by Saygin Ersin
“Let’s imagine a body in which the elements are in harmony. Any outside interference with this body, including the ingestion of food, will disrupt the balance, and the body will immediately begin to work to restore it. Degrees tell us how long it will take before the body regains its equilibrium.
“Garlic is a food whose nature is in the second degree, which means that the balance in the body of someone who eats garlic will return to normal in two hours at most. The higher the degree, the longer the period of time needed to reach equilibrium. Foods of the third and fourth degree are ones we commonly call ‘heavy.’ Those that are of the fifth degree and upward are poisonous. For serious illnesses, doctors recommend high-degree foods and make medicines prepared from them. For example, in the case of a deep spiritual ailment, we recommend third- and even fourth-degree foods that are warm and moist, depending on the course of the illness, or medicines made from high-degree spices, such as mesir paste.
“Here is my last question: Suppose that a certain dish or paste is being prepared for a patient. The apothecary has chosen medium-degree foods and spices. Just as the paste is being mixed, you enter the room and become involved in the process. Can you imagine what would happen?”
The cook looked at his teacher, unable to answer. Sadr el-Haki asked, “Can you imagine what would happen if the Pasha of Cuisine touched that pot?”
It wasn’t difficult for him to imagine what could happen, but again he remained silent. His was the silence of someone who was just discovering the extent of his power, who was perhaps for the first time in his life taking it seriously, and trying to acquaint himself with and believe in it.
Sadr continued as if he could read the cook’s mind: “My young master, you possess great power. You could reward someone with health, or strike them down with death. We only have one hope, and that is for you to use your power for good. You will learn the secrets of the body and of foods from me, and you’ll learn the secret language of the sky from my brother. If you were to make a mistake, or if for one second you gave in to evil and used your power for malice, we as your teachers shall be held responsible. I hope you realize the enormity of the responsibility that you place on our shoulders.”
The cook nodded, but he had a strong desire to rush off to the library in the observatory, pick out a book at random, and start to read. An overwhelming sense of curiosity seized him along with the awareness of his own power. The feeling was one of such enormous appetite that he longed to devour all the secrets on earth.
At the same time, he wondered if he had found a solution for the trouble in his soul. He thought that by immersing himself in books and devoting his mind to the intricacies of the sciences of medicine and astronomy, he could cast off his gloomy thoughts or at least put them aside for a while.
From that day onward, the cook spent the majority of his time at his table in Sadr’s room, among the shelves in the observatory, and sitting on a bench in the garden, writing, reading, and memorizing.
From Sadr el-Haki, he learnt the secrets of meat, vegetables, fruits, roots, grains, and legumes, as well as their natures and their stars. From Sa’d el-Haki, he learned about the stars wandering the heavens, distant and slow or close by and swift; about Venus the “composer,” Mercury the “scribe,” Mars the “seraskier,” Jupiter the “treasurer,” and the sun, which was the “sultan of the universe,” and its “vizier,” the moon. He learned how they changed in property and nature as they moved through the signs and their houses while retaining their essence; how Venus, the star of pleasure, beauty, and love, could be frivolous under Libra, its home, but serious under Sagittarius, which was an earth sign. He also learned how to determine how a person born under Mercury in the second house of Leo would be affected in terms of financial matters as Mercury moved from sign to sign.
The cook studied as a way to banish the pain in his heart and silence the noise whirling in his mind. But every time he became exhausted and looked up at the heavens for relief, he saw her.
He had been fond of looking into Kamer’s dark eyes, which widened to become as vast as the night sky. Sparkling stars would appear, each one a sign of hope, love, and passion.
In her absence, he looked up at the night sky when he missed her. The sky would become her eyes, and then one by one the stars would disappear, condemning the night to the pitch-blackness of longing.
That was how the cook learned about the stars and the secrets of the senses.
Before deciding on what he was going to cook for His Highness the Sultan, he carefully studied the sovereign’s astrological chart and managed to seize on the opportunity the skies afforded him amongst all those complex calculations which could be interpreted in a thousand different ways.
Three days had passed since the dishes the cook had prepared were presented to the sultan, but things were still quiet and not a single word had reached him from beyond the Gate of Felicity.
They were going about their usual tasks in the kitchen. Mahir was standing next to him by the table, dicing meat for a dish called Sultan’s Rice that they were planning on making for dinner that evening. Without looking up from his work, he murmured, “No news yet, Master?”
The cook sighed. “God give me strength.” His eyes were fixed on the water dripping from the sack of washed rice which they had hung from a hook. The rice had to be properly drained to make Sultan’s Rice. Ordinarily, the dish was never cooked outside of the Royal Kitchen, and because it was one of the dishes assumed to be reserved for the sultan alone, no one ever dared request it. But the Chief Sword Bearer had had the audacity to ask for it. The cook felt assured that the agha was at his breaking point and the die had been cast.
“No news yet,” he responded.
Mahir put down his knife and looked at his master with tear-filled eyes. “I don’t just mean compliments,” he said. “Hasn’t he said anything about what was wrong?”
The cook glared at Mahir, eyes flashing with anger and disappointment. “The sovereign is presented with thirty-four dishes at every meal, Mahir. Surely he has better things to do than list their faults!” He pointed to the rice on the hook. “Take down the rice. It’s time to start cooking it.”
He knew exactly which of his assistant’s dreams had been shattered, and he enjoyed that awareness. Mahir had taken to dreaming about the Royal Kitchen. In his mind, the sultan should have been quite pleased with their dishes and requested that the cook be appointed to the Royal Kitchen, along with his assistant, of course.
It was a pleasant dream. However, for Mahir, being sent to that kitchen was not so much about his desire to become a cook, but to take one step closer to the source of power, under whose shadow he could find good fortune as well as a future. His plan was to get into the Royal Kitchen and make his name heard at the Harem through Neyyir Agha. He figured that he could then get into the good graces of Haseki Sultan herself and secure himself a rank and a title either at the Inner Palace or, by means of sacrificing certain parts of his anatomy, in the Harem. After all, he figured, it had happened before.
Nothing had gone how Mahir had planned, however. From what he heard, the sultan only took two bites of the dish the cook prepared, and then ordered his servants to bring in truffles roasted in butter and yogurt with thistle.
Mahir couldn’t believe that their dish had been brushed aside for mere roasted truffles and yoghurt. And how excited he had been when he had heard which dish the cook had in mind for the sovereign’s table: wrapped kebab made from fowl.
His initial excitement had now turned into anger. “Why did he choose such a difficult dish?” he kept grumbling to himself. The dish was known for being the most difficult kebab to make, and it involved wrapping strips of turkey, chicken, duck, and quail around each other. First the various meats had to be boiled separately for just the right amount of time before being placed on a single skewer and roasted over an open fire. It demanded the utmost of patience and skill rather than knowledge and art, and the slightest carelessness could ruin the wh
ole dish.
In his mind, the cook had gone too far by using game birds, which were tastier but more difficult to cook. Under the surprised gazes of the Royal Kitchen cooks, he had boiled the meat of a wild goose, a large pheasant, a partridge, and a quail and then rubbed the meat with spices before placing it on a skewer and roasting it over a fire for hours. When the meat was ready, he placed it on a plate with some roasted vegetables and then poured a sauce of hot citrus and pomegranate juice over the whole dish.
The cook may not have been able to gain the sultan’s praise but he had become the talk of not just the Royal Kitchen but the entirety of the Imperial Kitchens. Some thought that he had just tried to show off and was suffering the consequences, while others commended his courage and admired his attempt to bring a never-before-tried flavor to an already difficult dish.
But only the cook knew why he had cooked that particular dish.
He had made his decision when he’d looked at the sultan’s horoscope and saw that the star of Mars was favoring the sovereign’s sign. He’d also seen that the star would be in the same place when he would cook the dish. Mars was known to heighten the emotions when it traversed a sign and Venus was also winking on the other side, an invitation to turn fervor into pleasure.
The cook had used meat from game birds that were warm in the third degree and dry in the second degree for the base of the food, heightening the effect of Mars, which was a fiery star, and the spices and vegetables he used had added to Venus’s thirst. It didn’t matter whether the sultan had taken one bite or two from the dish. Even inhaling its scent would have been enough for his plan. The cook was completely sure of himself, which was why he patiently waited for the news he would eventually hear.
As he was roasting pistachios and raisins, he watched his assistant, who sliced the last remaining piece of meat in half. Placing the wooden spoon he was holding in Mahir’s hand, he pointed at the pan on the stove and said, “Put the meat in the pan and roast it with the pistachios.”
As Mahir attended to the meat, the cook added spices over his shoulder. He added plenty of ground black pepper and tossed in a few whole peppercorns. Just as he was about to reach for the jar of coriander, Mahir said, “Master, please permit me to divulge a personal matter to you.”
The cook looked at his assistant in surprise. Never before had he heard Mahir speak so formally.
“What is it?” he asked.
“When can I attain the rank of master?”
The cooked paused to think.
But he wasn’t thinking about whether Mahir would become a master or not. He was thinking that in another life, he would have done all he could for him, or even told him to change professions while he still had the time. But the cook knew that Mahir was going to play an important role in his plan and that he needed him.
“Why? Are you bored of working with me already?” he asked with a smile.
Mahir blushed. “No, Master. I’ve been working for so many years … and I’m getting older, too, as you know.”
The cook’s smile broadened. He had decided that giving his assistant a little hope might help him in the near future. “Let me think about it,” he replied.
That was enough for Mahir. His eyes welled up with tears. He was as happy as if he had been told he would be donning the red apron the very next day. “Thank you, Master, I—” he began, but he was cut off by a commotion outside, which was getting louder second by second.
“Expedition!” the stone walls echoed. “Expedition! Our sovereign has called for an Imperial Expedition!”
The cooks and assistants stopped what they were doing and listened. Some, overcome by curiosity, dashed outside to see what was going on, and asked passersby, “What’s happening? Are we going to war?”
Master İsfendiyar entered the kitchen through the middle gate, accompanied by the Chamberlain of the Kitchen, Şakir Effendi, and a Council Sergeant. He appeared tense, and the Chamberlain, who was standing at the very rear behind the Council Sergeant, appeared to be lost in thought.
Master İsfendiyar stopped at the threshold of the Royal Kitchen along with his retinue. He surveyed the crowd which had quickly gathered around and gestured toward the Council Sergeant. “Effendi has an announcement to make.”
All the eyes and ears of the denizens of the Imperial Kitchens were fixed on the Council Sergeant, who had taken a step forward. As per custom, the Sergeant struck his staff on the ground three times and then stated, “Our sovereign has declared that he will be having a hunting expedition in Rumelia. Our sultan will set off toward Edirne after tomorrow morning’s prayers and the hunting attendants will complete their preparations as soon as possible and leave within two days. The Imperial Council orders that six cooks from the Royal Kitchen and the cooks and assistants of the Chief Privy Chamber Page, Chief Sword Bearer, Chief Tailor, Chief Butler, Chief Cellar Steward, and Chief Treasurer, as well as thirty cooks and their assistants from the Inner Palace Servants’ Kitchen and the Imperial Council Kitchen, join the expedition.”
When he was finished, the Sergeant marched out of the kitchen. The moment he walked out, pandemonium broke out in the kitchen.
“Why the rush?”
“How can we prepare for an expedition so soon?”
“Is this the time for a hunting expedition, when the coffers are empty?”
“Has he lost his mind?”
The tangled yarn of whisperings unraveled when Master İsfendiyar shouted, “Silence!” His stern gaze was fixed on the cook, who was standing in a far corner of the kitchen.
“Everyone back to work!” Master İsfendiyar boomed.
After the crowd dispersed, Master İsfendiyar approached the cook. “Come with me,” he whispered.
The cook followed a few steps behind Master İsfendiyar. When they walked through the door of the lodgings into the dimly lit entryway, the master turned around and looked angrily at the cook.
“Master, what’s wrong?” the cook began to ask, but he was cut short when the master struck him in the chest with his cane. When he doubled over, Master İsfendiyar pushed him against the wall, pinning him there with his cane.
The master growled, “What in heaven’s name do you think you’re doing?”
The cook barely managed a hoarse whisper in reply.
The master continued, “Are you trying to bankrupt the empire? Is that your plan?”
The master pushed hard on the cane, which he was now holding against the cook’s neck. Drawing on all his strength, the cook shoved his master away and coughed a few times. “What are you doing, Master?” he asked.
Master İsfendiyar stepped toward him again, still in a rage. “Wrapped kebab, eh?” he said in a low voice. “I thought you had it in for the sultan’s health, but you’ve gone even further than that. You made him long to go hunting with the dish you made! You know how much a hunting expedition costs the Treasury, don’t you? Of course you do. You know it full well!”
“I know, Master,” the cook replied. There wasn’t a trace of regret or shame in his expression.
Master İsfendiyar pointed his cane at the cook. “The Treasury is already in dire straits. Now the coffers will be completely wiped out. In ten days’ time, salaries will have to be paid. You know that too, right? When the Janissaries don’t get their payment, they will revolt. The sovereign will be away and there will be no one to defend the throne. When the revolt begins, heads will roll, the palace will be plunged into turmoil, and in that chaos you will take what you want from the Harem, won’t you?”
“Master, listen for a second,” the cook tried to say, but the cane tapping on his neck silenced him.
“The sultan will probably be overthrown,” Master İsfendiyar continued, “and you know what the new sultan will do. All those young boys will be sent to the noose because of you. But what do you care? You don’t even care about the girl; all you want is to get revenge on the palace and the empire!”
“I want neither revenge nor to bring harm to the empire, my
master,” the cook said. “Yes, you’re right, the Treasury will have a difficult time and the Janissaries will grumble, but don’t worry. I don’t mean to bring harm to anyone.”
Master İsfendiyar smiled wryly. “You fool! When the Janissaries revolt, what then? You’re not thinking straight. Didn’t you realize that the Chief Sword Bearer would go on the expedition with the sultan? You idiot, couldn’t you figure out that much? Now you stand there and tell me that no harm will come to anyone. You’ll be on the expedition along with the agha. What are you going to do? Do you think you can make matters right with your cooking?”
A self-assured smile appeared on the cook’s face. “Siyavuş Agha is still in the palace,” he whispered. “How do you know he’ll go on the expedition?”
Master İsfendiyar was a little afraid of the man standing before him. Still, he pressed his cane against the cook’s neck again and said, “If the empire suffers because of this, I will place your head in front of the Gate of Felicity with my own two hands! Do you understand?”
The cook nodded. “I understand, Master. Please don’t worry. Whatever I might have become, I still have royal blood running through my veins. Our sovereign and his children are my relatives. If I bring harm to the state or the royal family, I will gladly sacrifice my life to set matters right.”
Master İsfendiyar silently lowered his cane. After casting the cook a final glance, he turned and walked away.
The cook stepped outside and saw the Chamberlain of the Kitchen, Şakir Effendi, making his way toward his quarters along with a few other men. He saluted them as they passed by.
He guessed that the men walking with him were the deputies responsible for the expedition. Together they would sit down and meticulously calculate where the sekban regiment, falconers, hound-keepers, messengers, guards, and Inner Palace residents would stay, where the Imperial Tent would be pitched, what the members of the expedition—about six hundred in number—would eat for two months, and how all the horses, cows, mules, and hounds would be fed.