The Pasha of Cuisine

by Saygin Ersin

  The Privy Chamber Page sneered, “That Siyavuş Agha is out of control! As soon as he wakes up, he starts tormenting us. There’s no one in the whole of the Inner Palace, including me, who he hasn’t had beaten! And under such pretenses! I wouldn’t be able to think one of them up if I thought about it for forty years. Once he has eaten, he calms down for a while, but then he starts up again. I swear to you, we all look forward to meal times, because we know we’ll get a little respite. Master Effendi, sometimes, I think to myself …”

  The page trailed off. The words he was about to utter frightened even him.

  “Can’t our sovereign do anything about it? If you were to mention something?” the cook asked, even though he knew what the answer would be.

  The page would have laughed it off, but he felt compelled to reply out of respect. “You don’t know what it’s like at the Inner Palace, Master Effendi. We call Siyavuş Agha the ‘Agha of Permission.’ You can’t even approach Our Lord the Sultan without him getting wind of it first. He constantly circles around our sovereign, never leaving his side. Let’s say we could find a way and whispered in his ear …”

  Firuz Agha lowered his voice even more. “Even our sovereign is afraid of Siyavuş Agha’s malice. Think about it, he has heard your praises so many times, but didn’t appoint you directly to the Royal Kitchen. Why? Because you are the agha’s personal cook. Obviously he wouldn’t dare take you from him.”

  “Please,” the cook replied in astonishment, “how could that be? Our sovereign must be exceedingly pleased with his present cook so he wouldn’t deign to appoint me in his place. How could a sultan who rules over half the world be intimidated by a mere agha? Your nerves must be frayed.”

  The page smiled bitterly. “You are right, my nerves are indeed frayed, but I speak the truth. No matter, may God grant a good end to us all.”

  “Amen,” replied the cook. “What would His Highness the Agha like to eat today?”

  The page opened his mouth to speak, then said, “God forgive me,” and closed it again. Then he said, “For lunch he would like Davud Pasha meatballs and levzine, and for dinner he would like milk kebab.”

  “It will be my pleasure,” the cook responded. He gave Firuz Agha a bow, and the Privy Chamber Page responded in kind. Before leaving, he asked one last question: “So, what will you cook for our sultan?”

  The cook knew he had to think long on the matter. “I haven’t decided yet.”

  As the page left, the cook grumbled to himself, “It’s been weeks now, where have you been?”

  After spending a few moments lost in thought, his features contorted in pain, he called for Mahir. His assistant had been milling around ever since he arrived that morning, waiting for the moment he would be needed. He ran up to his master, his eyes sparkling. With a big smile and a deep bow, he said, “My Master, may this bring you even more good fortune!”

  “God willing, Mahir,” the cook replied. “Now, what you need to do is—”

  Mahir didn’t appear to be hearing anything he was told. “Will I be able to come along as well, Master?” he excitedly asked.

  “Come along where, Mahir?”

  Mahir looked confused. “To the Royal Kitchen, Master.”

  “Are you not my assistant?” the cook scolded him playfully. “You go wherever I go.”

  Mahir grinned. “Thank you, Master.”

  The cook smiled back. “But leave tomorrow’s business for tomorrow. Let’s get through today first. We’ve a lot to do.”

  Mahir asked, “What did the Chief Sword Bearer request?”

  When the cook told him, Mahir’s eyes widened. The dishes Siyavuş Agha had requested were known as “meals of elegance,” that is, dishes that were exceedingly difficult to make. Mahir couldn’t have known that, of course, but they revealed much to the cook about the agha’s state of mind.

  “Start shelling some almonds, Mahir. Soak them in water and peel them, and then grind two handfuls in the mortar and put the rest through the mill. Then dry them in a pan. But make sure you don’t roast them.”

  As Mahir went to the shelves to get the almonds, the cook grabbed a cleaver and started mincing the meat he was going to use for the meatballs.

  A short while later Mahir returned with a small sack in his hand. “Is this enough almonds?” he asked.

  The cook checked the contents of the sack and nodded. “You can get started.”

  Mahir filled a medium-sized bowl with water and soaked the almonds. The cook, who was working the meat with his knife, was thinking about Siyavuş Agha.

  The dishes the agha requested were becoming increasingly complex. The cook surmised that the wounds in his soul were deepening and that the power and control he wielded no longer sufficed to ease his suffering or fill the void inside him. Helpless, he was reverting to old habits in the hope of rediscovering the peace of mind he had lost, habits based on pride and cruelty.

  But the cook knew that what the agha didn’t; that pride and cruelty, which he needed more of every day, would only worsen his agony, not alleviate it. He knew that because every day he ate the food that the cook prepared for him.

  After the cook chopped the meat into a fine mince and mixed it with salt, pepper, cumin, and red pepper flakes, he started rolling out bite-sized balls from the mixture. He looked over and saw that Mahir had managed to dry the almonds without roasting them. As the cook ran his fingers through the almond flour, he instructed his assistant to fetch him some honey and water.

  Mahir made his way back to the shelves and returned shortly after with a small pitcher of honey and a jug of water. Meanwhile, the cook put the almond flour into a deep pot which he placed over low heat.

  “Listen carefully,” he told his assistant. “As I stir the almonds, you pour in the honey. But do it carefully, so that the stream of honey is as thin as a thread. When I tell you to add water, do it slowly. Understand?”

  Mahir nodded. The cook rolled up his sleeves and reminded Mahir one last time before starting, “Keep a steady hand!”

  When he was sure his assistant understood, he started stirring the pot. As more honey was added, the thicker the almond flour became, and as more water was added, the thinner it became. As the cook stirred the mixture for the levzine more and more quickly, he was thinking about the milk kebab he would make for dinner. He knew he had to find good cuts of meat and fresh milk. He would first boil the meat in milk twice and then skewer it so he could roast it over low heat, pouring milk over the meat as it cooked. It wasn’t extremely difficult but it took time and required careful attention, so he knew he couldn’t leave it to Mahir.

  The cook stirred the levzine until the heat in the kitchen made him break out in a sweat, but finally it took on the consistency he desired. He sampled the thick amber-colored mixture in the pot with the tip of his finger and decided that it wouldn’t be necessary to whisper anything over it. He was saving that for the Davud Pasha meatballs.

  “Pour it into a tray to cool it,” he instructed his assistant.

  “Shall I cook the rice afterwards?” Mahir asked.

  The cook thought for a moment. “No,” he replied, “I’ll do it myself. You run along to the stewards’ office and get me a piece of paper and a pen.”

  “Of course,” Mahir replied, though he didn’t see the point of the request.

  As Mahir ran to the cellar, the cook began to thinly slice a large onion, which he fried in oil, and then he added the meatballs to the pan. Just as he had added some ground almonds and began to roast them, his assistant returned bearing a pen, paper, and a small inkwell. He stood to one side to await further orders.

  When the meatballs were cooked and the almonds were ivory in color, the cook transferred the pot to a stove with a lower heat and squeezed in the juice of a lemon.

  “Bring me the pen and paper,” he told Mahir as he closed the lid. He took the pen, dipped it in the ink, and quickly wrote a few lines on the paper. He gave the piece of paper to Mahir and said, “Go to the Grand
Bazaar and find Herbalist Naim Effendi’s shop in the Lesser Saffron Market. Send him my greetings, pick up the items on the list, and come straight back.”

  Mahir glanced at the piece of paper. It was a simple list of herbs: Chinese cinnamon, Ashanti pepper, poppy seeds, aniseed, Indian mint.

  “The cellar might have all these, Master,” Mahir said. “Shall I check before I go?”

  The cook looked at his assistant. “We’re cooking for the sultan. Who knows how long the spices in the cellar have been there.”

  “You’re right, Master,” Mahir said. He checked the list once more and said, “Okay then, I will go now.”

  The cook grabbed him by the arm as he was about to run out. “Wait. If Naim Effendi tells you ‘We’re out of these,’ tell him, ‘My master needs as much as you’ve got, and he needs it all by tomorrow evening at the latest.’ Do you understand?”

  “I understand, Master.”

  The cook squeezed his arm a little tighter. “By tomorrow evening! As much as he can find. Got it?”

  Mahir looked at his master’s hand holding his arm. “I understand,” he meekly replied and set off for the Grand Bazaar.

  The cook approached the shelves, looking for rice for the saffron rice he was going to make. In the meanwhile, he was thinking about the following night. He could easily ask Master İsfendiyar for permission to leave, but he didn’t know how long his business would take or how long he would need to wait. He knew that he might not be able to return to the palace until the next morning, meaning he had to come up with another solution. He decided that in the worst case he would leave after the evening prayers and return before dawn, but he didn’t want to rouse any suspicions.

  Then he thought of an idea which made him smile: Why sneak off when I can walk out the gate? And who knows, maybe I’ll get even more than I bargained for.

  It was almost time for the afternoon prayers. The cook had completed his work and Mahir was nowhere to be seen. Like every assistant sent on an errand to the outside world, he took his time returning. The cook wasn’t upset. In fact, he enjoyed spending time without Mahir by his side. The only problem would be having to listen to his excuses for why he was late on his return. “I wish I’d given him the rest of the day off,” he muttered to himself. Just then Firuz Agha and his retinue arrived to pick up the dishes he had prepared.

  Avoiding small talk, the cook handed over the agha’s food and apologized for not having been able to prepare dessert for the pages. “Forgive me, I sent my assistant to the market. I was alone the whole day.”

  “Of course, you’re not obliged to give us something every single day,” replied Firuz Agha, but disappointment tugged a crease between his eyebrows.

  Of course, Mahir’s absence was just an excuse. The cook wasn’t pleased with the Privy Chamber Page’s behavior in the morning, which was why he didn’t make any sweets. It occurred to him that if Firuz Agha, who was one of the most respectful of the Inner Palace pages, was in such a state, the others must be much worse off. He knew that any untoward incidents could dash his plan completely.

  After he sent Firuz Agha off with the food, he made his way toward the Odalisques’ Kitchen. He’d only just stepped through the door when he saw Neyyir Agha striding toward him. Following palace etiquette, he stood aside and saluted the agha.

  “I was just about to come and see you,” Neyyir Agha said.

  The cook smiled. “Likewise.”

  “I heard,” the agha said, “that you’ll be cooking for our sovereign. I would like to offer you my congratulations.”

  Racking his mind to find a lofty expression of gratitude, the cook merely thanked him in the end.

  The agha asked, “Why did you wish to see me?”

  “I wanted to thank you for the wine,” the cook replied. “It was exquisite.”

  “I’m pleased to hear you enjoyed it,” the Black Eunuch replied. Having worked at the Harem for so many years, he could understand with a glance when someone had something on their mind.

  The cook, who knew this very well, straightaway said, “From what I can gather, you also enjoy culinary delights. As you well know, even in the Imperial Kitchens one gets bored of eating the same cook’s food every day and fancies a change every so often. I have a friend who is a very good cook. His place is unique, far better than anywhere else. If I may be so bold, if you would allow me to have you as my guest there one night, I would be very pleased.”

  The Black Eunuch grinned. “Thank you very much. However, it is very difficult for us to leave the Harem at night.”

  “That’s unfortunate,” the cook said. “The place I was referring to is Fishmonger Bayram’s place.”

  Neyyir Agha’s expression suddenly changed. “Do you mean Mad Bayram?”

  “The very same. Do you know him?”

  “Everyone has heard of him. It is said that all the creatures in the sea swarm to his bait. I was under the impression he didn’t have a place anymore, not since a while ago.”

  “You’re right. But he just opened a new place. The location is secret; only his friends know about it. He and I have known each other a long time.”

  The cook knew that the agha was warming up to the idea. “Is Levon still with him?” the agha asked.

  “Master Bayram thinks of Levon as a son,” the cook replied. “He would never send him away.” The cook added a final touch, saying “There’s also a very nice wine cellar at his new place.”

  After a few moments of thought, the agha looked at the cook and asked, “When could we go?”

  “Tomorrow night. As long as you can get permission.”

  “I’ll speak to the Chief Eunuch.”

  “I’ll await your glad tidings. I would be very pleased if you could come. The season is almost over, so we mustn’t miss out.”

  “God willing,” Neyyir Agha murmured. Master Bayram’s fish and Levon’s dishes were already filling his mind and teasing his palate.

  Fishmonger Bayram, or “Mad Bayram,” as he was also known, was considered the greatest fisherman not just of Istanbul, but of the Marmara Sea, the Aegean Sea, and the Black Sea, and even all seas around the world according to some. That wasn’t the only thing he was famed for. He also knew how to cook the most exquisite fish dishes. Grilled, fried, steamed, smoked, pickled, salted … each was the stuff of legend. And, as his nickname implied, he was mad.

  Years earlier, Master Bayram had owned a small place in Balat on the shores of the Golden Horn. It was actually a makeshift shack with two rooms he had built for himself and his adopted son Levon. He didn’t care for running a tavern or making money. In fact he couldn’t, since he disliked having to deal with people.

  Still, he was a generous man. At his banquet tables he would share his catches with the poor in the neighborhood and he derived great pleasure from sharing the fish he caught with people he liked. Master Bayram hardly ever set foot in the Fishmongers’ Market to sell his catch. Levon was young in those days and they had no need for money. He only went to the market when he encountered a problem, the solution of which was beyond his own means, his friends’ help, or the sea’s plenitude. He sold those fish he wouldn’t deign serve to his friends for a handful of coins, and then went about his life as usual.

  However, as is often the case, as Master Bayram withdrew from society, his fame spread. His fish and other dishes were spoken about all around the city. At the same time, Levon was growing up. He had to learn his craft as well, perhaps get a small boat of his own and at least one fishing net.

  Worn down by worldly concerns, Master Bayram enlarged one of the two rooms in his shack, placed six or seven tables inside, and opened a tavern.

  Master Bayram, who was in the habit of living as he pleased, ran the place in exactly the same way. He wouldn’t let just anyone through the door. He particularly despised statesmen and men with bulging moneybags, and if anyone got rowdy in his tavern or didn’t know how to handle their drink, he wouldn’t admit them again even if he were presented with all
the riches of the world.

  There weren’t any fixed prices for the food and drink at Bayram’s tavern. He set the prices depending on how he felt and what he needed the next day. He could charge pennies for a plate of mackerel one day and three silver coins for the same dish the next day.

  However, even if Master Bayram didn’t set much store by them, there were laws, regulations, systems, and arrangements in place. The officials of the empire had set the upper prices of services and goods so that shopkeepers and merchants wouldn’t upset the system, and they called this narh. What happened to Master Bayram happened because of those rules.

  While Master Bayram was discerning when it came to admitting customers, sometimes he would make poor choices. On one such night when he was in need of money, a grouchy customer objected to the price he was charged. Master Bayram first gave the man a good beating and then threw him out, saying, “You son of a whore, it was fine last week when I didn’t charge you anything. You walked out singing!” He had no way of knowing how serious things would get when the man, ashamed at having been given a public beating, rushed off to the local judge and lodged a complaint.

  The following day, the judge visited Master Bayram’s tavern along with his men and asked to hear his version of the story. If the master had said, “I didn’t do anything of the sort, this is all made up,” no one could have said otherwise, nor would the judge have dragged the matter out, but madness overcame him. Also, Master Bayram didn’t know how to lie.

  The judge asked: “Did you charge this man more than the narh?”

  The master replied: “I don’t know what a narh is. I just told him how much it cost.”

  The judge asked: “Fine. You also beat this man, is that true?”

  The master said: “Yes. And it was a thorough beating, too!”

  The judge ruled that the tavern had to remain closed for a week. The custom also allowed anyone who overstepped the narh to be given a lashing, but the master was a man of such high repute that it didn’t even cross the judge’s mind.

  After the judge left, Master Bayram told everyone, all his close friends, loved ones, and even not-so-loved ones, that there would be a feast that night, and then he got in his boat and went fishing. Upon returning in the afternoon, he saw that a sizeable crowd had gathered around the tavern. He hauled in the crates of fish he had caught, left them in front of his guests, and then proceeded to set his tavern and home ablaze. “Here’s a barbecue for you,” he said. “Enjoy your fish!” Then he set off in his boat, rowing toward the Marmara Sea with his adopted son, and as the afternoon gave way to early evening with its reddening sky, he disappeared from sight.