The Pasha of Cuisine

by Saygin Ersin

  His favorite game, and the one they played most often, was “What’s too little? What’s too much?” Master Adem would deliberately add too little or too much of a certain ingredient to a dish and ask him to guess what was wrong. The child had a natural talent for flavors, and he noticed mistakes straightaway. But that wasn’t enough if he was going to become a true cook. He had to understand why something was wrong, and know exactly what was lacking or in excess. It wasn’t a matter of natural talent—he had to acquire much knowledge and skill.

  The young cook explored the flavors he was discovering. Carefully he tried to determine which parts of his mouth were affected by flavors, whether it be the tip or back of his tongue, the roof of his mouth, or the back of his throat.

  He experimented, he discovered new things, he tasted everything, and he never forgot the earliest piece of advice his master gave him: “A good cook is never fussy. He isn’t repulsed by anything. In fact, there are only two kinds of food in the world: good food and bad food. A cook might like a dish, or he might not. But he always tastes it first.”

  That’s precisely what the young cook did. He mixed pickled cucumbers with honey, gnawed on raw mackerel, and seasoned a semolina cake with red pepper and cumin. Of course, a lot of the time he ended up ruining perfectly good foods and flavors. But that was also how he discovered many delectable doubles such as cumin and onions, parsley and pomegranate, cauliflower and green olives, and sesame halva and lemon, and by playing games he learned that onions could actually be sweet and that garlic had a different flavor when grilled compared to when it was fried in oil.

  When he turned seven, Master Adem presented him with a knife suitable for a boy his size, and gave him another piece of advice: “A good cook only needs one knife. You can carve with the tip, slice with the middle, and peel with the bottom of the blade.”

  The young cook’s official apprenticeship began with a slap on the back of his neck following that piece of advice. While he was disappointed that playtime was over, as an apprentice cook who was already in love with cooking, he quickly grew accustomed to his new responsibilities. He attended to all his tasks in the kitchen and listened carefully to his master’s words: “What we call flavor has six layers. There are four main tastes: sweet, salty, spicy, and sour. These, separately or combined, form the main layer, the seed of the flavor. Then there is the matter of contact. Every flavor makes its own kind of contact with the mouth. Some flavors are full-bodied, while others are weak. Some make your teeth ache or your mouth water, yet others warm or cool your mouth. The third layer is the surface. That is, when contact combines with sounds. Some flavors are crunchy, some are crisp. Some are soft, and some are prickly. When the tongue tastes the flavor and the mouth discovers the surface, next comes the aroma. Aromas are very important, because flavors can be complete only with their scent. There is no such thing as a flavor without a smell. The fifth layer of flavor is the outer layer, the appearance. At this level, the flavor also appeals to the eyes, and satiates the eye as well as the stomach. Without the outer layer, no flavor can be complete. If the eye doesn’t see, then the tongue, palate, and nose are also blind. Finally, the sixth layer, which exists at the deepest level, consists of sensations. Most people don’t realize this, but every taste is related to a memory or an emotion. Flavors are part of a person’s past, and are the translation of emotion into another language.”

  Master Adem paused, looking into the cook’s eyes, which betrayed a certain amount of confusion, and asked him, “Have you ever thought why a person might hate or love a certain food?”

  The cook shook his head.

  “It’s because they have a memory associated with it,” the master said. “And every time people taste it, that memory comes back, along with the feelings it inspires. Remember that while taste may start in the mouth, it ends in the mind. You are talented enough to command all the secret feelings that flavors can awaken. It’s not just about cooking meat at the correct temperature or making soup the right consistency. You must learn how to control the emotional aspect of taste.”

  The cook remembered how excited he had been when he heard those words, as well as nervous. “But how? How can I do that?” he asked.

  Master Adem smiled and caressed his cheek. “You will learn how, but not from me. Such things are well beyond my knowledge. Still, I know the people who can teach you. But you mustn’t rush. First you’ll learn the art of cooking, and then you’ll embark on a long journey. A very long journey …”

  Those words echoed in his mind, becoming etched into his thoughts as the years went by. It was like they had become a dream—or to be more accurate, a dark nightmare—he had every time he went to sleep.

  He didn’t realize it in those days, but just as Master Adem had surmised, he was learning quickly. But what he was doing couldn’t exactly be called learning. It was as if he’d known how to cook since the day he was born. He didn’t have to think about how to make a certain dish. With his knife in hand, he took his place at the table and through intuition he cut, chopped, mixed, and stirred.

  By the time he was nine years old, the cook could run an entire kitchen on his own. Nevertheless, Master Adem didn’t give him free reign and forbade him from doing everything on his own. At times, this upset the cook, but the master knew the danger of giving him too much freedom. As he grew up, the cook’s knowledge and skill increased. Still, his education wasn’t complete and he wasn’t yet able to control his extraordinary talent. The food he cooked on his own had the potential to have unpredictable effects on the denizens of the House of Pleasure. And so it did.

  It was a busy day in the large kitchen. The cook was making gülabiye; first he placed some almond paste into a bowl of honey and stirred in some butter and starch, and then waited for it to set. He was excited, because soon he would be using nutmeg for the first time in a pudding. Just as he was about to remove the stopper of the small crystal bottle holding one of the most precious ingredients in the kitchen, Master Adem came in and pulled it from his hands.

  Hurt, the young cook ran off to the small kitchen, eager to vent his anger. He noticed a pitcher full of cherry syrup, which Selman had brought for the sherbet, and a large bucket of snow. The cook decided to channel his fury into a batch of snow halva. He got the consistency just right and sprinkled fresh blackberries over it. Just then Master Adem summoned him to the large kitchen, so the cook left the halva as it was on the counter. A servant entered the kitchen and assumed that the halva was one of the cold desserts that were going to be served at the Green Mansion, so he took it there, setting into motion a disastrous chain of events. In no time at all, the walls of the House of Pleasure were echoing with angry shouts and swearing.

  The servant placed the snow halva in front of four pleasure seekers who were listening to music and playing dice in one of the ground-floor rooms in the mansion. These four men, already intoxicated with opium and wine and longing for some refreshment, devoured the halva set before them. Soon, however, they began to glare at each other with hatred in their eyes.

  The cook had infused the halva with such fury that all the anger the men had kept hidden away under a veneer of politeness rose to the surface. Every word and gesture irritated them to no end, leading to exchanges of dark looks, and when polite insinuations no longer sufficed, they turned to swear words so vile that all hell broke loose and one of the men cracked the solid silver halva bowl over the head of the man sitting next to him.

  When the servants of the House of Pleasure rushed into the room, trying to ascertain the cause of the tumult, they didn’t know whether to laugh or cry at the scene unfolding before them.

  The poor musicians were huddled in a corner, watching the men in terror and astonishment.

  The smallest of the four guests, the only son of a famous banker in Galata, had seized a tambour from one of the musicians when the scuffle broke out and was chasing one of his fellow revelers around the room with it. The poor tambour player watched helplessly as the inst
rument he had inherited from his father was smashed over the head of an aristocrat.

  Another pleasure seeker who owned a jeweler’s shop in the Grand Bazaar had pinned down and was throttling a leather merchant famous in his social circles for the way he said, “My dear fellow!” with an emphasis on “dear.” As he choked the man, he shouted, “I’ll shove your dear fellow up your backside!”

  When the servants were overpowered by the erstwhile polite gentlemen, they called for Sirrah’s slaves to help them. The burly slaves first tried to restrain the guests, but when that proved futile they had no choice but to beat them until they passed out.

  No one ever found out why the fight broke out, and Sirrah had to spend sacks of gold to pay for the damage. That day remained a secret between Master Adem and the cook, one they would occasionally mention with a sly smile.

  Thus the cook spent his days at the House of Pleasure, working and enjoying himself when he could.

  By this time, he was eleven years of age. And one day, a day he would always remember, something happened when he was in the small kitchen.

  It was late afternoon and Master Adem was making stuffed apples. The cook was gnawing on a piece of sour apple which Master Adem had given him.

  The Great Mansion, with its barred windows, was located behind and above the kitchens. It was out of bounds for guests, as it housed the private apartments, harem, and rooms of the owner. That was where Sirrah kept her treasures and indulged in her share of the pleasures the house offered. The slaves she bought stayed there when they were still children and she trained each according to their abilities as a singer, actor, dancer, servant, or guard. She had long since abandoned emotions like compassion or affection, and that mansion was like a hidden house of pain within the House of Pleasure.

  The quiet in the kitchen was suddenly interrupted by Sirrah’s voice. She appeared in the doorway of the kitchen, her eyes flashing fire. Standing next to her was the most beautiful person the cook had seen in his brief life. The girl was about the same age as him and she had black hair that hung down to her waist and large, dark, almond-shaped eyes.

  She was so thin that her dark blue dress was falling off her shoulders and her bare ankles looked like they were as fragile as wishbones. Her cheeks were sunken, and her jaw and tiny nose were sharply defined. But her eyes … they reflected a determination that even Sirrah’s violence could not sway, a tenacity that no punishment or torture could bend.

  The cook stood frozen, an unchewed piece of apple still in his mouth. The smell and taste of sour apple were so entwined with the magic of that moment that years later he would affectionately tell the girl that she was “apple scented.”

  Sirrah said, “Master Adem, for the love of God, I’m at my wits end. This girl is going to be the death of me.”

  Master Adem put down the apple he was cutting and asked, “What’s the matter?”

  Grabbing the girl by the arm and shoving her into the kitchen, Sirrah replied, “What do you mean what’s the matter? Don’t you see? She looks like a crow! She won’t eat anything. How can I have her around the customers in a state like this?”

  The tips of Master Adem’s moustache quivered in indignation. “What customers, Sirrah?” he asked quietly. “She is far too young.”

  Sirrah shrieked, “Are you going to teach me how to do my job, Adem? When I was her age, I brought down the tavern walls with applause. She’s only going to dance, it’s not so hard!”

  Master Adem, who’d placed himself under Sirrah’s control years ago, could do nothing but remain silent. “Have some decency,” he muttered as he prepared a plate of beans they’d cooked for themselves and put it on the table along with a spoon.

  “Come over here,” he said to the girl in a kindly voice.

  The girl wouldn’t budge. She turned her gaze away from the table and looked around. This enraged Sirrah even more. She took the girl by the shoulders, sat her down in front of the plate of beans and snapped, “Eat, girl!”

  She refused. Her eyes fixed on nothing, she sat there in a display of absolute calm. She even seemed to be smiling ever so slightly but there was also an occasional flicker of anger in her eyes.

  Grabbing the spoon and scooping up some beans, Sirrah squeezed the girl’s cheeks with her thick fingers, forcing her to open her mouth, and shoved in the spoonful of beans. The spoon was too big and it clattered against the girl’s teeth. A jolt of pain went through the cook’s heart as he watched the girl squeeze her eyes shut in agony. She’s going to start crying, he thought to himself, but he was wrong. Resuming an indifferent expression, she turned her head and looked at her mistress as she began to slowly chew her food. Sirrah smiled deviously as if she’d won a victory. “You see?” she said, turning to Master Adem. “You have to know how to speak their language.”

  Of course Sirrah knew how to speak anybody’s language, but she was unaware that she had a lot more to learn about the girl who was sitting in front of her. As she was talking, the girl suddenly sprayed the contents of her mouth all over Sirrah’s face. She cast a sidelong glance at the cook and gave him a brief smile as she awaited her fate.

  The cook smiled, and let out a little chortle. But his joy was painfully short-lived. Sirrah’s revenge was swift and so cruel that it pained the cook’s heart for the rest of his life.

  Sirrah flung the girl to the ground and kicked her twice. Then she pulled her up by her hair, slapped her to the ground again, dragged her into the hallway between the two kitchens, and threw her into the tiny windowless room they used for storage. The girl didn’t cry once, but caught the cook’s eye for the briefest moment.

  After shouting, “You are not to feed her anything! Not even a piece of bread or a sip of water!” Sirrah left the room, making the floorboards creak as she stomped away, leaving the kitchen in a state of silent unease. Master Adem went back to stuffing the apples, head bowed. His teeth were still clenched in anger but the lines of his face reflected defeat.

  The master’s job was hard. He made difficult dishes for difficult customers. He’d fallen on hard times himself but having to suffer injustice in silence was unlike any other hardship he had endured.

  The cook started placing the tops back on the apples his master had stuffed. His hands were occupied, but his mind and ears were focused on the dark doorway of the storeroom. That last look the girl had cast him was burned into his memory. The passing of time was torture. As he went between the two kitchens, he slowed down every time he walked past the storeroom door and listened carefully, but he heard no sound, no breath, or even the slightest movement.

  Darkness fell and the House of Pleasure echoed with laughter and lascivious cries. The cook was still thinking about the girl. Every time he remembered how cold and dark the room was, he shuddered. Then a spark of idea flashed through his mind. He left his room on tiptoe, not even putting on his shoes, and made his way to the large kitchen. In the wan light of the moon trickling through the high windows, he felt his way forward until he found among the sacks of grains one containing chickpeas that was nearly empty, and after depositing its contents in a secluded corner and waiting for the sound of the chickpeas rolling across the floor to fall silent, he silently made his way toward the door in the dark.

  Clutching the empty sack, the cook paused to listen. When he heard nothing, he placed his ear on the door, but there was still no sound. He was afraid. He had been afraid before, very much so, but this time it was an altogether different kind of fear. A shaky voice within him kept asking, What if something happened to her? He wanted to knock on the door, but he changed his mind when he realized how loud it would be. Feeling helpless, he started pushing the empty sack through the gap under the door. The hallway was so quiet that the coarse fabric scratching against the wooden floorboards grated on his ears.

  He heard a quick gasp behind the door, followed by a few quiet thumps. Not knowing what to do, the cook tried to pull the sack back and then thought better of it. Leaning against the door, he whispered, “
Don’t be afraid, it’s me.”

  Silence. The cook got down on his knees, placed his cheek against the floorboards, and tried to peer under the door. At first he could see nothing but pitch darkness, but after a few moments he could discern the movement of a shadow.

  The girl whispered, “Who’s there?”

  The cook smiled. “It’s me, from the kitchen this morning.”

  The girl didn’t respond.

  The cook said, “Here, wrap this around yourself. It’s cold in there.”

  Again the girl said nothing. The cook felt as though cracks were opening in his heart. Then the girl started pulling the sack toward her. The sack disappeared under the door and silence descended once more.

  The cook remained sitting on his knees in front of the door. He was a bit hurt by the girl’s silence, but far from unhappy. While he knew that someone could walk in on him at any moment, he didn’t want to leave. He struck upon an idea to give him an excuse to stay longer.

  Leaning down toward the gap below the door, he asked, “Are you hungry?” He waited for an answer, and when none came, he repeated the question again slightly louder.

  A few moments later he got a stubborn response: “No, I’m not.”

  The cook smiled again. Trying to make his absence unnoticed, he got up and walked toward the kitchen. He wasn’t quite sure what to do. He knew that he couldn’t light a lamp, and even if he could, he wouldn’t be able to cook anything without making some noise. As he was thinking, he suddenly noticed the smell which had been filling his nostrils for some time: the smell of apples. His feet directed him to the counter. He reached out and touched the two small apples Master Adem had left behind.

  He found a knife and quietly sliced the unpeeled apples and then wondered how he would carry them to the girl. There were a few plates he could use, but they were all far too large and wouldn’t fit under the door. “If only there was a handkerchief, or a towel,” he whispered to himself. Then another idea occurred to him. He picked up the knife and cut a piece of cloth from the hem of his nightshirt. Carefully he placed the apples on the fabric.