Page 121 of A Winter By the Sea
“Now we set it to boil. We must pay strict attention to prevent scorching.” He handed her a long-handled, perforated copper skimmer, which he called a scummer. “Then skim well, and simmer gently at the side of the stove.”
She attended to the sauce while he trussed the birds with string and placed them in an oval stew pan along with an onion stuck with cloves. He poured in more of the reserved broth to cover the breast of the fowl and placed the lid on the pan.
“That will want about an hour over a slow fire.”
“What shall we do in the meantime?”
He raised his hands. “The rest!”
The chef put Sarah to work cleaning and cutting the vegetables, while he prepared a second sauce for them. Then he asked, “And for dessert?”
“I had thought of a custard, but...”
His face fell.
“But that was when I thought I would be cooking it allmyself. Attempting to, at any rate. You may make whatever you like.”
He brightened and set to work.
Soon he was blanching almonds and crushing them with his prized mortar and pestle. He mixed these with sugar ground fine, amaretti biscuits crushed, egg yolks, butter, and salt. Then he whipped cream with a whisking motion so fast the implement appeared a mere blur.
He added the cream to the other ingredients. Then he prepared puff pastry, rolling it into a nearly perfect circle. Then he rolled out a second, slightly smaller one. He laid the smaller circle on a baking tray and mounded the almond and cream filling in the middle. He laid the larger circle over the first, pressing down the edges. After brushing an egg glaze over it, he took a sharp knife and cut an intricate pattern into the top—a star with curved rays.
“Take care not to cut all the way through the pastry,” he said as he notched around the edge and made horizontal slashes in the pastry.
“What does that do?”
“Helps it rise at the edges.”
She regarded the dessert, which looked like something between a pie and a cake. “What is it called?”
“GâteauPithiviers.”
He slid it into the oven. “This will want half an hour. Perhaps a bit more.”
While they waited, he roasted mocha coffee beans over the fire, stirring the berries with a wooden spoon until they were light brown. Then he blew away the burnt particles before grinding the beans in his personal coffee mill. To the grounds, he added boiling water and let it brew near the fire before clarifying it with isinglass.
As he worked, he said, “This reminds me of my parents.They frequently cook together, Papa often stealing a taste”—he grinned—“or a kiss.”
Sarah could not imagine her parents doing so, neither cooking together nor playfully stealing kisses. “You are blessed to have parents who so clearly love each other.”
He poured strained coffee and a dollop of cream into two cups. “I agree. It was love at first sight for them both. Whereas my first love is pastry. And yours?”
She hesitated, then said softly, “His name was Peter. We were to be married. Sadly, he died before we could.”
His expression sobered. “I am sorry to hear that.”
“Thank you. It was a few years ago now, but he will always be my first love.” Sarah thought fleetingly of what she used to say, that she’d had one great love in her life and did not expect to have another. She had not said those words since last summer.
“I understand,” Mr. Bernardi replied. “Although ... may I tempt you to discover a new love?”
She gaped up at him in alarm, until he handed her a cup of coffee with another cheeky grin.
Sarah raised the cup to her lips and sipped, closing her eyes to savor the strong, rich drink. This was not Mrs. Besley’s coffee.
“Delicious,” she pronounced.
When the cake was golden brown, he sifted finely granulated sugar on top, and returned it to the oven for five more minutes.
