In making this suggestion, the old Greek paused ever so briefly before the word capital. And in the Count’s considered opinion, it was a perfect pause—one mastered over decades of delicate conversations. It was a pause with which he expressed an element of sympathy for his interlocutor without suggesting for even an instant that there had been a change in their relative stations.
“No, no,” assured the Count with a shake of the head to emphasize that borrowing was not a habit of the Rostovs. “On the contrary, Konstantin, I have something that I think will be of interest to you.” Then, as if from thin air, the Count produced one of the coins from the Grand Duke’s desk, balancing it upright on the tip of a finger and thumb.
The old Greek studied the coin for a second and then, in a sign of appreciation, slowly exhaled. For while Konstantin Konstantinovich was a lender by trade, his art was to see an item for a minute, to hold it for a moment, and to know its true worth.
“May I . . . ?” he asked.
“By all means.”
He took the coin, turned it once, and handed it back with reverence. For not only was the piece pure in the metallurgical sense, the winking double eagle on the reverse confirmed to the experienced eye that it was one of the five thousand coins minted in commemoration of Catherine the Great’s coronation. Such a piece purchased from a gentleman in need could be sold at a reasonable profit to the most cautious of banking houses in the best of times. But in a period of upheaval? Even as the demand for common luxuries collapsed, the value of a treasure like this would be on the rise.
“Excuse my curiosity, Your Excellency, but is that a . . . lonely piece?”
“Lonely? Oh, no,” replied the Count with a shake of the head. “It lives like a soldier in a barracks. Like a slave in a galley. Not a moment to itself, I’m afraid.”
The old Greek exhaled again.
“Well then . . .”
And in a matter of minutes the two men had struck an arrangement without a hem or haw. What is more, the old Greek said it would be his pleasure to personally deliver three notes, which the Count penned on the spot. Then they shook hands like familiars and agreed to see each other three months hence.
But just as the old Greek was about to step through the door, he paused.
“Your Excellency . . . May I ask a personal question?”
“By all means.”
He gestured almost shyly to the Grand Duke’s desk.
“Can we expect more verses from you?”
The Count offered an appreciative smile.
“I am sorry to say, Konstantin, that my days of poetry are behind me.”
“If your days of poetry are behind you, Count Rostov, then it is we who are sorry.”
Tucked discreetly into the northeast corner of the hotel’s second floor was the Boyarsky—the finest restaurant in Moscow, if not in all of Russia. With vaulted ceilings and dark red walls reminiscent of a boyar’s retreat, the Boyarsky boasted the city’s most elegant décor, its most sophisticated waitstaff, and its most subtle chef de cuisine.
So renowned was the experience of dining at the Boyarsky that on any given night one might have to elbow one’s way through a crowd of hopefuls just to catch the eye of Andrey, as he presided over the large black book in which the names of the fortunate were set down; and when beckoned ahead by the ma?tre d’, one could expect to be stopped five times in four languages on the way to one’s table in the corner, where one would be served flawlessly by a waiter in a white dinner jacket.
That is, one could expect this until 1920 when, having already sealed the borders, the Bolsheviks decided to prohibit the use of rubles in fine restaurants—effectively closing them to 99 percent of the population. So tonight, as the Count began to eat his entrée, water glasses clinked against cutlery, couples whispered awkwardly, and even the best of waiters found himself staring at the ceiling.
But every period has its virtues, even a time of turmoil. . . .
When Emile Zhukovsky was lured to the Metropol as chef de cuisine in 1912, he was given command of a seasoned staff and a sizable kitchen. In addition, he had the most celebrated larder east of Vienna. On his spice shelves was a compendium of the world’s predilections and in his cooler a comprehensive survey of birds and beasts hanging from hooks by their feet. As such, one might naturally leap to the conclusion that 1912 had been a perfect year in which to measure the chef’s talents. But in a period of abundance any half-wit with a spoon can please a palate. To truly test a chef’s ingenuity, one must instead look to a period of want. And what provides want better than war?
In the Revolution’s aftermath—with its economic declines, failed crops, and halted trade—refined ingredients became as scarce in Moscow as butterflies at sea. The Metropol’s larder was depleted bushel by bushel, pound by pound, dash by dash, and its chef was left to meet the expectations of his audience with cornmeal, cauliflower, and cabbage—that is to say, with whatever he could get his hands on.
Yes, some claimed Emile Zhukovsky was a curmudgeon and others called him abrupt. Some said he was a short man with a shorter temper. But none could dispute his genius. Just consider the dish the Count was finishing at that very moment: a saltimbocca fashioned from necessity. In place of a cutlet of veal, Emile had pounded flat a breast of chicken. In place of prosciutto de Parma, he had shaved a Ukrainian ham. And in place of sage, that delicate leaf that binds the flavors together? He had opted for an herb that was as soft and aromatic as sage, but more bitter to the taste. . . . It wasn’t basil or oregano, of that the Count was certain, but he had definitely encountered it somewhere before. . . .
“How is everything this evening, Your Excellency?”
“Ah, Andrey. As usual, everything is perfect.”
“And the saltimbocca?”
“Inspired. But I do have one question: The herb that Emile has tucked under the ham—I know it isn’t sage. By any chance, is it nettle?”
“Nettle? I don’t believe so. But I will inquire.”
Then with a bow, the ma?tre d’ excused himself.
Without a doubt Emile Zhukovsky was a genius, reflected the Count, but the man who secured the Boyarsky’s reputation for excellence by ensuring that all within its walls ran smoothly was Andrey Duras.
Born in the south of France, Andrey was handsome, tall, and graying at the temples, but his most distinguishing feature was not his looks, his height, or his hair. It was his hands. Pale and well manicured, his fingers were half an inch longer than the fingers of most men his height. Had he been a pianist, Andrey could easily have straddled a twelfth. Had he been a puppeteer, he could have performed the sword fight between Macbeth and Macduff as all three witches looked on. But Andrey was neither a pianist nor a puppeteer—or at least not in the traditional sense. He was the captain of the Boyarsky, and one watched in wonder as his hands fulfilled their purpose at every turn.
Having just led a group of women to their table, for instance, Andrey seemed to pull back their chairs all at once. When one of the ladies produced a cigarette, he had a lighter in one hand and was guarding the flame with the other (as if a draft had ever been felt within the walls of the Boyarsky!). And when the woman holding the wine list asked for a recommendation, he didn’t point to the 1900 Bordeaux—at least not in the Teutonic sense. Rather, he slightly extended his index finger in a manner reminiscent of that gesture on the Sistine Chapel’s ceiling with which the Prime Mover transmitted the spark of life. Then, excusing himself with a bow, he crossed the room and went through the kitchen door.
But before a minute could pass, the door swung open again—and there was Emile.
Five foot five and two hundred pounds, the chef glanced quickly about the room then marched toward the Count with Andrey trailing behind. As he crossed the dining room, the chef knocked into a customer’s chair and nearly toppled a busboy with his tray. Coming to an abrupt stop at the Count’s table, he looked him up and down as one might measure an opponent before challenging him to a duel.
“Bravo, monsieur,” he said in a tone of indignation. “Bravo!”
Then he turned on his heels and disappeared back into his kitchen.