They used those things. Along with nard, bdellium and sumach. As Tiberius commented, this was no salt and fish-pickle fried snacks popina.
‘We can go to one of those on the way home,’ Iucundus consoled him. ‘If we are still peckish.’
Unlikely. At Fabulo’s we were in heaven. We could not tell what anything was but that is the aim of high-class Roman food. The large fish en croute was actually a fine mince of game bird, while the baked pastry in the form of a hare contained mixed shellfish. I decided not to try the squid-in-its-ink, in case the ink turned out to be the kind you write with.
Everything that could be turned into something tiny had been miniaturised. Much was sprinkled with roasted sesame seeds. The flavours were intense but if you liked something, you knew there would be no more of that, although the endless succession of new delicacies was almost overwhelming. A stream of slaves in matched uniforms carried our dishes, which they placed daintily on our private serving table, then Fudens, or occasionally Falaecus, described each platter at enormous length until everyone had forgotten everything he said. If we asked him again after sampling, Fudens could not understand our question.
If it was meat, we were even told the type of grass the beast had eaten. Tiberius said he was waiting to be told the garnish of mushrooms had grown in that beef’s own cowpat.
All vegetables were fresh, locally sourced, heritage varieties grown in selected fields by the finest producers who used traditional methods – that is, veg that had been carted in from the Roman Campagna in the normal way. However, if Fornax went and made his own selection in the Forum Holitorium, he certainly knew how to pick out a succulent pea pod.
Nothing else was local if it could be hauled from a far-off province. This meant when they gave us a single oyster each so we could (vainly) try to find a pearl, those oysters came not from the Lucrine Lake but the sea shoals at Rutupiae. Unfortunately for Fabulo’s, I was able to point out to my companions that any poor oyster that had been carried in a brine barrel all the way from Britain was, by definition, rather old.
We ate them anyway. And yes, Rutupian oysters are the best.
Wine was brought. We had asked to hear their list, which began with a surprisingly reasonable Sabine house red, which they called the wine of poets, though Tiberius reckoned that it was the wine of poets’ farm managers. Top whack was a hundred-year-old Caecuban; its price, matching its age, could only be designed to impress oligarchs who were brought here by diplomats trying for huge trade deals. Iucundus said presumably they hoped the oligarchs would pay.
Iucundus selected a Fundian from Campania, more modest, though from a select winery, a choice that the suave sommelier admired. He knew how to flatter his customers. A huge bronze vessel was brought to a side table ceremonially, so if we wished we could have our wine, or its water, or both, heated. A special herb boy offered each of us a selection of aromatic herbs, then mixed them to taste.
It was superb. We all drank more than we had intended. None of us felt it was too much. Tiberius, normally restrained, ordered more.
He had just smiled and said Fabulo’s really knew how to run an eatery when we saw pancakes being flambéed at another table by an under-chef. The flames leapt four feet high. I reckoned it was an accident, though the under-chef knew how to look blasé. By the time a bucket of water appeared, all was calm. Tiberius muttered that he might have to ask the local brigade to carry out a fire inspection; however, Iucundus replied not to bother because one of the party having those hot pancakes was the Prefect of Vigiles.
‘Is he out with his mistress?’ I giggled.
‘He has two.’ Iucundus squinted at the other party. ‘I believe I can spy both!’
Tiberius said he could see why I had told him Iucundus was such excellent value. Iucundus was delighted.
At our table we declined pancakes on safety grounds, ending instead with African honey apples and almond cakes. I was full by then, so asked for mine wrapped up to take home; I would give Dromo a special treat.
We were finishing our meal. Of course, it was the wrong time to embark on business, since we were by now far too merry. Still, business was the reason for coming. The next time Falaecus came to ask whether everything was well – which on this last occasion enabled him to slide the bill discreetly in front of the aedile – we broached it. Iucundus was insisting he would treat us as originally promised, so while he was doing the business with their bill-bunny, Tiberius murmured to Falaecus the purpose of our visit.
Normally I like to ask my own questions. Here, it might help to suggest this was an official inquiry. But we should have known better. Nothing would help. We hit the discretion wall.
Falaecus was supremely smooth. Protecting customers was an inflexible rule. Word of mouth in society kept Fabulo’s going, yet no member of staff would gossip. Hot news might be spread by other customers, or by diners themselves if they courted notoriety, but Fabulo’s kept mum.
Falaecus never denied that the young people had been here. That was a matter of record and he perfectly remembered them. He even recalled that Clodia Volumnia had arrived on her own, after the others were already eating. Names, he regretted, he was unable to give us. Cluvius had made the reservation, yes; the tight-lipped maître d’ could not say who else attended. I was hoping to hear what happened; he maintained no incidents occurred. The party enjoyed their dinner, everyone had a good time, they departed around midnight in their own transport, with minimum disruption.
‘Who paid for the meal?’ asked Tiberius drily.
Falaecus permitted himself a smile. He believed they shared the costs, for there had been a long heads-together after the bill was presented. Cluvius then settled up on behalf of the group. Despite the debate, he left a generous tip.
If anything had happened, this big tip was to ensure Falaecus kept quiet. Sadly, it worked. We did not argue.
Before we left, I asked if I might visit the kitchen to express our thanks to the head chef. Still unaware that I was the real investigator, the maître d’ agreed. Fornax would love to hear how much we had admired his food. Fundus would gladly escort me.
I left my companions ordering up manly digestifs. With tipples of sweet Lemnos white wine, they would be quite happy if I took my time.
34
The kitchen was the usual smoky den. Even the air seemed oily.
They had a long workbench that I could see was being constantly cleaned down, an oven fuelled through an exterior wall, more grit-bottomed mortars and flat baking trays than I had ever seen in one place. Their vat of garum (they let me peer into it) was pure, clear and virtually odourless, not the sludgy mess you find in cheap places. Meats and fish were kept fresh on cool marble. A boy spent his time wielding a fly whisk.
Fornax, though apron-wrapped, seemed to give orders to his sous-chefs more than cooking himself. He had a quiet manner, even when rebuking mistakes. I could see they responded with respect.
I praised our meal. He thanked me. He was modest, I was effusive, but I made it specific so he would know I was genuine: ‘I loved the way you sautéed cucumber with oregano. Can that delicate fish at the midpoint of our meal have been turbot? It is an old favourite of my parents, when they can get it, some nostalgia from their courting days. My mother’s recipe is with caraway sauce; I think she pinched it from a library set of Apicius.’
Fornax was more of an Archestratus follower: fish very simply cooked, so the natural flavour dominated.
‘You have a way with fish, we all noticed …’
I talked some more with him about his food philosophy and the way he ran his kitchen. I mentioned that the sought-after fashionable chef Genius recently provided our wedding feast. Fornax and I had a chuckle over how Genius never cooked anything these days, though he was expert at instructing his staff. (I did not mention that Genius started his career with my parents, who got rid of him because he was utterly hopeless.)
Fornax said there were hazards when you were high-end. The pressure was huge, the p
ace relentless, thanks minimal. The leading man had to be constantly on at his juniors, with no scope for using his own skills.
Fornax came from a family of cooks; his brother worked as a home cook to a respectable family. ‘I envy him. Apart from having to make Chicken Vardana a few times too often for the master – you know, the white sauce one – he gets a few challenges with visitors or invalids to keep him alert. Yet his life is gentle. He knows people are enjoying what he gives them. Sometimes I wish I could do that. Rustle up family meals, boil my own hams, tinker with sweetmeats … Not have to be called bloody Fornax, because that’s a female goddess.’
I said I knew a household on the Aventine where Fornax would be welcome by any name he chose. The master was a layered-cheesecake man. It was probably politeness, but Fornax looked as if he would think about it.
‘We’d love you to come …’ I gazed at the chef. ‘May I be honest now? Our party had a splendid meal. We shall all remember tonight for ever. But I must confess there was a reason why we originally came. Don’t be apprehensive: I just hoped that someone here would be able to remember another party who had a meal very recently, then one of those present unfortunately died.’
‘Why do you want to know?’
‘I have been asked to look into it, for the family of the deceased.’
I had done what was needed: Fornax by now liked me. With unhurried movements and a reserved expression, he unfastened his apron, used it to wipe the sweat from his brow, poured himself a modest drink, then told his juniors he was on his break. Carrying the beaker, he led me out through a narrow door at the back of the building.
Outside, black walls rose all round. You could raise your arms and easily touch either side of this alleyway, though with its sinister smells and shadows you would not try. If there were sounds you would jump back in terror. Rats lurked; I could sense them, watching us. It was the kind of Roman rubbish drop where you might find the body of someone who had been murdered.
Unaffected by this scary haunt, Fornax breathed the night air, letting the smoke of his kitchen leave his lungs. I tried to ensure my strappy sandals were not positioned in something I might regret later.
‘This is about the girlie who went home and died? It was not my food!’
‘No one ever suggested that, Fornax. Her mother told me she had eaten at home anyway before she came, so I expect she only picked. She wasn’t sophisticated enough to know what she was missing.’ None of her companions had had any bad after-effects from Fabulo’s. I was sure someone would have mentioned it, though I could double-check. ‘Were you aware of the party concerned?’
‘I am aware of everyone.’ It did not surprise me. A good chef observes who is in tonight, who orders what, how long they take over eating it, how much comes back to the kitchen.
‘Will you tell me?’
Fornax considered. He took one more measured drink of his wine, then, as far as he knew it, he told me.
The group had had an advance reservation. It was in the name of Cluvius, as I knew; his father had been given as surety. With young customers, that was Fabulo’s policy; they had been stung in the past.
Nine were booked; nine came. The main party turned up late. Fabulo’s was used to it, especially with socialites.
Most had been drinking already. They were noisy. They were crass. While not actually rude, they were offhand with the staff, who disliked serving them.
They spent a long time with the menu, occupying themselves in personal conversations despite hints from waiters, then ordered the fanciest dishes, with quite expensive wine. While they were deciding what to have, the original nine covers rose to ten when someone else arrived. Somebody’s sister, it was said.
I asked if this resulted in a squash. Apparently it made no difference. A triclinium set of couches could accommodate twelve or thirteen at a pinch.
‘But hadn’t the party’s booking been strictly confined to nine?’
‘Young socialites. Falaecus puts a cap on numbers.’
‘But Clodia was allowed in as well?’
‘She looked so young Falaecus relented.’
Anyway, there was room for her because members of this group often got up and wandered. They did not concentrate on dining, despite the food’s excellence. Much use was made of the lavatory, where the girls gathered to preen and the boys were constantly peeing because they had drunk so much. Some wandered about, as if making sure other diners noticed them. Also, Fornax said in a lower voice, Fabulo’s had a private nook for smooching lovers; this curtained boudoir was occupied at various times by couples from that dining party.
‘Boy/girl couples?’
‘I think so.’
At no point, as far as the chef was aware, did the young girl who had come on her own have any upset with any other member of the party. She seemed very quiet. The others never excluded her, they spoke to her, but she barely engaged with them.
‘No scene then? No ruckus?’
‘None. We would have asked them to leave.’
‘Thrown them out?’
‘No fuss. But we have to think about the other diners. If things became too noisy, Falaecus would have spoken to the group leader, Cluvius. I don’t know if he had to; it’s too routine to mention in the kitchen.’
The only thing Fornax could add regarding Clodia was this: she had too much to drink. Towards the end, Falaecus, smoothest and most watchful of monitors, tipped off his waiters to give Clodia double water when they served her wine. At that time, some boys in her party had started thinking it a game to encourage the young girl to keep downing more.
Why did that not surprise me?
‘Was she ill, Fornax? Did she throw up?’
‘No.’
‘Sure?’
‘We generally know. People who are taken bad have to be headed off, so they don’t roll into my kitchen.’
‘Did anyone try to prevent the boys’ pranks?’
‘Eventually. The girls were more sensible. One young man – perhaps her brother – said something to the rest, then they stopped.’
‘No, her brother is in a legion in Africa.’
‘I don’t know who it was then. The party broke up after that. I was summoned and the one called Cluvius expressed thanks on behalf of all of them.’
‘I bet that surprised you!’
‘Oh, he was showing off.’
‘Falaecus said Cluvius left a big gratuity. So they enjoyed it?’
‘Seemed to. Most of them guzzled like pigs at the trough. That kind of occasion is when I start dreaming I’ll give up and work privately!’
‘I told you – come to us! The little girl who overdrank was taken home?’
‘Falaecus kept an eye out. It looked all right. A couple of her friends were seeing to her.’
‘Did she go willingly?’
‘Oh, yes.’
I said it was clear to me that Fabulo’s was beyond reproach that night.
35
When I returned to Tiberius and Iucundus, they were munching the most exquisite salted dates. (They had saved me one.) Well into a classic after-dinner wine, the pair of them were busily scheming. Iucundus was going to buy Fabulo’s.
Juno, you can’t leave two men alone in a thermopolium temporarily without madness setting in. I knew our host had taken delight in the whole evening; even so, I never saw this coming.
Thank goodness, Tiberius was sober enough to remember he and I were in no financial position to become partners in any outrageous venture. He looked dangerously tempted. That was a problem with a meal as good as this. Suddenly I found myself married to a man who was intrigued by risk.
It seemed Iucundus, that dear fellow, had long harboured the dreadful dream that strikes so many sensible people; he wanted to own a restaurant. I told him my aunt ran a caupona and it was damned hard work for little profit. This fell on deaf ears.
He was serious. I felt responsible. After all, he had come here tonight to help me with my investigation. Iucundus pooh-poohed t
hat, declaring he might have visited Fabulo’s at any time but he owed this all to me. Even my father had never found him such a treasure. (Even Falco had more sense.) It was perfect. Iucundus had to have it. This was the best project in the world to bring him pleasure in his declining years.
I could see how it would be. He would come to Fabulo’s for dinner every night. He would be served quietly at his own table, never intrude on diners, yet be thrilled if anyone recognised him and came over to congratulate him. The staff would be respectful; well, they would adore him.
‘Who owns it now?’
‘A syndicate of retired olive magnates.’
‘Are they even looking to sell?’
‘They are ready to capitalise on their investment. Oil men are always up for a profit. I asked Falaecus about the current situation. I am coming back tomorrow morning so he can fetch them here and introduce me.’
‘Iucundus, do be careful! This could be the short route to bankruptcy. You may not know enough about eating-houses.’
‘Not a problem. I shall bring a surveyor, my contracts consultant and my banker. If I don’t have enough liquidity, your father can sell a few Greek pots for me, but that should not be necessary. Falaecus has told me the asking price.’
‘There is a price already?’ Even Tiberius was seeing cause for anxiety.
‘He whispered it. A word in my ear once he knew I was interested.’
‘So Fabulo’s is on the market?’
‘Not openly up for grabs, not as such. A price has been named because other people want to buy it.’
‘Who?’
‘Local business people.’
‘Which people?’
‘No idea. Several parties, possibly. I only know they are all very keen and at least one set may believe they have clinched the purchase.’
‘Is that a hindrance?’
‘Not to me,’ Iucundus assured us. We could see how this lovely man had come to be so rich. As an entrepreneur, he had no scruples. ‘I shall jump in first, apply pressure with a time constraint, so the owners don’t attempt to create a bidding war. Then I shall outprice all the opposition. Done it before. Trust me, you darling people, Fabulo’s will soon be mine.’
Pandora's Boy: Flavia Albia 6 (Falco: The New Generation) Page 19