mouth and immediately everything became clear. Figlia di puttana, he thought. That little bitch!
In Which We Learn
the Recipe for Tuscan Toast
with Fig Jam & Cream
“No,” said Luigi Campoverde, “I will not call you Princess Margarita, and you know that very well. You have a perfectly good and regal name—Gian Gastone di Pucci de’ Meducci, Prince of Tuscany and sole heir to the duke-ship.”
The boy frowned and said sadly, “It seems I may be duke sooner than I would like.”
Luigi felt a rush of anxiety tighten his muscles at just the instant he was to crack an egg against the lip of a bowl. “Tsst,” Luigi snapped his tongue against the roof of his mouth as a fleck of eggshell fell into the bowl and some glop of egg white slimed over the bowl’s rim and onto the table. “Do not say such things.”
“Where do you think Papa could be?” “How should I know?” Luigi answered without looking at the boy.
“Well, do you think Papa is dead?”
“Dead,” repeated the chef as he used a larger piece of eggshell to scoop the smaller fleck from the bowl. “How should I know if the duke is dead? I am a chef, not a teller of fortunes.”
From the corner of his eye, Luigi noticed the boy’s face deflate. Good God! Luigi felt his own heart wilt. He knew what it was to lose a father and the idea that the young prince was imagining such a scenario unnerved him greatly. He had, after all, just seen the duke five days ago: this past Monday, at market, when he ventured back to the village to stock up on provisions—actually, to barter for them. And there, he spotted the duke looking like a peasant in his dulled and soiled stableman’s outfit that he’d worn for a week straight. Behaving like a peasant too, doling out olives as he gladly assisted the pretty young girl who ran the olive stand. Already, the duke’s body looked leaner and his face darker than Luigi had ever seen it—and with an untidy week’s worth of facial hair. Even from a fair distance, the duke appeared to Luigi to be happier than he could ever recall in the two years he’d known him.
“No.” Luigi now turned to face the peculiar little prince. “I do not think the duke is dead.”
Young Gian, still wearing his sleeping gown, gave a halfhearted smile. “How do you know?” he asked.
Luigi Campoverde felt something odd stir inside him, a feeling he resented yet could not ignore. Annoying and queer as the boy may be, he was about the only person that Luigi could ever recall looking up to him and depending on him for something other than his next meal. “Here.” Luigi patted the stool beside the kitchen counter, indicating that the prince should take a seat.
Gian sat down, resting his elbows on the counter, facing the chef.
“Pay attention,” Luigi said to the boy, gesturing to the bowl with the raw egg in it. Luigi poured a touch of cream into the bowl and then proceeded to narrate his actions. “A pinch of salt, a small grating of nutmeg, then cinnamon, then clove. Be especially sparing with clove.” Luigi looked at the boy as he grated a fine dust of clove into the bowl. “Too much clove will ruin any dish. Then beat the egg and spices together.”
Luigi reached for a yellowish loaf of semolina egg bread. Then he set his knife at a slight angle to the loaf before cutting. “Slice the bread on a bias, it’s prettier that way. Not too thick, nor too thin, about as wide as my thumb. Set the slice of bread onto a plate and pour the egg mixture over it. Flip it over a few times so that the bread can sop up as much of the egg as possible.”
Luigi wiped his hands on a cloth then added a dollop of butter to a hot pan on the stove. “Tilt and rotate the pan so the melted butter spreads about and do not let the butter burn. Now,” he said to the boy as he reached his fingers into a mortar filled with a crushed something or other, “this is my little trick. Finely, very finely, crush some toasted hazelnuts and chestnuts then sprinkle them atop the bread. Dust it, like this. Don’t coat it entirely.”
Luigi set the slice of bread into the pan. “Do you hear that sizzle? That’s what you want. The pan should be hot,