The Pasha of Cuisine

by Saygin Ersin

  That was how Master Bayram had done justice to his notoriety, and according to the story, no one ever saw him in the city again. But the story wasn’t entirely correct. The master had returned about a year before with his son, delicious fish, and talented hands, and he opened a small new tavern in Karaköy. He only told a few friends whom he loved and trusted, and advised them that under no uncertain terms were they to tell anyone where it was located.

  After sunset the cook, along with Mahir and Neyyir Agha, set out toward Master Bayram’s new tavern.

  Neyyir Agha had managed to obtain permission to leave for the night from the Chief Eunuch. The cook met him in front of the Gate of Salutation, which they passed through together, and they crossed the Golden Horn on a boat Mahir had arranged beforehand. After walking along the Karaköy shore, they turned left just before Tophane and began to climb the hill toward Galata.

  The cook had found out about the location of the place from a friend, so they had to wander the narrow streets for a while before finally ending up at a black door at the end of a dead-end street that even the Devil himself would have been afraid to walk down alone.

  The cook hesitantly knocked three times. He wasn’t sure if the two-story house was the right place. He knew that knocking on the wrong door in that neighborhood after dark could lead to unsavory consequences, particularly for Neyyir Agha who, for reasons unknown, had decided to wear a garish red cloak with ivory adornments.

  After a longish wait, the bolt of the door rattled, and the door opened slightly. A pair of large eyes which seemed to say “Go away!” appeared in the gap, darting from the cook, who was standing closest to the door, to Mahir and Neyyir Agha, whose faces were more difficult to make out in the darkness. A low voice said, “Well, look who it is,” and the door opened a little further.

  The cook saw Master Bayram in the dim light of the candles in the room, noticing that he had aged. The lines on his thin face were more prominent, and his tall, lanky body seemed to be slightly bent. His demeanor and expression, however, showed that he was as mad as ever. He playfully slapped the cook on his shoulder twice and then looked at his companions. It was obvious that Neyyir Agha was from the palace, and Master Bayram despised officials. But his guest was welcome, so he couldn’t question who else had come along with him.

  “Come in,” Master Bayram said.

  Once they were inside, the cook glanced around. Master Bayram’s place lived up to his reputation: plain and modest, but unique in every regard.

  The stove and the preparation table were on the left side of the room, which was fairly large. The rest of the space was taken up by six tables, on which were trays and pitchers, and there were four or five stools around each table. There was a large hearth in the middle of the room over which hung a large, boiling cauldron.

  Since it was still early, the place was empty. The cook knew the customs of the place, so before Master Bayram could say anything, he approached the cauldron and lifted the lid, whereupon a thick cloud of steam rose upwards. The smell of fresh fish soup filled the room. The cook breathed in the steam and then filled one of the earthenware bowls lined up on the table next to him with soup. He passed the bowl to Neyyir Agha, who was intoxicated by the scent but hesitatingly looked at the bowl. It seemed strange to him to start eating without getting permission first.

  “This is how things are done around here,” the cook said to him to set his mind at ease. “Every newcomer gets his soup first and sits at a table.”

  Neyyir Agha took the bowl and sat at one of the tables in the corner. As the cook was filling his own bowl, the agha grabbed his spoon and sipped the soup even though it was scalding hot.

  After handing the ladle to Mahir, the cook sat next to Neyyir Agha. He stirred his soup and smelled it, enjoying the slight tinge of envy that was sparked within him. Very few cooks had ever been able to invoke such feelings in him. The cook never saw anyone as a rival, and he wouldn’t deign to sink so low as to compete with a fellow artisan. However, as far as Master Bayram and his fish dishes were concerned, even he would think twice about competing with him.

  Fish soup was one of the two greatest soups in the world, and the pinnacle of fish dishes as it had to be made perfectly, just like anything else that was difficult. A fish soup could not be “so-so,” “alright,” or “passable.” If done right, it would be soup; if done wrong, it would be rubbish, and that was that. It was one of the strangest dishes in the world. The more ingredients one added, the better it became. It did not have an absolute taste. The base flavor was fish, provided its smell was just right, but the soup changed taste with every spoonful. The first spoonful might be fish accompanied by celery stalk and carrot, the second might be onion and a small piece of fresh oregano, while the third could be the pure taste of fish scorched lovingly with the sweet taste of black pepper. This carnival of tastes continued until you finished the bowl. You could never guess what you would get with the next spoonful, and each sip was a surprise.

  After swallowing his last mouthful of soup, the cook breathed a deep sigh, like the others had done, and leaned back on his stool. His sensitive palate had just undertaken an enjoyable test, but in the end the soup had triumphed. After a certain point, the cook gave up trying to figure out each of the flavors and gave himself over to blind pleasure. He knew that fish soup had to be made with at least twenty-two ingredients, but he guessed that there were many more in the cauldron.

  After they had all finished their soup, Master Bayram approached them and placed bowls full of raw almonds, walnuts, and hazelnuts on the table and gathered up the empty soup bowls. Pointing toward the pitcher, he chided them, saying, “What, are you waiting for an invitation?” The cook shook off his soup-induced lethargy and began to fill the earthenware cups on the table with wine. The master turned to the cook and said, “I’ve been waiting for your visit for such a long time now.”

  “Fate wanted it to be tonight,” the cook replied.

  Master Bayram nodded. “Are you staying the night?”

  “Indeed, we are your guests for the evening.” Then he added, “That is, if it is acceptable for you.”

  Master Bayram called out, “Levon!” Before the echo of his voice died down, his adopted son appeared behind the counter. “Prepare three rooms upstairs,” the master told him.

  After welcoming the guests with a nod, Levon disappeared as quietly as he had appeared.

  The agha, the assistant, and the cook sat at the table with the wine. The cook mused over the fact that the ruby-red contents of the pitcher were good enough to rival any bottle in Haseki Sultan’s cellar. He couldn’t help but think that if Master Bayram had put such good wine on the tables, he must have even better wine in his cellar. It was also a well-known fact that Master Bayram offered his best wine to his more influential guests, and Neyyir Agha assumed that the cook was such a guest.

  There was only enough wine in the pitcher on the table to fill each of the three cups twice, but Levon rushed up and replaced it with a new one. The newly filled cups were already half empty when Master Bayram approached the table again, his hands laden with plates. The large flat plate he placed in the middle was heaped half with mackerel and half with barbel. The fish had been coated in flour and fried in oil, and they were still sizzling. Alongside the fish was a large bowl of salad. The green leaves of lettuce in the salad had been doused with lemon juice and glistened with pure olive oil, and there were sliced onions with plenty of sumac and parsley. Then he brought slices of freshly baked cornbread and chickpea bread in a basket covered with a piece of cloth. Now the feast was truly getting started.

  Forgetting his Harem etiquette, Neyyir Agha dove into the fish. Mahir was already so engrossed in the food that he was oblivious to the world around him. There were only a few pieces of fish left when Levon brought out a plate of sizzling anchovy and haddock. Wherever Master Bayram had cast his net, he’d ended up with the last anchovies of the season and the thin haddocks were an additional gift from the sea.
>
  When they were halfway through the second plate, the cook told Mahir, who was stuffing anchovies in his mouth in twos and threes, to slow down. To makes sure that his assistant, who sat there frozen with a mouthful of fish, wouldn’t be offended, he added as an explanation, “There’s much more coming. If you get full now, you’ll be disappointed later.”

  His words also brought Neyyir Agha to his senses. He placed a haddock into his mouth, head, tail, and all, and gulped down the remaining wine in his cup in one go. The Black Eunuch’s face gleamed with joy. “What else is there?” he asked, an even more childish smile than usual on his lips. “If I never eat fish for the rest of my life, let alone tonight, I would still be content.”

  The cook laughed. “As long as there’s fish at the bottom of the sea and Master Bayram is in his boat, we’ll be eating fish for a long while yet, Your Grace.”

  The Black Eunuch joined in the cook’s laughter: “God willing, my Master, God willing!”

  Just then, as if Neyyir Agha’s prayer had been answered, Master Bayram approached again, carrying a large tray of variously sized plates. Swiftly he collected the dirty plates and replaced them with plates, bowls, and pots containing pan-fried mussels, calamari, and a steamed turbot on a bed of onion, garlic, carrots, and celery. The pan-fried mussels shared their plate with almonds, whilst the golden rings of fried calamari sat next to walnut sauce. The pickled anchovies were wrapped around seedless green olives, and the kipper was air dried, crushed, and seasoned with plenty of dill. There were large prawns and tiny octopus tentacles in the green salad this time. The slices of pickled fish looked as fresh as live fish and didn’t come apart on the fork but melted like cream on the tongue.

  The men at the table hadn’t yet been able to shake off their astonishment at the first round of the banquet when Levon approached the table, this time with a smaller tray. First, he made room in the middle of the table for a large bluefish which had been sliced down the middle, grilled, and topped with onions. In between the plates, he placed bowls of hummus, fava beans, cold bean salad, stuffed mussels, and mashed roe. There was only room for one more plate on the table and Levon had obviously saved it for the best dish of all.

  When he placed the last dish on the table, an exclamation of joy and appreciation arose from his guests: stuffed mackerel had graced the table with its presence, and like every experienced diner, they showed it the respect it deserved.

  After the final drops of the Commandaria wine had run out, a pitcher of meybuhter wine, which was boiled and made stronger with the addition of honey, was brought to the table, making them feel properly light-headed, and eating was replaced with talking.

  Mahir was the first to break the silence. Tripping over his words ever so slightly, he complained about the unfairness of fate and the difficulty of life, and then he launched into his life story, which the cook had been wondering about.

  It turned out that Mahir’s father had been a cook but a very bitter man. Mahir had wanted to follow in his footsteps, but since his skills didn’t extend beyond making rice, he didn’t remain as his father’s apprentice for long. His father kicked him out of his kitchen so that he could find himself another trade while he was still young.

  Because he was deeply offended, or perhaps because he was completely lacking in any other abilities, Mahir was unable to find any work. During his fourth apprenticeship, this time with a tailor, his father fell ill and died shortly afterwards. Since there was no one to run his shop, the debts grew day by day, and finally the shop, which was his grandfather’s legacy, was sold for a song. Mahir’s mother asked one of his father’s influential friends to help, and he found her orphaned son a place in Istanbul in the Imperial Kitchens. Mahir saved some of his salary and sent it to his mother back home. His biggest dream was, in his own words, to become “a great man” and make sure his mother was comfortable in her old age.

  The cook’s heart ached as he listened to his assistant’s tale, but inwardly he laughed at those final words. Mahir hadn’t said “I want to become a great cook” or that he wanted to become great at something else. In fact, his heart wasn’t really set on anything; if the opportunity arose, and if he could see any future in it, he would try his hand at becoming a tailor again, or even try becoming an ostler.

  I chose just the right person, the cook thought. Then he said, “Don’t worry, Mahir. If all goes well, your mother will be most comfortable.”

  Neyyir Agha was just as tipsy as Mahir, but because he’d been trained in the Harem, he initially approached the conversation in a more aloof manner. After feigning sympathy in response to Mahir’s story, he began to talk, and the more he talked the more open he became, until finally he started to talk about the Harem. The cook was all ears. This time, though, he wanted to hear not about Kamer, but another woman. When Neyyir Agha finally began to talk about the sultan’s chief consort and the mother of his son, Haseki Sultan, the cook listened even more attentively.

  Haseki Sultan was even harder to approach than the sovereign himself, and very few little was known about her. The cook had included her in his plans long ago. She was the one who held the keys to the cook’s goal and his ultimate aim.

  Neyyir Agha said very little about her that the cook hadn’t already heard before. But it was different to hear such things from someone who lived inside the Harem. Haseki Sultan was known to be one of the cleverest women the palace had ever seen. She had learned how to wield power over the sultan and the Harem at a very young age. She didn’t like to share her power, and she was known for the swiftness with which she triumphed over her opponents. Rumors suggested that there was a quiet but pitched battle going on between her and Siyavuş Agha. It was said that the Chief Sword Bearer was fixated on Haseki Sultan and sought an opportunity to ensure her downfall.

  After talking at length, Neyyir Agha realized that he was starting to reveal confidential information under the influence of the wine and he moved on to less important topics which nevertheless touched on the Harem and the palace. The cook had heard all he needed to hear. He leaned back a little and let the agha and Mahir go on talking. Only occasionally did he add to the conversation, and all the while keeping one eye on the door. More people had arrived after them, but apart from five people sitting at two tables, Master Bayram hadn’t let anyone else inside.

  Mahir and the Black Eunuch went on talking. Or to be more precise, Mahir kept bombarding Neyyir Agha with questions, and the latter, thoroughly drunk now, discoursed at length. The cook looked at his assistant from the corner of his eye. Mahir couldn’t get enough of stories about life beyond the third gate of the palace. With his sparkling eyes and his half-open mouth, he seized upon the agha’s every word, and then in his mind turned them into hard to attain but sweet dreams. He was, of course, aware that no male, apart from men in the sultan’s family, could step into the Harem. But as a foolish person intoxicated by power, Mahir could begin to see that what was between his legs was a reasonable sacrifice to be closer to all that glamour, royalty, and, most importantly, power. The cook knew this very well, and that was partly why he had chosen Mahir as his assistant.

  Neyyir Agha must have taken a liking to young Mahir with his shapely body, fair skin, and handsome face because he gave him endless advice, not forgetting to add that from now on he was his brother and he’d support him every step of the way. “It’s not like you have to start from the Harem or the Inner Palace,” Neyyir Agha instructed him. “Once you step foot inside any part of the palace, that’s enough. If you have ambition and good friends to help you, you can always climb further!”

  The cook was laughing inwardly as he listened to the hopes and dreams of his assistant, who considered sharing a bottle of wine with a Harem official of middling ranking to be a spectacular stroke of luck, when he heard a knock on the door. Without turning in the direction of the door, he listened attentively. Master Bayram cracked open the door as he always did, but instead of swearing and shutting the door in the newcomer’s face, this time
he invited him inside.

  The cook waited for the new guest to get his soup and sit down. When the man sat down at the table on his right, he glanced at him. He was tallish with a sharp black beard. The man was wearing a white cloak with a black sash around his waist and a pointed black hat with the same black sash wrapped around it. Before digging into his soup, he filled his wine glass halfway and drank it down, giving a brief nod to the cook. The cook responded by looking at him at length and then he turned around.

  “Finally,” he muttered quietly.

  He endured the conversation at the table for another hour before getting up and politely asking Neyyir Agha’s permission to leave, citing the wine as an excuse. Neyyir Agha, himself quite drunk, and Mahir, who felt that he was one step closer to power, did not object to his departure. It appeared they would see dawn break before their conversation was over.

  The cook went up to his room, lay down on the bed, and began to wait. There was only one candle to illuminate the room. In the dim light, he was praying that everything would go as smoothly as he hoped when there was a soft knock on the door. He jumped up and opened the door. Just as he expected, the man with the white cloak and black turban had come to see him.

  The man greeted him: “Peace be upon you.”

  The cook noticed from the man’s accent that he was an Arab. The cook asked, “Where have you been?”