“A little song.”
“I know what a ditty is! But under what authority are you whistling one? Eh? Has the Central Committee made you Commissar of Ditty Whistling? Is that the Grand Order of Dittyness I see pinned to your chest?”
Without looking down, Emile slams his chopper to the counter, splitting a lamb chop from its rack as if he were severing the melody from Stanislav’s memory once and for all. The chef raises his chopper again and points its tip, but before he can elaborate, that door which separates Emile’s kitchen from the rest of the world swings open. It is Andrey, as prompt as ever, with his Book in hand and a pair of spectacles resting on the top of his head. Like a brigand after a skirmish, Emile slips his chopper under the tie of his apron and then looks expectantly at the door, which a moment later swings again.
With the slightest turn of the wrist the shards of glass tumble into a new arrangement. The blue cap of the bellhop is handed from one boy to the next, a dress as yellow as a canary is stowed in a trunk, a little red guidebook is updated with the new names of streets, and through Emile’s swinging door walks Count Alexander Ilyich Rostov—with the white dinner jacket of the Boyarsky draped across his arm.
One minute later, sitting at the table in the little office overlooking the kitchen were Emile, Andrey, and the Count—that Triumvirate which met each day at 2:15 to decide the fate of the restaurant’s staff, its customers, its chickens and tomatoes.
As was customary, Andrey convened the meeting by resting his reading glasses on the tip of his nose and opening the Book.
“There are no parties in the private rooms tonight,” he began, “but every table in the dining room is reserved for two seatings.”
“Ah,” said Emile with the grim smile of the commander who prefers to be outnumbered. “But you’re not going to rush them, eh?”
“Absolutely not,” assured the Count. “We’ll simply see to it that their menus are delivered promptly and their orders taken directly.”
Emile nodded in acknowledgment.
“Are there any complications?” asked the Count of the ma?tre d’.
“Nothing out of the ordinary.”
Andrey spun the Book so that his headwaiter could see for himself.
The Count ran a finger down the list of reservations. As Andrey had said, there was nothing out of the ordinary. The Commissar of Transport loathed American journalists; the German ambassador loathed the Commissar of Transport; and the deputy head of the OGPU was loathed by all.* The most delicate matter was that two different members of the Politburo were hosting tables during the second seating. As both were relatively new to their positions, it was not essential that either have the best tables in the house. What was essential was that their treatment be identical in every respect. They must be served with equal attention at tables of equal size equidistant from the kitchen door. And ideally, they would be on opposite sides of the centerpiece (tonight an arrangement of irises).
“What do you think?” asked Andrey, with his pen in hand.
As the Count made his suggestions of who should sit where, there came a delicate knock on the door. Stanislav entered, carrying a serving bowl and platter.
“Good day, gentlemen,” the sous-chef said to Andrey and the Count with a friendly smile. “In addition to our normal fare, tonight we have cucumber soup and—”
“Yes, yes,” said Emile with a scowl. “We know, we know.”
Stanislav apologetically placed the bowl and platter on the table, even as Emile waved him from the room. Once he was gone, the chef gestured at the offering. “In addition to our normal fare, tonight we have cucumber soup and rack of lamb with a red wine reduction.”
On the table were three teacups. Emile ladled the soup into two of the cups and waited for his colleagues to sample it.
“Excellent,” said Andrey.
Emile nodded and then turned to the Count with his eyebrows raised.
A puree of peeled cucumber, thought the Count. Yogurt, of course. A bit of salt. Not as much dill as one might expect. In fact, something else entirely . . . Something that speaks just as eloquently of summer’s approach, but with a little more flair . . .
“Mint?” he asked.
The chef responded with the smile of the bested.
“Bravo, monsieur.”
“. . . To anticipate the lamb,” the Count added with appreciation.
Emile bowed his head once and then, slipping the chopper from his waist, he carved four chops from the rack and stacked two on each of his colleagues’ plates.
The lamb, which had been encrusted with rosemary and breadcrumbs, was savory and tender. Both ma?tre d’ and headwaiter sighed in appreciation.
Thanks to a member of the Central Committee, who had tried unsuccessfully to order a bottle of Bordeaux for the new French ambassador in 1927, wines with labels could once again be found in the Metropol’s cellar (after all, despite its considerable size, the neck of a dragon has been known to whip about like that of an asp). So, turning to the Count, Andrey asked what he thought they should recommend with the lamb.
“For those who can afford it, the Chateau Latour ’99.”
The chef and ma?tre d’ nodded.
“And for those who cannot?”
The Count considered.
“Perhaps a C?tes du Rh?ne.”
“Excellent,” said Andrey.
Picking up his chopper, Emile pointed at the rest of the rack and cautioned the Count: “Tell your boys that my lamb is served rare. If someone wants it medium, they can go to a canteen.”
The Count expressed his comprehension and willingness to comply. Then Andrey closed the Book and Emile wiped his chopper. But as they began pushing back their chairs, the Count remained where he was.
“Gentlemen,” he said. “Just one more thing before we adjourn. . . .”
Given the expression on the Count’s face, the chef and the ma?tre d’ pulled their chairs back to the table.
The Count looked through the window into the kitchen to confirm that the staff were consumed with their work. Then from his jacket pocket he took the envelope that had been slipped under his door. When he tipped it over Emile’s unused teacup, out poured filaments of a red and golden hue.
The three men were silent for a moment.
Emile sat back.
“Bravo,” he said again.
“May I?” asked Andrey.
“Certainly.”
Andrey picked up the teacup and tipped it back and forth. Then he replaced it so gently on its saucer that the porcelain didn’t make a sound.
“Is it enough?”
Having watched the filaments spill from the envelope, the chef didn’t need a second look.
“Without a doubt.”
“Do we still have the fennel?”
“There are a few bulbs at the back of the larder. We’ll have to discard the outer leaves, but otherwise they’re fine.”
“Did you hear back about the oranges?” asked the Count.
With a somber look, the chef shook his head.
“How many would we need?” asked Andrey.
“Two. Maybe three.”
“I think I know where some can be found. . . .”
“Can they be found today?” asked the chef.
Andrey pulled the pocket watch from his vest and consulted it in the palm of his hand.
“With any luck.”
Where would Andrey be able to acquire three oranges on such short notice? Another restaurant? One of the special stores for hard currencies? A patron in the upper echelons of the Party? Well, for that matter, where did the Count acquire an ounce and a half of saffron? Such questions had stopped being asked years ago. Suffice it to say, the saffron was in hand and the oranges within reach.
The three conspirators exchanged satisfied glances and then pushed back their chairs. Andrey put his glasses back on his head as Emile turned to the Count.
“You’ll get the menus in their hands directly and their orders taken promptly, eh? No malingering?”
“No malingering.”
“Well then,” concluded the chef. “We meet at half past twelve.”