Carême in Brighton — a mystery novel - 4. Chapter 4: Crossed Signals & Kitchiner’s Cabinet of Curiosities

 

 

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Chapter 4: Crossed Signals & Kitchiner’s Cabinet of Curiosities

 

Twenty-four hours after Carême and François had first set foot on the onion dome substructure, the chef was being rattled in a carriage alone. A foreigner in a foreign land, this was almost his first chance to see the City of Brighton since the day he had arrived at the Pavilion. He sat close to the window and drank in the sights.

At least the clearing skies of the previous night still held sway. What’s more, the westerly breeze pushing the clouds out to sea had brought warming temperatures.

Now perched on his coach seat, moving from the grittier streets of working-class Brighton to its genteel circles and squares of upscale townhomes, Carême regarded the warm evening almost as if that sacrosanct moment after a violent shudder. The body is suddenly flushed with warmth, no matter how fleeting the sensation.

This feeling was lost though, for rarely was celebrity far from attending Carême’s every move, and quite frankly, the chef was seldom, if ever, alone.

He sat back, letting his eyes tilt up to the cabin’s ceiling of black fabric, and tried not to worry. Who and what was this enigmatic ‘Doctor’ with enough clout to summon Carême away from the Royal marine villa for an evening; what did he want from the Frenchman; and what, if anything, could the chef glean for Talleyrand from this foray to a traditional English gentleman’s club?

The carriage turned a corner, and suddenly the vast expanse of a twilight sea was there. Its liberating brace of salt air was immediate, and the vehicle slowed as it promenaded along a grand oceanfront boulevard. Each building here was stand-alone, high in stone facades and balconies, and grand – very grand.

The coach pulled off the promenade, onto a driveway, and wound around to deliver Carême’s carriage door to the house’s main entry.

A footman in sombre clothes had appeared from within and was waiting. He opened the vehicle door, saying, “Good evening, Monsieur Carême. The Doctor is awaiting you.”

As this young man had gestured to the entrance, Carême began strolling that way, taking the time first to note every single window of this ‘Club’ was shut tight against the summer air – unlike the neighbouring houses, whose curtains flirted freely in and out. But not only that, each window of the Doctor’s was dark, and this only because white shutters inside the window frames were tightly buttoned up, blocking all light and sense of movement from escaping the premises.

As he walked, he tried to remember the last place he’d visited with this level of security from prying eyes. It would come to him, but for now―

The front door opened. Out stepped Doctor Kitchiner, his eyes beaming from behind his round spectacles.

“My dear Carême! A most hearty welcome.”

“Merci.”

“Won’t you step this way?” Kitchiner led by striding into a spacious-but-plain hall. As he closed the door behind the chef, he asked, “Was the carriage ride all right? No trouble, I take it.” He started walking down the hall, away from the street-side of the building.

“Trouble? No. In fact, it was very relaxing to see differing parts of the town.”

The pair had come to matching double doors; one on the right, one on the left, no doubt leading to the building’s front parlours. But both rooms were closed to view, and Kitchiner sailed right on past.

“Good; good,” the Doctor said. “One must step away from the Pavilion to grasp how remarkable a place it truly is. At least once in a while.”

This comment deserved a noncommittal smile, so the chef gave it.

Now they’d come to a second set of doors, this time, open. As the Doctor again walked past these, Carême slowed his pace a bit. He peered in, seeing men sitting at long worktables, poring over stacks and stacks of paperwork by lamplight. This was fishy to Carême, for of all the folklore he’d heard, none had suggested Englishmen went to ‘the club’ to work.

Nearing the terminus of the hall now, a staircase appeared around a corner, but before getting there, Kitchiner stopped next to a doorless frame. Behind it was a five-foot by five-foot windowless ‘room’. A lit lamp hung on the back wall.

The Doctor stepped in, motioning for Carême to follow. Kitchiner spoke into a brass mouthpiece. “Top floor, please.”

After an awkward pause and grin from the Doctor, Carême was jolted. The floor started moving – moving up. Despite his rigidly enforced sense of Gallic composure, the chef lashed out with both hands onto the walls. “Mon dieu!”

“You’re perfectly safe. Don’t you have lifts in France – American contraption – I should have explained.”

Carême relaxed a bit as he saw the shadow of the second floor give way to an open hallway matching the one they’d left below.

“You see, Chef, there’s a man stationed at geared pulleys in the cellar. You tell him what floor you want, and he cranks you up or down.”

The Doctor laughed good-naturedly as the hall of the third level came into view.

The vertical ride ended on floor five, not in a passageway like the lower levels, but a vestibule with a door on the opposite side.

Following the only way out, the pair once more were thrust into the twilight air, for they stood on a roof – or, at least the flat section of the Club’s roof.

Kitchiner showed the way again. “Up here, I can properly begin my tour. Follow me, if you will, please, Chef.”

Passing through another nondescript door, Carême was instantly hit by a warmer atmosphere. It was wetter and loamier too – the air of a greenhouse. For indeed, they’d entered the short side of an arbour hugging the length of the property. To the men’s left, the lower half of its 45-degree-angled roof was made of glass in wooden frames. Below this access to natural light grew an organized thicket of potted plants. Some vines sprawled on trellises and dropped bright ‘fruit’ of the most unappealing nature. In fact, to the chef’s culinary eye, all of these examples of greenery looked strikingly unfamiliar, and many, downright noxious. Perhaps medicinal was the better descriptor.

“For botanical analysis,” Kitchiner volunteered from out in front.

And that information corresponded to what Carême saw on the other long wall; for under this section of non-glass roof, a continuous counter ran at sitting height. On it, an occasional lamp was lit and low to define workstations. Where stools pulled up, the remains of the workers’ day lay scattered about: microscopes; botany books left open to particular illustrations; and sample herbarium cards with dried plant specimens sewn on.

Once he had arrived at the other narrow end of the space, Kitchiner paused his hand on the lever of a set of double doors.

When Carême got up to him, another enigmatic sparkle from the Doctor’s shaded eyes greeted the chef.

“And this,” said the man turning the door handle, “is my inner sanctum. Doctor Kitchiner’s Cabinet of Curiosities!”

It was an open penthouse, and Carême immediately assessed it was much like the greenhouse they’d just left, only bigger. In fact, much bigger. It was wider, taller and fronted the entire length of the building along the ocean-facing boulevard. The structural layout was the same: the half of roof sloping down from the right was covered with exposed wooden beams, while the rest to the eaves-line on the left was glass.

Under this section were raised platforms with handrails. Each level hosted a myriad of telescopes pointing up to the stars, and spyglasses on tripods looking over the sea.

There must have been a hundred or more in varying types, sizes and materials.

Passing a curtained area off to the right of where they’d entered, the long side of the room under the solid roof was organized in sections. In the middle of which rose a couple of steps up to a personal bibliothèque. Bookcases lined two walls up to the start of the roof timbers. The shelves were entirely full, and more so, neat stacks of books littered the floor in front of them. Carême mounted these steps, inviting himself to have a look-around. The centre of this elevated space was dominated by an immense library table. It was large enough for twelve to gather round and confer, and now sat strewn with maps and nautical charts. These doubtlessly pinpointed sundry ‘hot spots’ around the world.

Along the shallow end of this bookcase area, two further steps mounted up to a smaller platform, in the centre of which stood Kitchiner’s desk. The chef thought he’d have a peek, but his arm was stayed by the Doctor’s “Tut; tut – sensitive papers,” of which eagle-eyed Carême had indeed been intent to view.

From this elevated position, he noticed a piano down on the main floor. He went to this, picking up one of the half-finished compositions scattered atop its closed lid. The score Carême held in his hand was headed: “Bubble and Squeak, or, Fried Beef and Cabbage.” The presumable lyrics were scrawled above four bars of music:

 

“When ‘midst the frying pan, in accents savage,

The Beef rudely makes quarrel with the Cabbage . . . ”

 

 

The chef felt the composer’s presence over his shoulder, so he quipped, “Very clever to set the words and notes of beef and cabbage, but from my experience of English dishes, something is missing. You might have to resort to the Chinese pentatonic scale to accommodate:

 

P – O – T – A – T - O.”

 

The men chuckled.

Beyond the piano area – with its four chairs and music stands for impromptu quintets – Carême’s eyes drifted to the back of the room. From this distance, it was easy to discern two primary features: a large cooking hearth with its chimney going up and up, through the roof, and the rough-hewn but inviting kitchen table establishing the boundary of Kitchiner’s culinary domain from the remainder of the open penthouse.

As they approached this side of the room, the Doctor veered off to the area on the right-hand of the hearth. This part – bordered on one edge by the raised platform of the man’s desk – had a large Welsh dresser on the long wall, stocked and displaying enough pewter and china plates to feed two-dozen guests. In the corner beyond this hutch, next to and flued into the hearth chimney, resided a two-burner iron stove upon which sat a five-gallon pot with a spigot near the bottom. Shelves behind this stove contained a remarkable collection of herbs and spice containers, plus colourful but small bottles of liquid – most only half full, but – all tightly corked down.

“This,” the Doctor explained with evident pride, “is my sauce kitchen. It’s here I do experiments, seeking to invent the perfect steak sauce, vegetable sauce, and all-round utility condiment. Mark my words, dear Chef, one day every house in the Kingdom will have at least one bottle of ‘Doctor Kitchiner’s Paten’d Zest’ for immediate use. No more slaving over a pot when the chop is ready to eat.”

The master chef de cuisine was more than a little dubious.

As Kitchiner continued on with the tour, he sang out, “Ready-made, shelf-stable food is the future, my friend!”

Carême certainly hoped not.

As the chef was led past the hearth, he noted the classic design, complete with a pair of beehive ovens bricked into the back wall. Hanging from the generously sized mantle were an array of cooking implements, well-blackened from frequent use. And although no fire was lit this evening, off to the side, shiny-new tin meat screens and reflector ovens stood ready to roast choice cuts before an open flame.

Past the hearth, and set at a ninety degree angle to it, a brick range was evenly dented with six gridiron-topped depressions for charcoal cooking. Above them ran a copper hood to draw off the fumes.

Lastly, the Doctor moved around the range, and in the corner opposite the sauce kitchen was tucked a large desk. Again, shelves were mounted on the wall above the workstation, but this time they held lenses. For indeed, the desktop was devoted to optical grinding equipment. Various-sized crystal bars, whose triangular surfaces could be used to test for colour rendering accuracy, were outfitted in a leather case on the writing surface. Other sets of test lenses were there as well – one to confirm ultraviolet light protection, and another to gauge colour blindness correction – amongst others.

From here, Kitchiner turned and mounted steps up to his telescope platforms. Carême followed in wonder, for each level they continued to rise, the optical devices grew larger and larger. From this closer vantage, he could now see the skylight windows were all operable by chains and pulleys. Once open, the business ends of the telescope or spyglass could be thrust out into the unhindering air.

Upon the very top level was an absolutely enormous telescope – the largest Carême had ever seen, for certain – and by it, a small stepladder going through a hatch in the roof.

“This way, Chef.”

Carême followed, and soon both men were sitting comfortably on a platform overlooking the sea. The evening air, with the sun just now setting in the west, was warm and redolent of adventure.

 

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The same evening air greeting Carême and Kitchiner filled the Kitchen Court of the Pavilion.

François leaned on the wall, smoking a thin cigar, which had been gifted by James Keenan as he once again waited for his misses. Now the Keenans, in their ‘going home’ attire, kept the young Frenchman company as they shot the breeze.

“Say, anyway”―James was priming the barrel―“how much do you and your chum make peddling his uneaten dishes every week?”

François rolled the tight stogie between his fingers. That was none of the undercook’s business.

“It must be hauling you in a pretty penny.” James took a drag, the illuminated end of his cigar lighting up smiling eyes he never took off of François.

“The amount in the end,” replied the noncommittal maitre-d’, “can never properly reward the efforts Carême puts into his creations.”

The Irish couple exchanged glances, each daring the other to laugh in their colleague’s face.

“And where,” asked Audrey, “is the chef this evening? We’ve all seen the two of you thick as thieves, so why a night on your own – all of a sudden.”

“Carême was invited to supper by that – unique – Doctor Kitchiner.”

“Ah!” cried James. “Kitchiner, the eccentric; everybody’s heard of him, but few seem to know him.”

François found that information very interesting.

“Well”―Audrey dug in, her eyes now smiling as well―“no use feeling rejected―”

“Abandoned.”

“―By your, your mate, because you’re not as ‘upper crust’ as the good Doctor requires to visit his Club.”

“That’s right. Carême’s new gentleman friend may shut you out, but we won’t.”

François knew a ribbing when it came his way, but still the feelings of being rejected and lonely were real in him.

All of this was set aside, for coming from the Castle Square side of the Court was Charlotte’s young and pretty lady’s maid.

As Brigitte drew close, François stood like he wanted to talk to her, but the Frenchwoman eyed the Irish undercooks and began to untie her bonnet as she sailed indoors.

Realizing he was standing now, François felt self-conscious. He snubbed out the stogie, which he’d suddenly soured on, against the stone wall, and stowed the rest in his apron pocket.

He decided to rub their faces in it. “So far this week, we’ve made 8 Pounds and 10 Pence extra selling some of Carême’s dishes.”

The Keenans were stunned into silence. The quoted sum was equal to their weekly salaries, combined.

 

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At the same time, about a mile away, two very different people sat on a roof-top, engaging in conversation suitable for the setting. For one, they could hear the sea breaking as surf upon the sands of Brighton’s most hospitable beach, just across the wide boulevard and five stories down. But also, as the warm evening breeze blew on Kitchiner and Carême’s faces, the sun finally touched the western horizon, and the stars emerged before the moon could rise in the east.

“This is the first pleasant day I’ve seen here,” said Carême. “Even now at the start of August, the Pavilion housemaids keep busy lighting fires in the bed-rooms at four in the morning.”

“Well, at least Brighton is not alone. Such fires are being lit from Moscow to Boston, and back again to Glasgow. In fact, I suppose we are relatively warm here on the South Coast, for my correspondences in Scotland have recorded three inches of snow fell last month.”

“In July?”

“Yes.”

“Then, no doubt, the crops have failed.”

Kitchiner was serious. “Yes. Failed food staples from Naples to Saint Petersburg, and back to us. Only steam-heated grow-houses are producing.”

“Thank goodness His Highness’ greenhouses have kept me in operation.”

The Doctor removed his glasses to clean them. He slowly shook his head. “Nature periodically takes time to remind the human race how puny we are. Here, all the armies of Europe have paraded around for a twenty-year series of wars and slaughter – as if that mattered – when Nature could wage battle on us with instant destruction.” The spectacles went back on. “Are you, dear Chef, aware why 1816 will go down as ‘the year without a summer’?”

Carême puzzled. “You mean a direct cause?”

“Oh, yes, it’s all been due to one single, earthly event. Tambora.”

The chef felt awkward in his ignorance. “You will forgive me, but as a frontline cook, I have little time for the News of other―”

“Mount Tambora. In April of last year, she – this volcano in the Dutch East Indies – exploded. Violently, as Pliny the Younger recorded Mount Vesuvius did in 79 A.D. Tambora incinerated thousands of people on the instant she exploded, and sent a shockwave out in all directions. When it got to London, the sound was so great, it cracked windowpanes, and I, out in the street at the time, had to stop and cover my ears.”

“Ah, yes!” Light dawned in Carême. “François and I were working in my pastry shop and we heard it too. We thought an Allied bomb had gone off in the Place de la Concorde, mere blocks away.” Now Carême shook his head. “How difficult it is to imagine the power of a disaster three quarters of the way around the globe touching each of our lives materially.”

Kitchiner gestured across the sky. “Materially, yes, even now, because Tambora’s eruptions in 1815 sent a mountain-full of ash to the top strata of Earth’s clouds. The effects are still being felt as it comes down again to block sunlight and make it rain non-stop.”

Carême suddenly equated the natural disaster under discussion to the military disaster of Waterloo. That too had altered the political climate of the world with far-reaching effects for so many.

The chef once more decided to broach who Kitchiner was exactly to the Regent. “The last occasion we had a chance to discuss it, you told me you were but a loyal servant to George, but – if I may be allowed – I still believe there is more to the matter.”

Instead of shrugging it off, Kitchiner addressed the request for information head on. “Well, dear Carême, you might say I assist His Highness with more delicate matters.”

Like sweep-up boys accidentally poisoning Royal chamber maids; that much the chef already knew.

Carême lowered his voice. “Private ones?”

“Well, those—”

“Or matters of State?

The glasses came off again. “Both, as you have so sagaciously already assessed.”

“So, you are – comme ça – my official minder?”

“No; no!” His very vehemence belied the good Doctor’s objection. “You may merely consider me a friend of the Prince. One set with the task of ensuring your visit to England is an amiable one for all concerned.”

Carême accepted this for now. No doubt, more intelligence was required to form a complete picture.

The Doctor gestured over the sea. “You know, when important News is expected from Europe, I bring my spyglass up here to intercept the messages coming from Paris via the Signal Towers. Such a wonder of the modern age, when headlines from overseas capitals can arrive in a matter of hours, not weeks.”

“Yes, you mean le télégraphe, the system where coded light signals are passed from one relay tower to the next. A French invention, if I am not much mistaken . . . ?”

“Oh, yes – by Claude Chappe. A clever idea, for sure. And by intercepting the signals, my reports knew all about the results of the Congress of Vienna – and our New Europa – before any of the London papers did.”

Reports, Carême wondered. Reports to whom?

The Doctor continued at a merry clip. “Perhaps you can tell me: is it true that Talleyrand, when asked how in the Devil he was going to keep France from being carved up by the Allies, said ‘By bringing more casseroles!’”

Amused, Carême replied, “I would say that’s a bit of lazy translation.”

“How so?”

“Shortly before leaving for Vienna, Louis XVIII tired out the Grand Chamberlain with endless requirements. It was then Talleyrand quipped, ‘Sire, j’ai plus besoin de casseroles que d’instructions écrites.’ Meaning: ‘Sire, I have more need for saucepans than written instructions.’ He planned on wining and dining French liberty into the minds of the victors as the reason France must always exist as she is.”

Kitchiner chuckled. “Well, he succeeded. So, cheers to his princely saucepans!”

Carême smiled; he was beginning to like this eccentric-yet-gentlemanly man. He had style, which most people sacrifice for success, never knowing resistance to conformity was the first test of character they failed.

 

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Meanwhile, François was alone. The Irish couple had offered their ‘Good Nights’ a few minutes ago. So now the Frenchman moved up to one of the Kitchen Court’s pillars. He leaned against it, brooding on circumstances and the stars just beginning to appear.

Unbeknownst to him, Brigitte – minus bonnet and shawl, and fixing her hair in place – peered around the doorframe from the Pantries and Household Kitchen.

Once she saw François was alone, and ascertained there was no one behind her to witness and gossip, Brigitte stepped up to François’ side.

The man remained oblivious to her presence.

She cleared her throat. “A cloudless sky for a change.”

François’ startled reaction instantly displeased her. Brigitte had caught the withdrawn young man at a disadvantage, and disliked botching his opportunity to pursue her.

“Well, I . . . ” François stumbled over words. “Yes, it’s true.” He felt his own awkwardness belie the role he was meant to play. In another moment or two, his wits reassumed their pre-eminence. He re-leaned on his column, this time with arms folded and body positioned to face the lady’s maid. “A nice night for romance.”

Brigitte was not impressed. Through a bland grin, she replied, “Yes. I suppose.”

“It hasn’t been warm in so long – at night.”

“Yes,” she said, glancing back at her escape route. She followed up with more hair preening as she made to go. “Oh, là, là – the time. I must―”

François stopped her by taking her hand.

Now Brigitte forgot almost everything else.

He led her back to the more private position of leaning against the wall.

She protested much too weakly. “I really can’t stay long, as I have many things to prepare for our journey.”

“Which journey?”

“The Princess; she and Leopold will travel home to Claremont House in the morning. It’s near to London.” The young lady suddenly blushed. “It’s their – my – last night in Brighton.”

This raised a complex reaction in François. He too felt that time was ticking. “But your mistress doesn’t need you?”

“This evening, no.”

“And that Bosche, Leopold?”

She chuckled, revealing something of a shared dislike of the Prince Consort, at least as a matter of principle. “He? He is off this night to a casino, gambling – no doubt – with his wife’s income.”

François smiled. “Were you employed in Paris before you came here?”

“Oh, yes.” Her spirits brightened. “The centre of the world. I was companion maid to the Marquess de Cussy.”

François was impressed. She’d named a very noble French family, one as powerful under Napoleon as they had been under Louis XVI.

To the maitre-d’s eyes, the girl appeared the same age as François, meaning she too was a child of the Terror. And unrevealed to François’ perceptions was just how much Brigitte had suffered under Robespierre’s Regime, for her parents, as the head of their minor nobility family, had had their brains lopped off in the Place de la Concorde, like so many thousand others.

François sighed with gentle feeling. “I miss Paris, and her food.”

Brigitte’s soft spot had been found. She began gushing warmly, “Oh, how I miss Carême’s pastry shop just off the Place Vendôme. The puff pastry tea cakes with the whipped cream and strawberries were my favourite.”

“The puits d’amour.”

“Yes! Fountains of love – so delicious. The one with pastry cream and chopped pistachios, also very good.”

“Carême’s motivation for taking on a pastry shop was to bring knightly food to the masses. His were democratic reasons.”

“Let them eat brioche! Literally.”

François laughed. “That is exactly right. Like our best seller there – the large meringue stars. Carême was first to pipe them from a pastry bag with a fancy tip. The kind Marie-Antoinette got were much duller.”

“Oui? How so!” Her lower lip glossed over in an adorable pout.

“What she ate was plain – spooned and tapped down before baking. Like the buttons of macaron today.”

“How interesting. So we’re eating better than a queen.”

“Yes, but unfortunately, Carême just liquidated the business in June. During the retreat of the Grande Armée and the Allied occupation, the cost of getting flour and butter – good quality stuff – was much too much for him.”

“How sad! You mean La Paitisserie Carême is closed?”

“No; no. It’s still open, under the same name and using Carême’s recipes.”

Her hand fell upon François’ lower arm in relief. “Thank goodness. I need something to look forward to back home.”

“You have anyone special, back home?”

“Non. I do not.” She dared not ask him the same.

He placed his hand atop hers, returning to the pastry shop topic. “Carême would have kept the business, but he decided to focus on private cooking again. He needs to restore his finances and pay off the debts the shop carried – it’s the reason he accepted the Regent’s offer to come here.” His fingers moved up her arm to draw her a little closer. “Plus, Carême now has a family to support.”

“He does?”

“Yes; a de facto wife and daughter.”

For the life of her, Brigitte de Saint-Exupéry could not puzzle out why relaying this information made François appear so emotional. Then she thought it must be a general sentimentality in the handsome young man concerning building a family. This added dimension suddenly flooded her with attraction for the ‘sensitive’ man.

She said haltingly, as if revealing too much information, “The troubles and food crisis in Paris caused by Napoléon’s defeat and the Allies’ occupation – I know them too well. This is why I left France. So you see”―she kissed him, tenderly―“we are equal refugees to circumstances.”

She moved her upper thigh to brush against his crotch.

“I wish,” she said softly, “I could take you to my room in the women’s wing . . . . And it’s too bad tomorrow . . . . I will be―”

François took her hand. He led her calmly along the colonnade and into the Kitchen Stables. They found an empty stall with new-laid straw. Thus in the half-light, they pressed close, kissing wildly while she massaged his member through the fabric of his trousers. Eventually, he turned her to face the wall, lifted her skirts and rutted her. The closer and closer her pleasured grunts, and the feel of her enclosure’s response to his presence became, the more his tears fell unwitnessed behind her.

 

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Doctor Kitchiner led the way back down, this time choosing the oval staircase next to the lift. He chatted merrily the whole time, but Carême only replied when necessary, for in his mind, he was cataloguing all the observations he’d so far made of this ‘Club’ – this central base of Doctor Kitchiner’s operations.

At the building’s main floor – the one above the street level – Kitchiner quit the stairs and showed the way down a grand corridor. Carême knew it was the main level not only by the stucco and delicate paint colours, but by the ceiling height. The piano nobile of this structure was about sixteen feet high, creating a very noble sense of space indeed.

At this point, the chef’s jovial host glanced at this watch again. “The others are expecting us.”

“Others?”

But before the Doctor could reply, he did something unexpected. He pulled up in front of a door and paused. As this highly polished mahogany portal was still far from the front of the house – where, no doubt, the grandest state rooms overlooked the sea – Carême was surprised.

By way of cryptic response to the chef’s enquiry, Kitchiner lowered his head and pushed his glasses a bit higher along his nose. “Indeed.”

The Doctor opened the door and strode in. But Carême’s view remained blocked. In its place, other sensations vied for his attention, for compared to the hallway, this spacious salon was brightly lit. A central chandelier was draped with crystal swags and drew the chef’s interest to the ceiling. The room was square, and a reeded medallion fanned out in flawless plaster. Where the perimeter corners left pendentive spaces, a lovely pale-green background supported rondels of frolicking cupids.

Carême heard warm chatter and female laughter. Then the chef was stopped cold in his tracks; he couldn’t believe his eyes. At a round table sat the Prince Regent. A lovely lady was seated at his right, while to his left was Princess Charlotte and Lady Morgan. The members of the party were in mid-conversation, and as cozy as could be imagined.

Just at that moment, a matronly woman with a large tureen bundled in through another door; a swing-door from some hidden servant access point. She was all smiles and greeted each of the seated guests as family.

The woman set the soup by the left of one of two empty chairs. Kitchiner called out, “Dear Carême, I’d like you to meet Mrs. Elizabeth Lister. She is my good gal Friday, the most in-demand caterer in London, and an advisor to me on all things cookery. And – a dear friend.”

She made a dim show of protest, but drank in every syllable of praise.

“Mrs. Lister,” the Doctor continued, “may I present Antonin Carême, chef de cuisine to His Highness’ kitchens, Brighton.”

“Enchantée, Madame.” Carême bowed slightly.

To the sight of which, Lister picked up the hem of her apron and curtsied with a slight giggle. “The pleasure is all mine, Monsewer.”

Then her attention turned to the Doctor. “Now, sit. The Mullagatawny's getting cold.”

As the two new-arrivers took their places, Mrs. Lister exited the scene to attend to the next menu item.

To Carême’s pleasant surprise, he realized there were no servants in the room, and Kitchiner himself unlidded the tureen. The man gestured for Princess Charlotte’s soup bowl. It passed from Lady Morgan to the Regent’s hands, then to his companion’s and on to the Doctor’s. He ladled in a portion, and back the filled dish went to its owner.

Motioning for the bowl of the Irish novelist, Kitchiner said, “I believe, Chef, you know everyone here, except perhaps Mrs. Fitzherbert.”

“Maria Anne Fitzherbert,” the lady supplied her full name.

Carême smiled and nodded at the attractive woman across from him. “Enchantée, Madame.”

“Likewise,” she replied most politely.

To the chef’s eyes, this un-titled lady was in her 50s, but vigorous and natural in youthful energy. Her abundant ashen hair was tastefully tied up by a wide blue ribbon. She wore a gown suitable for an informal supper, for the cut was Classical – a scooped neckline – yet up-to-date – with balloon sleeves to encase her upper arms – and in a luxe French silk with the most charming field flowers embroidered on it. Upon the creamy expanse of her ample bosom sat a large diamond-wreathed portrait of the Prince.

The Regent suddenly interjected: “Call her Fitzy; I know I do!”

Princess Charlotte laughed and laughed at this, passing her filled soup bowl to Carême, via Sydney Morgan.

It seemed this night of surprises would keep on giving, for although ‘Fitzy’ had been mentioned in a dossier on the Regent given him to read by Talleyrand, the report said the Prince and his lover from the 1780s had split long ago. Now the chef speculated news of the break-up could have been merely official, and of the type of counterintelligence someone like Kitchiner was in a position to disseminate.

The good Doctor’s head turned back as he spoke to the Prince. “Would you kindly play Mum and do the honours?”

“Certainly.” The Regent stood, went to the sideboard and picked up a white Bordeaux. “The Haut-Brion to start with, Kitchiner?”

“Yes. That would be excellent.”

And so, George Augustus, ruler of the British Empire, uncorked and dutifully filled everyone’s wine glass.

Not knowing exactly what to think, other than believing neither Empereur Bonaparte nor King Louis XVIII could be conceived of doing this, Carême took solace in appreciating the wine chosen was among the best of France. At least he was amongst connoisseurs.

As he rounded the table with the bottle, George indulged in idle chatter. “It’s a hinderance on our Age that the wine glasses are so small. We need more than a single-shot size so there’s more privacy at table. Here you go, Fitzy. As it is, damn footmen constantly hover over one’s shoulder just to top off a glass.”

Carême agreed, as he always wanted guests to relax and feel at one with one another, free from the ever-present ‘downstairs’ ears eavesdropping.

“All right, then”―the Prince plopped the bottle hard on the tablecloth―“just let us keep the wine within reach and serve each other!”

Although crudely stated, Carême could again see George’s logic concerning keeping the bottle on the table. Maybe someday this would be standard procedure.

The lid went back on the tureen; everyone had a full bowl of soup and a full glass of wine. “Mrs. Fitzherbert,” said the Doctor amiably, “Might you be willing to offer the toast?”

The lady stood with her wine. “To good food, good conversation, and His Royal Highness.”

“Cheers” went round the room as George helped his helpmate retake her seat.

“Let’s eat!” Kitchiner said with a spoon already in his hand. “The Mullagatawny is perfect for the season.”

Before Carême took his first taste, Lady Morgan smiled and drew some of the room’s rapt attention away from him. “My husband, Princess Charlotte, informed me you are leaving Brighton?”

“Oh, yes. I am not fond of the travelling rot, but in the morning, we’ll start out for home.” She ate soup, and then glanced at her father. “It’s been a wonderful stay, as always, excepting – of course – the revolting weather.” Her attire was again overly youthful and gewgawed. Her yellow hair was forced into an ‘up’ positioning it never seemed to get accustomed to, and pinned in front with a diamond brooch of three Prince of Wales feathers.

“Well, with any luck,” added Mrs. Fitzherbert, “Today’s clear skies will follow you all the way back to Surrey.”

The Princess snorted. “Bestial weather. So un-English in its nature.”

The twenty-year-old’s logic evaded everyone.

Lady Morgan was brave. “How so, Your Highness?”

She downed another spoonful before laughing. “It doesn’t play fair!”

In the meantime, Carême’s palate had adjusted to what he was eating. Only the excess of cayenne pepper perturbed his artistic―

“So tell me, Chef”―the Princess’ attentiveness turned full-bore on him―“what is your opinion of English food, in general?”

“Oh, Charlotte,” Fitzy tried interjecting, “let the poor man eat.”

“No; no,” insisted the Princess, “it’s something simply everyone is dying to know.”

Carême mustered his considerable Byronesque charm and replied, “Everything I’ve been served, Your Highness, has been constituted of the freshest ingredients, and handled in simple yet deft ways to bring out that natural flavour.” He smiled upon his host. “And tonight’s soup is no exception.” The Frenchman diplomatically left the bit about the over-seasoning unmentioned. He didn’t have to spoil the meal.

“Oh, Carême,” cooed the Regent’s mate, “that’s wonderfully well put.”

“Hear; hear,” echoed George, drinking some wine. “A man of taste.”

“Speaking of our cuisine and the sup of supper, Chef Carême, have you yet had real English turtle soup? The kind best served with a glass of sherry on the side.” Kitchiner had polished off his curried first course and was dabbing his chin with a napkin. “For all intents and purposes, it’s our national dish.”

Carême shook his head. “I don’t believe that I have.”

“In that case, I’ll ask Mrs. Lister to copy out our procedure for you. You will find it’s well worth trying.”

Carême took another spoonful. “Give it to François to test out.”

Deflated, the good Doctor’s voice lowered. “As you wish.”

By way of reviving brighter spirits, Mrs. Fitzherbert leaned in and gushed a bit. “You may not know, Lady Morgan, but I am an enthusiastic reader of all your novels.”

“Why, thank you. You do me a great honour.”

“Oh, I have been your admirer ever since The Wild Irish Girl came out. In it, you portray such a sensitive and beautiful unfolding of Irish culture and history.”

“Well, I’ve found so many youth in Ireland today are removed from knowing much about their past, so I thought it’s best to ‘preach it’ as gently as I can in my fiction.”

“It works marvellously well. It is, if I may say so, effective because it unfolds as part of the entertainment.”

The Regent interrupted. “Chef, how long have you known Lady Morgan?”

After a pause, in deference to Fitzherbert, he replied, “Oh, several years.” Then to Morgan, he asked, “When was it you and your husband first came to Paris?”

The lady giggled. “Not to betray my age, but 1810 – but we were, yet to be married then.” The Irish author blushed most becomingly.

“We had wonderful and useful adventures then.”

To Carême’s open and honest words, Doctor Kitchiner and Prince George exchanged a significant look. Perhaps it was akin to a voiceless ‘now we are getting someplace.’

But just then, Elizabeth Lister backed through the service door with a large platter and a silver basket of rolls. Her arrival set many in the room to action, for Kitchiner got up and took the empty tureen to the sideboard; Fitzherbert rose and collected the empty soup bowls; and George groaned to his feet to see about the wine.

A beaming Mrs. Lister set her food on the table, again to the host’s left for serving, and Carême saw the platter featured not a poached fish, or a roast joint of meat, but a large salad. The central mound of fresh greens was everywhere surrounded by neat piles of other ingredients: dressed cucumber slices; shredded carrots; sliced radishes; rounds of red onion slices; blanched French beans; chopped gherkins; whole cooked sprats. The dish was garnished with watercress, nasturtium flowers and quartered lemons here and there. The aroma was simply wonderful.

“Ah,” the Doctor said, joining Mrs. Lister with a hand across her shoulder. “The Salamagundy! It looks momentous.”

“Oh, I forgot the dressing and butter for the bread.” The caterer trailed off once more.

But unperturbed, the evening’s host remained on his feet and began fixing miniature examples of the platter’s arrangements on a stack of salad plates he had standing by.

The Regent asked from the sideboard, “What do you think, Chef. How about a Côteaux du Roy René for the salad?”

“Most excellent, Your Highness.”

While the Prince uncorked and began filling new glasses on the table with the rosé, Elizabeth Lister re-appeared and discreetly placed a sauce tureen of the salad dressing and a dish of butter on either end of the table before quietly quitting the room once more.

To his delight, Carême immediately smelled fresh chervil.

“The traditional dressing for the Salamagundy is a melted butter-water, or what the Italians call a bagna càuda.”

When the Prince poured his wine, Carême asked, “Your gout seems to be improving, Your Highness.”

“Ah! Blame Kitchiner for getting me up and on my feet. He’s prescribed me something new – charcoal pills. How he figures these things out, I shall never know. But I shan’t wait to know what I’d do without him.” The man smiled.

By the time George was re-seated, everyone had a salad plate before them and could eat. The basket of bread and dish of butter circled the table in opposite directions. Once these two had settled again, His Highness picked up his fork and started eating. The rest, with hungry eyes, followed suit.

“Our dear Mrs. Lister,” the Doctor was saying to the chef, “is a direct descendant of the famous Lister; the Dutch researcher and M.D., equally famous for his microscope, being personal physician to King William III, and his book.”

Carême asked, “Book?”

And Princess Charlotte blurted, “Related by marriage?”

To address the lady first, Kitchiner disabused her of the notion. “No, Your Highness. She’s a direct descendant of Lister’s.” And then to the chef he answered, “His amended and annotated version of the Ancient Roman cookery book known as ‘Apicius’.”

“Ah!” The Frenchman nodded recognition. He’d seen editions of this rare Classical artifact in the French National Library. However, the Princess was not done.

“Direct?” she asked, astounded. “Then how on earth can she be a Missus, Doctor Kitchiner?”

“Simple, my good Lady: Elizabeth Lister, caterer extraordinaire, has never been married, but as a presumed ‘widow,’ it’s far easier for a woman of business like her to advance her vocational goals. So, professionally, she’s known as Mrs. Lister.”

Charlotte guffawed. “How strange. I must be naïve concerning the lengths some women will go to―”

“For a woman of talent and ambition,” interjected Lady Morgan pointedly, “a slight ruse – or a slight withholding of fact – can benefit her tremendously.”

The Princess sighed, picking up her fork. “I suppose.” She poked some of her vegetables with a frown. “I’m glad I can be me.”

After a pause of just eating, Doctor Kitchiner re-grasped the thread of his conversation with Carême.

“King William was much taken with Lister’s Apicius, and in fact wrote a book about it.”

“The King, Monsieur?”

“Yes. It’s a charming tome of the type known over here as a table-talk book – full of stories, food lore, and sometimes, recipes. This evening’s Salamagundy is from King William’s book!”

“Remarkable,” chimed Mrs. Fitzherbert. “This is food people ate a hundred years ago?”

“Yes. Exactly so.”

“It’s so light and delicious.”

“I agree, Madame.” The good Doctor proudly pushed his glasses up. “Good food has no expiration date – at least not the preparations that make good food.”

“Is the salad to your liking?” Lady Morgan asked gently of Carême.

“Very much so, Madame. It is, as Mrs. Fitzherbert says, light and fresh; perfectly of the season.”

The Regent was up again, re-filling wine glasses.

“I’m so pleased you think so,” said Kitchiner. “Tonight’s little gathering might be considered a tasting panel. Mrs. Lister and I chair our official ‘Committee of Taste’ in London.”

“For what purpose, Kitchiner?” enquired the Regent.

The Doctor beamed with pride. “We are going to publish our findings in book form. It will contain tips on running a household, present various victual preparations – properly instructed – and contain a good deal of personal food-culture observations and philosophy of my own. The Committee is to test each recipe for taste and technique before it is included.”

Carême nodded his approval. “A modern approach. Very commendable.” The chef noticed Princess Charlotte was evidently not fond of vegetables. She’d hardly done more than move her fork about, looking bored, and in the end, only nibbled on a couple of the less offensive legumes.

“It’s one thing I admire,” the Doctor continued brightly. “The French treasuring of your culinary past. Why, anyone who’s studied over there will know Taillevent’s book – the Taillevent chef-knight buried ‘neath a stone with sword and cooking pots carved on it. And everyone there learning their craft studies Pierre la Varenne’s first truly modern cookbook of the 1650s.”

By this time, Carême had watched as Princess Charlotte completely abandoned her salad. Instead, she split a roll in two, slathered extra portions of butter on both sides, and then paused with a scowl. Her survey of the dining table had not returned the presence of a sugar bowl. She ate her roll sullenly.

“Well, Doctor”―the chef restored his attention to his host―“Varenne is good to study for background knowledge, but he was not as good a chef as Vincent la Chapelle.”

The Doctor radiated good cheer. “I agree whole-heartedly. His Modern Cook from the 1730s is unparalleled.” He turned quizzical. “Do you, Chef, know his preparation for mackerel―”

“Smoked in fennel fronds and served with a velouté of . . . of – comment c’est, les groseilles à maquereau―”

“Gooseberries! Yes. That is one of my favourite dishes; it is so straightforward and delicious.”

Carême – a professional trained for years in the art of not being taken aback by anything – was wholly amazed. He’d hardly imagined an eccentric English dilettante and he would find overlap in the veneration of a cook long gone, but he had. Unused to the feeling admiration for a contemporary, as it was, Carême now looked upon Kitchiner as someone to be respected – a man of learning and discernment.

“And in London, a publisher has bought the rights to publish a translation of Beauvilliers’ Art Cuisinier. It will cause a sensation when it comes out—”

“Cooks do go on about their books . . . ” Kitchiner’s enthusiasm was cut off by the Prince Regent.

“Beauvilliers, who?” asked Mrs. Fitzherbert.

Carême replied. “One of Napoléon’s finest and longest-serving chefs. His book – his life’s work – appeared in 1814, sadly, only shortly before he died of chef’s lung.”

“What’s that,” Charlotte enquired with wide eyes.

The Doctor provided a medical explanation. “A slow poisoning through constant CO inhalation. Carbon monoxide – it gets in the blood instead of oxygen.”

“Yes,” affirmed Carême. “Most chefs do not escape it and live to old age. I’m to be no exception.”

In his mind, the urgency of writing his own legacy livre de cuisine – a great one to put all those come before to shame – pressed his consciousness. In the urgency too was the inner physical weakness he could sometimes feel. His clock was ticking.

A tactful acknowledgement, via a wave of pity, circled the table for the great artist among them, but this charge of human connection passed by the Prince unnoted.

“You know, Carême, old boy, I collect memorabilia surrounding your former emperor.” George drained his wine glass, adding with a lip-smack, “In fact I have Napoleon’s table from Fontainebleau – the one on which he signed his surrender – back in my toilet room at the Pavilion. I’ll show it to you sometime.”

In rote acknowledgement of his royal employer’s favour, Carême bowed his head slightly. “As you wish, Your Highness.”

While the Regent had been off on his self-admiring tangent, Lady Morgan stood and re-filled the glasses. She remained standing and offered a toast.

“Please raise your glass and drink: Long life to Carême, and to a bookcase full to the brim with his books.”

“Hear; hear,” went ‘round the room.

Mrs. Lister arrived, and Lady Morgan helped her gather plates and remove the Salamagundy platter.

At the same time, the evening’s sommelier spoke to Carême from the sideboard, where he was fiddling with something. “You’re not one to imbibe much of the wine, are you, Chef?”

Carême rarely found himself in situations where he let himself go. “No, Your Highness. It’s a lesson I learned from Talleyrand. He said, ‘If you make it through a meal on one glass, you will have come far’.”

The ladies laughed, including Lister, who was placing a very large compote on the table by the Doctor’s plate.

Suddenly, George’s arm moved, and there was a pop from a champagne bottle in his hand. “What, if anything, does the Prince de Talleyrand say about the bubbly?”

“Ah”―Carême smiled―“that he says you take, swirl, smell, set down again and enjoy through discussion!”

In the meantime, Lady Morgan had been playing Mum and dishing out the dessert. Carême was unprepared to see the blob placed before him.

He asked the Doctor, very much not knowing, “What is this?”

“It’s the new dessert sensation sweeping London at the moment: ‘A Trifle’!”

Carême looked once more, but all he could make out was an amalgamation of some manner of cake, red jelly of a sort, crème anglaise, and a mound of whipped cream on top. The one thing he for sure recognized was the most offensive – a scattering of variously coloured candy sprinkles.

Kitchiner sat down and explained. “A summer dessert of sponge biscuits soaked in maraschino brandy―”

“My favourite!” the Regent interjected like a schoolboy.

“―Topped with red currant jelly, custard and whipped cream.”

Taking up his spoon, Europe’s highest paid chef tried it and decided it tasted like it looked. But to his surprise, when he glanced up, no one was searching his features for an opinion. Instead, while they were eating their desserts, a table of contented faces surrounded him, especially that of the young Princess. This brought a moment of happiness. “You know, I’m thoroughly charmed. This supper reminds me of ones so common in France before the Revolution.”

Feeling the mood turn slightly dark due to the mention of the French troubles, and indirectly, its bloodshed, Princess Charlotte asked, “And what fate was decided for that kitchen sweep-up boy?”

The Regent, rather cavalierly with spoon in hand, replied, “Thanks to Carême’s quick action, and the Doctor’s expert tending, he was nursed to stable condition in the Pavilion, and then rushed through a secret court proceeding here in Brighton, convicted and Transported to Australia.”

The women were taken aback. Almost as if in one voice, they murmured: “Poor lad.”

Kitchiner, clearer of head, explained it to the gathering. “It was the best possible outcome. He killed a girl, not meaning to, but killed her. In a public trial, the judge would be obliged to set the boy as an example for all Royal Household staff members and hang him. But now, once Jack Hartell arrives in Australia, he’ll be released on his own recognizance. He can start over again.”

Mrs. Fitzherbert shook her head. “Over, maybe, but with no money or family to fall back on―”

The Prince Regent gently laid down the law. “Fitzy, dear, as Kitchiner said, it was all for the best. There is no need to scandalize the Pavilion over the antics of a seventeen-year-old girl, and a fifteen-year-old boy.”

“No; quite right.” Princess Charlotte was in complete agreement, and on her second bowl of Trifle.

From there, the party ate on in moody silence, not knowing the rain had started once more outside. As for the greatest chef in Europe, he tried a second spoonful and decided the confetti candy on top was actually properly placed after all. For this was a dessert best served to children – and served in the Nursery – out of sight.

Kitchiner, perhaps partially reading his mind, asked Carême, “Have you ever heard of baked fruit Charlottes, Chef? Apple Charlotte is the best known.”

“No, Doctor Kitchiner, I can’t say that I have.”

“When the apples come in, I will bake you one.” He smiled across the table. “After all, it was invented at Buckingham House, in honour of Princess Charlotte’s Grand ma-ma.”

“Oh, Doctor,” the Princess cried, “you’re a dear!”

As the rain began to pound in earnest outside, Kitchiner rose within the room’s warmth to propose a toast.

 

“The Pleasures of the Table, dear friends, are of

all Ages, of all Countries – and in spite of any Stoic’s words –

reward all equally well with Community of Spirit.

Raise your glass, and say with me: ‘Yes, a thousand times;

A thousand years, yes! To good food and good company.”

 

 

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