The Pasha of Cuisine

by Saygin Ersin

  The cook summoned all his courage and looked her straight in the eye. She was taken aback and the tension in her expression gave way to barely perceptible bewilderment. His wasn’t just any stare, it was a hidden message, the meaning of which only a few people in the world could discern. Haseki Sultan was quite familiar with it, having entered the Harem as a concubine and knowing that she would remain so regardless of the power she held until her son acceded to the throne and she became the Valide Sultan. She knew that only a member of the royal family could look into a concubine’s eyes with such thinly veiled contempt.

  Without giving her the chance to collect herself, the cook said, “You must have read the books Mahir sent you.”

  “I did,” Haseki Sultan replied. The fury had faded from her expression but her voice was still stern. “You’ve written down all your achievements. The food you used to paralyze the Treasurer, how you killed Siyavuş Agha. You’re a sorcerer and a murderer. You know what your sentence will be? You won’t even get to die on the gallows. They’ll string you up on a pike and leave you to die a slow death.”

  The cook ignored her threats and picked up from where he had left off: “If you looked carefully, you probably noticed that one of the books was missing three pages.”

  She was even more perplexed by this comment, but her quick intellect warned her that the conversation was taking an unexpected, perhaps dangerous, course. The cook persisted: “Did you not notice?”

  Haseki Sultan nodded, almost imperceptibly. The cook lowered his voice and said, “There are some things we need to talk about,” and then he glanced at Mahir and Neyyir Agha, who were standing in the corner. “Send them away first, if you like. Believe me, you’ll want our conversation to be kept a secret. It’s your choice, but don’t go around murdering poor creatures like them just because they happened to overhear something they shouldn’t have.”

  Haseki Sultan weighed the cook’s suggestion and turned to Neyyir Agha and Mahir. “Stand outside!”

  Mahir was more than happy to leave. Without waiting for the agha, he shuffled off, and Neyyir Agha cast the cook a spiteful look before leaving.

  When the echoes of their footsteps died down, the cook slowly stood up, his gaze still fixed on Haseki Sultan’s eyes. With his hands still tied together, he reached into the sash tied around his waist and took out the three missing pages. “That book contained the things I have done,” he said, holding the pages toward her, “and these are the things I could do.”

  Haseki Sultan unfolded the pieces of paper and started to read the first one. It was a recipe, and its title, written in red ink, was “Stew of Health.”

  “I could use that to make the Treasurer healthier than ever before,” the cook said, “Both his mind and body would be sprightlier than they ever have been. You could save the Treasury from inept minds.”

  Without waiting for a response, he moved on to the second page. It was titled “Rice of Obedience.”

  He explained, “The Janissaries who eat of this rice would not complain even if their money bags contained pebbles. And its effects are long-lasting.”

  Haseki Sultan remained silent. But when she turned to the next page, she couldn’t conceal her fascination. Without raising her head from the page, she looked at the cook.

  “You’ve read it correctly,” the cook said. “The Sherbet of Power. Just one sip would make you the most powerful woman of the Ottoman royal family who ever lived. Neither another Haseki nor a Valide Sultan could ever compete with you. You’ll have absolute power, and enjoy it for as long as you live.”

  Without taking her eyes from his, Haseki Sultan folded the papers and stuffed them back into the cook’s sash. “And in return for all this, I’m going to have mercy on your lowly life, is that so?” she asked.

  The cook smiled briefly. “You will have mercy on my life regardless. That isn’t even one of the terms of our deal.”

  Haseki Sultan was lost in thought. “So what do you want?”

  The cook’s reply had long been at the ready. “I’m giving you three things. I want three things in return.”

  Haseki Sultan was no longer looking straight at him, but instead directing her gaze toward the marble floor. With a hand gesture typical of Harem women, she motioned for him to go on.

  “One,” the cook began, “you will forget I ever existed. You won’t search for me, you won’t ask after me, you won’t even think about me. No matter where I am, you’ll have nothing to do with me or those around me. Two, you will take all the children in this palace under your personal protection. For as long as you live, neither for the sake of the empire nor for personal gain, will a single child will be harmed.”

  Haseki Sultan looked up at the cook. She seemed to be considering asking “Why?” but then thought better of it.

  “Three,” the cook was about to say, when he was overcome by nervousness and excitement. He paused, gulped, and then said, “You have a concubine in the Harem. She … you will set her free.”

  There was a brief period of silence, and then Haseki Sultan burst out laughing. “Now I understand,” she finally said. “So all of this was for the sake of an odalisque. For love.”

  She turned her gaze toward the cook again, but this time the astonishment in her eyes was mixed with genuine admiration. “Which girl is it?” she asked. “What’s her name?”

  After a brief hesitation, the cook whispered, “Kamer.”

  Haseki Sultan had to think about the name for a while, but soon her eyes filled with astonishment again. “Kamer?” she asked, laughing again. “Well, you’ve got yourself a troublemaker there!” Then she continued, as if talking to herself, “Love! Look at what love can do. My darling sovereign’s reign was almost brought to ruin all because of love, as it turns out. Love almost put an end to the Ottoman Empire. The poets were right—the fires of love could burn the whole world down if given the chance.”

  The look in Haseki Sultan’s eyes softened. Slowly she reached under her kaftan and took out a small dagger with a jewel-encrusted hilt. “But I can burn things, too,” she said as she stepped slowly behind the cook. “I don’t know if you have realized this, but you’re looking into the eyes of someone who is as madly in love as you. If anyone dared touch my sovereign, I would become a raging fire! If anyone dare lay their hands on my child, I would become a storm! Now go. Raise the Treasurer from his sick bed, calm the Janissaries, and prepare the sherbet for me. If you try any more tricks, or if you fail, I swear to you I will tear out that girl’s heart before your very eyes and throw it at your feet, and I will make sure you live with that for the rest of your life. Go!”

  The cook felt cold steel against his arm. Haseki Sultan cut the cloth binding his wrists and left the vestibule as quickly and silently as she had arrived.

  Three days later, at dawn, the cook was in the Odalisques’ Kitchen, looking nervously at a dozen huge cauldrons at the ready on the stoves. He was surrounded by sacks of rice as well as buckets of butter and pitchers full of honey.

  Standing to his right, Master İsfendiyar asked him, seemingly just as nervous, “Do you think you’ll be able to manage?”

  “I won’t lie to you, Master,” the cook replied. “I’ve never cooked so much at once, but I think I can do it.”

  Master Bekir, who was standing to his left, slapped his shoulder. “And why on earth wouldn’t you be able to? Does it matter whether it’s one cauldron or a dozen? Aren’t they all the same?”

  “We’ll never know until we try,” the cook replied. Turning to the assistants waiting behind them, he said, “Get to work.”

  The more experienced of the young assistants picked up the sacks of rice and carried them to the massive pitchers of water hanging from the wall, as the rice had to be washed before it could be cooked. The younger assistants took their places by the stoves, holding buckets of cinder, sacks of coal, and bellows, waiting for the command to stoke the fires.

  The cook set to work adding pinches of pure saffron to the dozen large
vessels of water in front of him. He rubbed the saffron so that it would dissolve evenly, while at the same time whispering the names of the flavors that would turn the rice into the Rice of Obedience. Soon, he would ask for water to be poured into the cauldrons, boil the dissolved saffron with honey, and finally add the rice that the assistants had washed and steamed. Lastly, he would add some wheat starch, again dissolved in water, and leave it to boil until it took on the right consistency. That would be no problem at all if he was only cooking with one cauldron, but the cook had to perform each step a dozen times in a row and whisper the right names at the right time with the right intensity. His eyes were half-closed as he focused on the names in his mind and the saffron between his fingertips. Already he was exhausted, as he had been in the kitchen ever since returning from his negotiations with Haseki Sultan. First he had visited Master İsfendiyar, who he had found in the Odalisques’ Kitchen, sitting gloomily with Master Bekir. When Master İsfendiyar saw the cook standing before him, his eyes had filled with tears and he’d stood up to embrace the cook. He’d then asked him about the bruise on the left side of his face. Hearing that it was Neyyir Agha’s doing, he’d said with a smile, “Be grateful, you got off lightly.”

  The first dish the cook prepared was the one for Treasurer Halil Pasha. He worked all morning, and the Stew of Health was ready by lunchtime. The news that followed was good. Halil Pasha opened his eyes that same afternoon, and when he was able to talk toward evening, his first words were, “Are the payments for the Janissaries ready?” According to hearsay, the Treasurer had attempted to get out of bed as soon as he heard what was happening, but because he had been bedridden for days, he could not summon the energy and laid his head back on his pillow, tears coursing down his cheeks. Some said that Haseki Sultan had sent her personal physicians to Halil Pasha’s house. It was rumored that Haseki Sultan was given the joyful news that the pasha would be able to return to his post in a week at most and was in a much better state.

  After getting that out of the way, the cook locked himself away in the confectionery for two full days. He sent everyone out—even the Chief Confectioner—locked the doors, and made the sherbet for Haseki Sultan with berries he had handpicked one by one. It was almost ready. All it needed now was a single whisper from the lips of the Pasha of Cuisine.

  As usual, the most difficult task was left for last: cooking the Rice of Obedience for the Janissaries.

  It was a tradition to serve rice to the Janissaries who went to the palace to collect their earnings on payment day. Thousands of plates would be set before the Janissaries and the cavalry packed into the Second Courtyard. But it wasn’t any ordinary meal. Most often, it was a chance for the sultan and the empire to display their splendor. Important foreign guests and ambassadors from the capital would be invited to the palace, and the military march would be performed by the Janissaries, driven on as they were by the excitement of payment day, making hearts quiver with fear and admiration. Before the bags of money were presented to each of the soldiers beneath the dome, every soldier would eat the rice, which represented the compliments of the sovereign. However, if the soldiers were disgruntled, not a single one of them would touch the food set before them, and that would be the final silence before the approaching storm. And when the cavalry refused to touch the food, everyone knew rebellion was imminent. Usually, either in the next few minutes when the Grand Vizier and members of the Imperial Council emerged from the dome, or at the very least the next day, all hell would break loose.

  That was the threat the cook was faced with when preparing those cauldrons of rice. The burden on his shoulders was, needless to say, quite heavy, because he was the one who set the first steps of the rebellion into motion.

  After the dozen cauldrons had been removed from the stoves and the rice was dished out, the Odalisques’ Kitchen was filled from floor to ceiling with thousands of plates. They were placed on trays, and the trays were stacked on top of each other in rows of ten, with two wooden blocks separating each tray from the next.

  The cook looked at the steaming plates with suspicion. “I wonder if it will work?” he murmured to himself. He had taken the utmost care each step of the way. He went over what he had done time and time again and could find no fault, but the thought that he had made even the smallest mistake gnawed at him.

  Master Bekir, perhaps to break the tension more than anything else, turned to Master İsfendiyar and said with a laugh, “Master, why don’t you try some? Let’s see if it works.”

  “I’m already an obedient man,” Master İsfendiyar said irritably. “You wouldn’t be able to tell the difference.” After thinking for a moment, he turned to one of the assistants in the rear of the kitchen and said, “Why don’t you go and call Master Sıtkı over here?”

  As the assistant ran out of the kitchen, Master Bekir exclaimed, “Good thinking! If it works on him, it will work on anyone.”

  A few minutes later, Master Sıtkı, the cook for the Imperial Council who was known throughout the kitchens for his ill temper, sour demeanor, and miserliness, walked into the kitchen. He had been making rice for the next day’s ceremony since midnight and he was already in a foul mood. “What’s the matter, Master?” he asked, approaching Master İsfendiyar.

  “Is the rice ready?”

  Master Sıtkı snapped, “It’ll be ready soon enough.”

  “Is it good?”

  Master Sıtkı seemed to be on the brink of an explosion of rage. “It’s rice; it’s the way it’s always been. It won’t make any difference if it’s any good, because no one’s going to have a bite of it. It’s not worth the money we’ve spent cooking it!”

  Master İsfendiyar nodded slowly and pointed to a plate of saffron rice on a table. “Why don’t you have a taste of that?”

  Master Sıtkı was taken aback. “The saffron rice?”

  “The saffron rice, what else!” Master İsfendiyar sneered. “Do you see anything else in this room that you might be able to taste?”

  Master Sıtkı could not understand why he was suddenly being chastised, but his right eye was twitching with anger. He grabbed a spoon from a rack on the wall and plunged it into the saffron rice. After eating his first spoonful, initially it seemed as if he might toss the spoon aside, but his hand hung motionless in the air. His eyes glazed over. In slow motion, as if he were sleepwalking, he clutched the plate and wolfed down the rice.

  After swallowing his last mouthful, he smacked his lips and said in admiration, “Well done. It’s so light and tasty, the butter and honey are just right. The consistency is exactly as it should be, not too starchy, the best of saffron.”

  “Alright, alright,” Master İsfendiyar said, interrupting the lengthening litany of compliments. Then he suddenly extended his palm toward the poor man and said, “Give us a silver coin.”

  Master Sıtkı was surprised again, but still smiling. “What for?” he asked.

  “Well, for the saffron rice, of course,” Master İsfendiyar replied.

  Master Sıtkı could make neither head nor tail of the situation, but for some inexplicable reason he couldn’t find it in himself to protest. He reached toward his waistband and took out a silver coin, which he placed on Master İsfendiyar’s palm, a silly smile still on his lips.

  “Go on then, off with you,” Master İsfendiyar said. “I hope you enjoyed the rice.”

  Master Sıtkı began to walk back toward his own kitchen, still smacking his lips. He didn’t neglect to congratulate them one last time before leaving the kitchen.

  Master Bekir and his assistants had to cover their mouths with their hands so their howls of laughter would not echo down the hallways of the kitchens. Master İsfendiyar placed the silver coin in the cook’s hand with a flourish, and said, “Well, that’s that. Let’s hope it all ends well.”

  The mood in the Odalisques’ Kitchen became lighter. As the intermittent laughter continued, the morning call to prayer rang out from the Hagia Sophia.

  Silence descended u
pon the kitchen once more. The call meant that the payment ceremony would begin soon, as the members of the Imperial Council and the Janissaries would come to the palace following the morning prayers.

  Master İsfendiyar told the assistants, “Ready the trays and go out when I give the sign.”

  The assistants stood around the trays in twos, one to carry the tray and the other to distribute the plates. The cook, along with Master İsfendiyar and Master Bekir, left the kitchen and started heading toward the Tinsmiths’ Lodge lodgings on the other side of the Kitchens’ Passageway. They ascended to the second floor. There was only one good thing about the long, narrow lodgings which were shared by the tinsmiths and their apprentices, and that was the fact that they faced the Second Courtyard where the ceremony was to be held.

  They raised the thick curtain and looked out through the latticed window. There was no one in the courtyard yet. A light spring breeze was blowing, at times rustling the grass and the leaves on the trees. They waited quietly.

  After what seemed like a lifetime, they heard footsteps approaching from The Gate of Salutation. First, the two ceremonial battalions of the Janissaries slowly entered the courtyard. Their flat caps were decorated with long, snow-white tassels. Afterwards, the Chief Janissary’s imposing figure appeared by the gate, followed by the guild’s twelve highest-ranking officers. After the ceremonial troops and the troop aghas led by the Chief Janissary took their positions, foot soldiers began to fill the courtyard. Led by their commanders, the soldiers who came to the palace to represent their regiments entered the gate according to how many troops there were, and they lined up behind the troop aghas who were waiting single file across from the dome.