called him over, picked him up, and sat him on a stool. On the counter was a pinch of salt, a small bowl of honey, half a lemon, and a small red pepper. The master asked him to taste each of them, which he did. The salt was salty, the lemon sour, the honey sweet, and the pepper spicy.
“These are the tastes that exist in the world,” the master explained. Then he picked up a small carrot, peeled it, squeezed some lemon juice on it, and seasoned it with some salt. “Eat this,” he said, handing him the carrot. As the boy nibbled on the carrot, the master cut two slices of cheese, daubing one with honey and putting the red pepper which he’d cut in half on the other. “Now eat these.”
When the cook finished eating the cheese with pepper, Master Adem said, “Those are flavors. There are only four tastes, but the number of flavors is infinite.”
The cook never forgot his first lesson. In his child’s mind, the fact that the same cheese tasted different when combined with something sweet as opposed to something spicy seemed like magic to him, a miracle. As he sat on that stool, he fell in love with cooking.
Over the next two years, Master Adem and the boy only played games when it came to cooking. Everything in the huge kitchen, all the cookware, vegetables, fruits, cheeses, and sacks of grains, became his playthings.