The Chef's Apprentice: A Novel by Elle Newmark Read Free Book Online Page A

plotted a way to discover what the chef knew about the peasant’s death.
    I knew where the chef lived. On Sundays, the one day he stayed home and let Pellegrino run the kitchen, the chef had occasionally taken me to Mass with his family at the church of San Vincenzo and then to his house for Sunday dinner. The hour of unrelieved tedium in church was the price for my inclusion in the chef’s family, and I paid it gladly. I bathed carefully and put on fresh clothing in preparation for those Sundays when I sat in a church pew with the gentry rather than standing in back with the beggars.
    The service bored me, but I took consolation in the fact that the chef also seemed disinterested. His eyes wandered during the offertory; he examined his fingernails during the sermon; he sighed every time he had to kneel; and while the choir intoned a sonorous Gregorian chant, he stared into the distance and tapped an impatient foot on the padded kneeler. Once, I inquired into how he felt about attending Mass, and he said, “It’s a matter of form. One doesn’t wish to attract the wrong kind of attention.”
    After Mass, I was thrilled to sit at his dinner table and eat from a porcelain plate with a silver fork, like any member of a respectable family. Those meals were a revelation. The family talked about a world completely foreign to me—school, church, dressmakers, relatives, and neighbors. I listened and spoke only when spoken to, and I never looked too long at any of his young daughters.
    I didn’t understand why the chef took me into his home on Sundays. Why not his sous-chef Pellegrino or Enrico or Dante or any other of the senior staff? But I didn’t ask, in case questioning my good luck might somehow put an end to it. I kept my head down and wallowed in the deliciousness of belonging. I wrappedmyself in borrowed familial warmth and pretended to be the only son in the chef’s family.
    The chef was madly in love with his family. His wife, Rosa, was his anchor; his eldest daughter, Elena, a fair-haired girl of ten, was his pride; his eight-year-old twins, Adriana and Amalia, mirror images of each other, were his wonder; and his little five-year-old, Natalia Sofia, with her extravagant mass of dark curls and a temperament as sweet as her face, was the tiny empress of his joy.
    While Chef Ferrero encouraged me to eat up—“ Mangia , Luciano. Mangia ”—Signora Ferrero passed the pasta without looking at me. She was not unkind, but her cool demeanor advised me to keep my portions small and my mouth shut. I didn’t mind. I understood her attitude better than the chef’s. What right had I to sit at her table? Neither she nor I seemed to know.
    On the last Sunday that I would ever be allowed to dine with that family, we sat back, stuffed with our fine meal of chicken in rosemary sauce. We relaxed over fontina cheese and green grapes while Elena described her confirmation dress. I’m glad I didn’t know then that the conversation would lead to the end of my Sunday dinners with the family. If I had, I might have wept into my chicken.
    Elena’s cheeks flushed as she chattered about her white dress, about the softness of the China silk and the intricacy of the Belgian lace. The chef listened while a wistful smile played over his face. Elena described the elaborate monogram she would embroider on one sleeve of her dress, and at the mention of the monogram the chef’s smile sagged. He put down the grape he’d been about to pop into his mouth, and it rolled across his plate. He said, “ La mia bella Elena. Today your confirmation; tomorrow your wedding.”
    “Sì, Papà.” Elena’s blush deepened.
    He sighed. “In time, you’ll all sew lace on your wedding dresses and leave your papà behind. You’ll embroider your husband’s monogram on tablecloths and bedsheets, and the name Ferrero will be forgotten.”
    Signora Ferrero slapped her napkin on the table. “Don’t, Amato.”
    “I’m sorry, my love. It weighs on