The Chef's Apprentice: A Novel Read Free Page A

vicinity so I could listen to their conversation. Having lived by my wits on the street, eavesdropping seemed as natural as breathing, and every bit as necessary.
    Enrico said, “The book could have a formula for turning lead into gold.”
    “Boh.” Dante sounded mildly disappointed. “Alchemy is a myth. Anyway, the ones who want that book are already rich. No, it must have to do with manipulating people. Formulas for controlling minds or melting hearts.”
    “Melting hearts? You mean a love potion? Boh . What good is that?”
    Dante raised an authoritative finger. “A man will tell his deepest secrets to a woman who befuddles him with desire.” He nodded knowingly. “There’s no better spy than a temptress. A man in love is at a disadvantage.”
    Enrico thought this over, then said: “That’s true. To be besotted is to be vulnerable. But there must be more than a love potion. Otherwise, why would the old doge want the book? Maybe there’s a formula to prolong life.”
    “Forever?”
    “Who knows?”
    Dío mío . The idea of a love potion that I might share with Francesca left me cockeyed and bedeviled. Of all the spectacular secrets attributed to the fabled book, I believed a love potion would certainly be its most valuable.
    Everyone believed the book held whatever he or she wanted most. Francesca was the only thing I wanted, but other people wanted other things. Love, riches, and immortality—these were the lusts that would lead us into imbroglios of mistrust and disaster.
    The web of secrets began with the peasant’s murder, which I did not hesitate to report to the chef. He knew that I spied on the doge, and he approved. He felt it could be instructive for me to observe noble behavior and polite customs, particularly at the table. He always said, “Tell me how you eat, and I’ll tell you what you are.”
    For him, the preparation of food was a tool to illuminate the mysteries of life. I can still see him whisking a froth of egg whites in a copper bowl held in the crook of his arm. He hummed to the tinny rhythm of his stroke until the viscous slush transmuted into a mound of snow. “You see,” he said, waving his whisk like a wand, “magic!” He pointed the whisk at me. “Never forget, Luciano: Animals feed, but men dine.” He spread his meringue on a buttered parchment, saying, “That’s why we call men of refinement men of taste.”
    Under Chef Ferrero’s tutelage, I began to glimpse the value of refinement. Among other things, it seemed to lend a man the power to attract a certain type of woman, like the chef’s well-bred wife, Rosa. I was curious about women, but I’d never been with one because the street girls all demanded money for the tiniest of favors. Marco was as curious as I, but he pretended not to care. Marco, who was bitter about the mother who had abandoned him and kept his twin sister, often said, “Women, boh ! A necessary evil.”
    I didn’t think women were evil, just inaccessible. My beloved Francesca lived in a convent, cloistered and untouchable, and yet I clung to hope. Francesca had been relegated to the convent by circumstance, but I could tell by her brazen curiosity in the Rialto and the careless way she allowed strands of blond hair to escape her novice’s veil that she did not take her novitiate seriously. Indeed, I would soon discover that under her habit she was lush as a plum and saucy as sin. My youthful optimism allowed me to believe she would leave the convent and marry me if I could offer her a gentrified life.
    But my transformation from street urchin to prospective husband would take time. The gritty cunning of the streets was embedded in me. It showed in my furtive walk, my rough speech, and my wary eyes. Eager to become a gentleman worthy of Francesca’s notice, I observed palace life surreptitiously and cataloged my discoveries. On my weekly half day off, I entertained Marco and Domingo with pantomimes of the highborn. I dabbed the corners of my