Carême in Brighton — a mystery novel - 16. Chapter 15: “Dinner is Served” & Call for Kitchiner!

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Chapter 15: “Dinner is Served” & Call for Kitchiner!

The Banqueting Room was fully lit.

The natural source provided bright spring sunlight to pour through Nash’s ingenious stained glass clerestory windows. Positioned thirty-five feet above the floor level, they cast sparkle and tessellated squares of colour down on the table.

A cathedral to cuisine is what Carême thought as he admired the room’s artificial sources of illumination as well. Nearly countless gas flames burned behind the frosted panes of this hall’s chandeliers, torchieres and great central crystal Gasolier.

Carême slowly paced along, in the silence before the storm, examining every detail. The guests, including the Prince and Grand Duke, were detained on the other side of the closed doors from the Central Corridor and South Drawing Room. No one would get in until the chef de cuisine was satisfied with the presentation of his meal.

And what a meal!

The forty entrees of the fully-set First Table were arranged per the chef’s vision – in casual precision. There was no over-crowding, and yet everything remained in easy reach for the diners to pick up and serve their neighbours. But precision too in the arrangements, for a ‘tall’ quenelles de volaille en turban – dumplings of chicken meat served mounded in a ring – were matched pleasantly with a similar-height stand on the other side of the table of quenelles de volaille à l’italienne – stacked artichoke hearts, filled and toasted with tomato sauce and parmesan. ‘Low’ dishes, like the deep-fried lamb nuggets served on aubergine slices, or the hash of roast pheasant with poached quail eggs, were likewise equally placed in complementary positions. Everywhere a guest turned, a new delight and pleasing arrangement would be awaiting their attention. This artistry of composition spoke of Carême’s Classical mind, even if he himself had to be the one acknowledging it.

Down the centre of the fifty-foot-long table, the eight centrepiece roasts Thomas had prepared glowed spectacularly in the cast light from the gilded candelabra they rested between. The First Grade silver finials of the decorative skewers shone like jewels.

In contrast, the eight pièces de résistance were on the sideboards, set apart as the edible works of art they were for guests to admire before they sat down. They would be moved to the table itself, to replace the grosses pièces roasts, when the second course was set.

Admiring it all, the chef felt a fleeting pang; it was unfortunate Lady Morgan could not be to see this, as she was an ardent admirer of his work. Personal thoughts led him back to young Master Daniels, and how the undercook had pulled him into the unoccupied Pastry Kitchen two hours ago to tell him how much François hated the boy. With the Regent’s secretary, the Kitchen Comptroller and François, Thomas felt he was being surrounded for assault. Carême soothed him the best he could, first reminding the young man that each of the three he named were really angry with Carême and not Thomas personally; and second, he assured him Thomas’ completed centrepiece roasts today would show all the naysayers in the Pavilion the young cook was a force to be reckoned with. After parting – after a brief kiss – Carême had been left alone to contemplate that such tensions as the young man was now navigating always arise in large kitchens. François’ actions practically illustrated the frictions felt between the up-and-coming and the up-and-come. Prosaically, the chef regarded the situation between François and Thomas as nothing truly serious. Although, interpersonally – thanks to the cupid in Doctor Kitchiner’s nature – the chef found himself in a more emotionally complex situation than he could have anticipated.

He stopped; one wine glass was a fraction of an inch too close to the plate of a place setting, so he gently pushed it back along the table, careful only to lightly touch the foot of the tumbler where his fingerprints would not show. He also adjusted the carte de menu on this plate; each place setting had one, along with the dignitary’s name who’d sit there.

With that, he passed around the narrow end of the table and began working his way up the other long side. But everything his eyes encountered seemed perfect.

This was Carême’s own moment to savour his work. To acknowledge the spectacle of it all. While he cast his gaze over the table and its arrangements, he considered how every monarch in History had only dreamed of hosting a banquet as flawless as this one. But, despite the crowned heads of eons numbering well into the thousands, each one of their foodfare dreams had fallen short, for Carême was the only Carême ever born, even if he had to say so himself.

As a last glance to seal his memory of this moment, he crossed over to the centre sideboard. There rested his sugar work model of John Nash’s onion dome and Salon colonnade. He bent down to see his own innovative little lamp light up the sugar-pane windows from the inside. He felt he could have made the Pavilion’s architect jealous; and why not. Carême was an architect of fancy worth every jot of praise Mr. Nash regularly received.

The chef stood upright. He nodded at the waiting footmen to let the guests see for themselves. Once done, he humbly made his way back to the kitchens.

His internal clock was ticking. Carême knew he had about fifteen minutes before the guests had finished admiring the table and sideboards, found their seats and settled down.

In the Great Kitchen, he strode around the massive steaming table, seeing the eight tureens were warming to be filled, lidded and set on silver platters to go out hot. Hot was key, as there was something to suit every possible taste – a consommé of capon; a bisque of crayfish; a potage of partridge; and five others, including a Russian-style broth with pearl barley cooked in kvass, the russe version of un-hopped English ale. The fun was in having the guests break the ice at the table and ask their neighbours to pass down their bowl to have it filled with the soup they most fancied to try. In the chef’s food world, hot soup was essential.

Carême glanced at the clock. He nodded, and undercooks began taking their soup pots from the range over to their designated tureen.

One of these vessels was special; while the others were democratically alike, this one was larger and featured an oversized painted set of the Prince of Wales feathers. François appeared to the chef’s side with his pot of soup. This tureen was to be placed by George’s side so he could personally fill the Grand Duke’s bowl.

The filled tureens were covered one by one, for once the Prince gave the signal from the dining room that everyone was ready, the soups would go out immediately.

Suddenly Thomas Daniels was next to the chef. He spoke low into Carême’s war. “There’s something you have to see.”

François noticed the boy pulling Carême away. “Chef . . . ?”

“Keep going, Villon. I’ll be right back.”

Thomas led his master into the Service Corridor, and then through the door of the Household Kitchen. Here, several of the uniformed musicians who would play later tonight at the ball sat having tea while they flirted and chatted with the maids.

Thomas led the way out of this room at the other end, past the pantry and storage rooms, and out to the day-lit Kitchen Courtyard.

More of the musicians were here, standing around in a tight circle, gaping at something in the centre of the court.

The chef and Thomas pushed their way through. Carême saw several dead cats. They were ghastly – stiff, with contorted limbs, grimacing leers, petrified in death with open-eyed faces. They had succumbed through horribly pain-racked convulsions, and then the chef saw ‘it’ – the reason, for a gnawed turtle shell laid in the middle of them. The same turtle whose meat had gone into François’ soup—

The chef panicked, and then bolted, but instead of retreating the crowded way they’d come, Carême ran along the covered passage that dog-legged around the Kitchen Stables, the flank of the Great Kitchen, and led straight to the Decking Room.

Quickly out of breath, and feeling his legs would give out for lack of oxygen, Carême burst through the glass doors just in time to intercept the Prince’s soup tureen. It was the last one, and going through the door to the Banqueting Room.

Carême grabbed the arm of the footman, gasping, “Back to the kitchen with that.”

The footman obeyed, although with a confused scowl on his face, and Carême followed. He told the man, “Take that straight to the sink and pour it down.”

“Yes, Chef.”

In the Great Kitchen, Carême was first occupied with finding another tureen. He told the appropriate undercook, “Fill that with the barley soup and see it’s served immediately to the Prince Regent.”

“Yes, Chef.”

Carême had yet to think of François, and then suddenly his partner was standing in front of him. The man was trying to speak, but couldn’t. Then François’ eyes glazed and rolled back in his head. Spittle turned to foaming at the corners of his mouth, and the man’s legs gave out under him.

Thomas appeared.

Carême dropped to his knees, reaching out for François, but the maitre-d’ began convulsing on the floor, violently.

“Mon dieu,” Carême cried. Then he shouted at Thomas, “Call for Kitchiner!”

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