where the sun never set in December. There, they landed on an island that appeared to have a mountain of snow, but which turned out to have a mountain of salt. Salt was so plentiful in his homeland that housewives cast it over their shoulders for good luck without a second thought. Nonetheless, the young man instructed his crew to fill the sacks in the hull with the salt, if for no other reason than to add to the ship’s ballast.
Sailing truer and faster than before, they soon came upon a great kingdom. The king received the merchant’s son in his court and asked what he had to trade. The young man replied that he had a hull full of salt. Remarking that he had never heard of it, the king wished him well and sent him on his way. Undaunted, the young man paid a visit to the king’s kitchens, where he discreetly sprinkled salt onto the mutton, into the soup, over the tomatoes, and into custard.
That night, the king was amazed at the flavor of his food. The mutton was better, the soup was better, the tomatoes were better, even the custard was better. Calling his chefs before him, he excitedly asked what new technique they were using. Befuddled, the chefs admitted they had done nothing different; although they had been visited in the kitchen by the young stranger from the sea. . . .
The next afternoon, the merchant’s son set sail for home in a ship laden with one bag of gold for every sack of salt.
. . .
“Your grandmother told you that?”
“She did.”
. . .
“It is a good story. . . .”
“Yes, it is.”
. . .
“But it doesn’t absolve you.”
“I should think not.”
An Alliance
At 5:45, with his five waiters standing at their stations, the Count made his nightly rounds of the Boyarsky. Beginning in the northwest corner, he circulated through the twenty tables to ensure that every setting, every saltcellar, every vase of flowers was in its proper place.
At table four a knife was realigned to be parallel with its fork. At table five a water glass was moved from midnight to one o’clock. At table six a wine glass that had a remnant of lipstick was whisked away, while at table seven the soap spots on a spoon were polished until the inverted image of the room could be clearly seen on the surface of the silver.
This, one might be inclined to observe, is exactly how Napoleon must have appeared when in the hour before dawn he walked among his ranks, reviewing everything from the stores of munitions to the dress of the infantry—having learned from experience that victory on the field of battle begins with the shine on a boot.
But many of Napoleon’s greatest battles lasted only a day and were never to be fought again. . . .
As such, the more apt analogy might be that of Gorsky at the Bolshoi. Having studied the intent of the composer, collaborated closely with his conductor, trained his dancers, overseen the design of the costumes and sets, Gorsky also walked his ranks in the minutes before battle. But once the curtain fell and the audience departed, there would be no parade along the Champs-Élysées. For in less than twenty-four hours, his ballerinas, musicians, and technicians would reassemble to execute the same performance to the same standard of perfection. Now that was the life of the Boyarsky—a battle that must be waged with exacting precision while giving the impression of effortlessness, every single night of the year.
Confident that all was in order in the dining room, at 5:55 the Count turned his attention, if briefly, to Emile’s kitchen. Peering through the little round window in the door, the Count could see that the chef’s assistants were standing at the ready in their freshly bleached coats; he could see that the sauces were simmering on the stovetop and the garnishes ready for plating. But what of that notorious misanthrope of a chef? With the opening of the Boyarsky’s doors just minutes away, wasn’t he railing against his staff, his customers, and all his fellow men?
In point of fact, Emile Zhukovsky began his days in a state of the blackest pessimism. The very moment he looked out from under his covers, he met existence with a scowl, knowing it to be a cold and unforgiving condition. Having had his worst suspicions confirmed by the morning papers, at eleven o’clock he would be waiting at the curb for a crowded