"Chelsea Quinn Yarbro - St Germain 2 - The Palace" - читать интересную книгу автора (Yarbro Chelsea Quinn)

her face once more and there was a kind of distress in her bearing. She lingered in
the library until the young Slavic slave who slept there arrived. Sure that the room
was safe, Demetrice left it and hurried to the bottom floor in the hope of having a
light meal with the stewards.
The stairs of il Palazzo de' Medici were narrow and treacherously steep.
Demetrice negotiated them with care, reminding herself as she went that she had
fallen once, four years before, and the bruises and sprains had been many weeks in
fading.
The understeward, Sergio, greeted her casually and offered to get her a dish of
veal-and-pork pie that was left over from supper. "There are some tortolini and some
broth, if you'd like that."
To her surprise, Demetrice discovered that she was hungry, and she accepted this
offer, spooning pine nuts over the pie when it was brought to her.
Massimillio, the Medicis' enormous cook, swaggered into the pantry and favored
Demetrice with a huge smile that spread over his moon face like butter. "Ah, it is la
bella Demetrice, who is so kind and who loves my food."
Demetrice knew what was expected. "Massimillio, the food is superb, as always.
The tortolini are savory and your pie is delicious."
"Let me pour you some Trebbiano," the cook offered, reaching for the wine
flask. "And when you are finished, I have some confetti."
"A thousand thanks," Demetrice said, although she did not particularly like either
white wine or sugared almonds.
"Chè piacer!" sighed the cook as he poured himself a generous portion of the
Trebbiano and stared into its straw-colored depths. "Now, you, Donna mia,
appreciate my art. But Laurenzo!" With his free hand he made a gesture of despair.
"He would not care if I made nothing but sausages, so long as he got his chestnuts. I
have boiled in wine and roasted barrels of chestnuts, I think." He shook his large
head and his chins wobbled.
"You must make allowances, Massimillio. Since Laurenzo cannot smell, he misses
much of your wonderful cooking." Demetrice sipped her wine and had another bite
of pork-and-veal pie.
"Poor man!" He finished his wine and replenished his cup. "Trebbiano is very
nice," he said judiciously. "For all the talk of it being workingman's wine, it is very
nice."
By this time Demetrice had eaten most of the pie and her tortolini were almost
gone. She smiled warmly at the cook and said mendaciously, "How much I would
like confetti, but I fear, Massimillio, that it is such a cold night, and your excellent
food is so satisfying, that I had much better have some broth, to keep me warm."
Grudgingly Massimillio admitted this was wise and turned back to the cavernous
kitchens to heat the broth. As he put the kettle on the coals of the hearth, he
remarked, "That foreigner, the one Laurenzo likes so much. With the unchristian
name."
"Ragoczy?" Demetrice suggested.
"That is the man. He has us all in an uproar. I have heard that his kitchen is going
to be terribly odd. Now, you may say that is his foreign ways, and no doubt it would
account for it, but," he added darkly, drawing down the corners of his mouth, "you
may be sure that he will have to find cooks elsewhere if he intends to make us
change our ways." As he spoke, he reached into one of the small drawers of the
divided chest that flanked his cooking table and pulled out a handful of seeds. "I am
adding more coriander, to help keep you warm."