The Cook of Castamar, page 1
THE COOK OF CASTAMAR
THE COOK OF CASTAMAR
FERNANDO J. MÚÑEZ
Translated by Rahul Bery and Tim Gutteridge
www.headofzeus.com
First published in Spain in 2019 by Editorial Planeta
This edition first published in the UK in 2024 by Head of Zeus Ltd,
part of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc
The Cook of Castamar by Fernando J. Múñez, translated by Rahul Bery and Tim Gutteridge. The translation of this work has received aid from the Ministry of Culture and Sports of Spain.
Translation rights arranged by IMC Literary Agency
Copyright © Fernando J. Múñez, 2019
Translation copyright © Rahul Bery and Tim Gutteridge, 2024
The moral right of Fernando J. Múñez to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN (HB): 9781803285603
ISBN (E): 9781803285580
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright
PART ONE: 10 October to 19 October 1720 Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
PART TWO: 20 January to 28 January 1721 Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
PART THREE: 16 October to 7 November 1721 Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
PART FOUR: 23 February to 26 November 1722 Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
About the Author
About the Translators
An Invitation from the Publisher
THE COOK OF CASTAMAR
PART ONE
10 OCTOBER TO 19 OCTOBER 1720
1
10 October 1720, morning
‘No pain lasts forever,’ she said, in an effort to convince herself that her suffering was temporary. ‘No joy is everlasting,’ she added. Perhaps the phrase had lost its power from so much repetition and now only expressed the disappointment she had experienced over the last few years. She felt like a rag doll coming apart at the seams, trying to mend her spirits at the end of each day. It was only thanks to a courage born of necessity and her own determined character that she had found the strength to survive. ‘Nobody can call me a coward,’ Clara told herself.
Completely hidden beneath a thick layer of hay, she avoided looking at the milky light that filtered through, concentrating instead on individual raindrops sliding down the stalks. Despite this, she occasionally glimpsed the immensity that lay beyond the cart that was taking her to Castamar. When this happened, she had to take deep breaths, because the mere idea of not being enclosed by the walls of a house set her heart pounding. On more than one occasion, such an attack had caused her to faint. How she hated her weakness! She felt vulnerable, as if all the ills of the world were about to fall upon her, and she was overcome by lethargy. This fear reminded her how torn she had felt when Señora Moncada had told her there was a position at Castamar. The burly supervisor of the hospital staff had approached her to inform her that Don Melquíades Elquiza, a good friend of hers and head butler at Castamar, was in need of an assistant cook.
‘This could be an opportunity for you,’ she had said.
Clara had felt compelled to accept but she was terrified at the same time, as it would mean stepping outside of the hospital where she both lived and worked. Just imagining herself on the streets of Madrid, crossing the Plaza Mayor as she used to do with her father, had brought her out in a cold sweat and left her feeling weak. Despite this, she had tried to find her own way to the Alcázar, but was overcome by panic almost as soon as she set foot outside the hospital and had to turn back.
Señora Moncada had been kind enough to speak to Señor Elquiza on Clara’s behalf and to vouch for her culinary prowess. Their friendship went back a long way, to a time when Moncada had been in the service of the Count of Benavente and Señor Elquiza was already part of the Duke of Castamar’s household. Thanks to her, Señor Elquiza had learned that Clara’s love of cooking came from her family, and that her mother had been head cook for Cardinal Giulio Alberoni, a minister of King Felipe V.
Unfortunately, the prelate had fallen into disgrace and had returned to the Republic of Genoa, taking Clara’s mother with him. Clara, who had risen to become her assistant, had been obliged to leave the service of the cardinal, who had only allowed the head cook to travel with him. Clara had lowered her expectations in the hope of finding a less exalted position and, in the meantime, had earned her living looking after the poor unfortunates at the Hospital of the Annunciation of Our Lady.
She felt profoundly sorry that her father, Doctor Armando Belmonte, had gone to such lengths to provide her and her sister with an education, only for it to come to this. But she could not blame him. Her father had behaved like the enlightened gentleman he was, until his tragic death on 14 December 1710. All that education for nothing, she lamented. Their governess, Francisca Barroso, had maintained an iron discipline over the girls’ education from an early age. As a result, the two sisters had knowledge of such diverse subjects as needlework and embroidery, etiquette, history and geography, Latin, Greek, mathematics, rhetoric and grammar, and modern languages such as French and English. They also received piano, singing and dancing lessons, which had cost their poor parents a pretty penny, and on top of it all, they were both compulsive readers. However, after the death of their father, their education had been of no use at all, and they had slid inexorably down the social scale. Instead, it was the mother’s and the daughter’s shared passion for cooking – a passion the father had always complained about – that became the pillar of the family’s survival.
‘My darling Cristina, it is not for nothing that we have a cook,’ Clara’s father used to remonstrate. ‘What would our friends say if they knew that you spend all day in front of the stove with your eldest daughter when we have servants to spare?’
During the good years, Clara had read all manner of recipes, including translations of some Arabic and Sephardi volumes, many of which were censored in Spain. Among them were A Book of Soups and Stews by Ruperto de Nola and A Treatise on the Art of Confectionery by Miguel de Baeza. She had been in the habit of accompanying their cook, Señora Cano, to the market, where she learned to select the best cabbages and lettuces, chickpeas and lentils, tomatoes, fruit and rice. How she had enjoyed sorting through the chickpeas while they were soaking, picking out any bad ones. What pleasure she had taken when she was allowed to taste the broth, or the bitter chocolate obtained by her father, thanks to his connections at court. Once again, she wished she was at her mother’s side, making sponges, biscuits, jams and preserves. She remembered how they had convinced her father to build a clay oven so they could expand their repertoire. At first he had refused, but eventually he had given way on the grounds that it would help make the servants’ lives easier.
After receiving Clara’s credentials from Señora Moncada, Señor Elquiza had accepted her for the position. For Clara, Castamar represented the first rung on the ladder of her aspirations, a return to a real kitchen. Working in the household of the Duke of Castamar – who had been one of King Felipe V’s most distinguished followers in the War of the Spanish Succession – represented a secure life in service. She had been informed the house was an unusual one in that, despite being one of the grandest in Spain, it employed only a third of the staff one might expect to find in such an establishment. Apparently, the master of the house, Don Diego, had shut himself away following the death of his wife, and his appearances at court were few and far between.
Before setting out for Castamar, Clara had written to her sister and mother. After sending her letters, Clara had had to wait while Pedro Ochando, who was in charge of the stables at Castamar, finished his tasks for the evening. He had loaded the cart with bales of hay at first light next day and was kind enough to collect her from the hospital coachyard so that she had no need to hide her fear of open spaces. Fortunately for her, it was raining.
‘I prefer to travel at the back, if you don’t mind,’ she had told him. ‘That way I can shelter under the hay.’
They travelled along the Móstoles road towards Boadilla in the pouring rain for more than three hours. Occasionally the cart hit a pothole, terrifying her with the possibility that the hay load would shift and expose her to the elements. But she was lucky. Before too long, and with her muscles aching from the ordeal, the cart rumbled to a halt and Señor Ochando, a man of few words, announced their arrival.
She thanked him and climbed down from the cart with her eyes closed. She shivered as the cold rain trickled down the embroidered collar of her dress. Then, waiting until the sound of the creaking wheels had faded into the distance, and with her heart in her mouth, she tied her scarf over her eyes. Peering through a slit so narrow she could barely see the ground beneath her feet and using a crook to guide her like a blind man, she walked towards a small walled courtyard abutting the rear of the mansion. She kept her eyes on her own shoes and prayed the scarf would continue to conceal the rest of Castamar from view. She walked as quickly as she could, her pulse racing and her breath coming too fast as she felt her hands and feet start to tingle. As she passed through an archway into the courtyard, she barely registered that she had crossed paths with a serving girl who was stifling her laughter as she gathered some laundry from the line.
All of a sudden, she felt lost in the open space, unable to orient herself by dint of what little she could glimpse from beneath the scarf. She looked up, and on the other side of the courtyard, beneath an overhanging wooden roof, she spied a door. She didn’t care that it appeared to be firmly shut. With her body shaking and her strength waning, she ran towards the door, begging the Lord to save her from falling headlong or fainting. Upon reaching the safety of the doorway, she removed the cloth from her eyes, rested her forehead against the solid wood, no longer thinking about the wide-open space she had just crossed, and knocked with all her might.
‘What’s up with you, girl?’
The voice came from somewhere behind her and had a tone of dry authority that made Clara’s heart miss a beat. She turned around, struggling to maintain her composure. Her eyes met the severe countenance of a woman in her early fifties. Clara held the woman’s gaze for no more than a second, just long enough to register her stony expression.
‘I’m Clara Belmonte, the new assistant cook,’ she stammered, holding out the reference signed by Señora Moncada and her own mother.
The woman slowly looked her up and down, and somewhat reluctantly accepted the piece of paper. To Clara, the moment seemed to last a lifetime; she was almost fainting from vertigo and was forced to lean surreptitiously against the wall. The other woman, seeing that Clara was on the verge of passing out, raised her eyebrows and inspected her. It was as if she was peering into the very depths of her soul.
‘Why are you so pale? You’re not ill, are you?’ she asked, before returning to her reading.
Clara shook her head. Her legs threatened to give way and she knew she could no longer sustain the illusion of normality. However, she also knew that if she revealed her inability to tolerate open spaces then she would lose the job before she had even started, so she clenched her teeth and took deep breaths.
‘Señor Elquiza told me he’d be sending someone with experience. Aren’t you rather young for all this?’
With a curtsy, Clara replied that she had learned from her mother, in the household of his eminence, Cardinal Alberoni. With a gesture of indifference, the woman returned the document to her. Then, with an economical movement, she took out her keys and opened the door.
‘Come with me,’ she ordered, and with a feeling of relief, Clara went inside.
As she walked along the bare white corridor, following in the woman’s brisk footsteps, Clara began to regain her calm. The woman imperiously informed her that the door they had just passed through was always closed and the proper entrance was on the other side of the courtyard, opening directly into the kitchen. This was a relief, as Clara had no intention of venturing outside the house.
They came across three servants with loud voices; several maids who, at the mere sight of the woman, adjusted their uniforms and hurried away; two tired-looking boot boys; and the man who was responsible for supervising the kitchen supplies, Jacinto Suárez. At his side was Luís Fernández, who oversaw the pantry, the vegetable store, and the supplies of coal, firewood and candles. The woman haughtily greeted both men by their first names. A little further along the passageway, they met two lamplighters, who bowed their heads so low that their chins rested upon their chests.
‘You’ll be on probation until I decide otherwise, and if your work or your application are not to my liking, you’ll be sent straight back to Madrid. You’ll receive six reals a day, you’ll be given breakfast, lunch and dinner, and you’ll have one day’s rest a week, which will usually be a Sunday. You will be free to attend mass. You’ll sleep in the kitchen, in a small alcove with its own door,’ she clarified, as two laundry maids passed by. She paid them no attention.
Clara nodded. If she’d been at court – and if she’d been a man – her salary would have been eleven reals a day, but although Castamar might be one of the grandest houses in Spain, it was not the royal palace. And she was not a man. Even so, she felt lucky; there were girls who scrubbed stairs for less than two reals a day. At least she’d be able to set a little aside for if her fortunes took a turn for the worse.
‘I don’t tolerate idleness or secret relationships among the staff, and absolutely no male visitors,’ the housekeeper continued.
They continued down the corridor, with its elegant, coffered ceiling, until they arrived at a pair of cherrywood doors, beyond which lay the kitchen. Suddenly, another chambermaid appeared, carrying a silver tray. On it was a breakfast consisting of chicken consommé, milk and chocolate in separate jugs, buttered toast sprinkled with sugar and cinnamon, poached eggs, soft rolls and some bacon. Clara noticed the consommé had been over-seasoned, the eggs had been cooked for too long, and the rolls were not properly fired. She noted the absence of a footman to accompany the place setting, bread and food from the kitchen to the master’s table. Only the bacon appeared to have been prepared correctly, finely sliced and fried in its own fat. But what drew her attention most was the presentation. Despite the refined porcelain and the elegant silver cutlery, which included an unusual four-pronged fork, she could see that it had not received the care one would expect in the household of a Spanish grandee. The separation between the different items of cutlery was haphazard, and worst of all, there was a scandalous absence of even the slightest floral decoration; the white embroidered cloth hung over the edges of the tray; the baked goods, consommé, bacon and eggs – which should have been concealed under their respective silver domes to keep them warm – were, instead, in plain sight. One look from the housekeeper was enough to stop the maid in her tracks. She approached, carefully placed the coffee spoon at the correct distance from the breakfast set and rearranged the silver jugs.
‘And don’t let anything move, Elisa,’ she ordered. ‘You can go now.’
Clara understood that the housekeeper had a strong sense of etiquette and protocol, even if she was unaware of the sophisticated culinary presentation associated with the haute cuisine King Felipe had introduced to court circles.
‘Of course, Doña Ursula,’ Elisa replied, performing a curtsy with the heavy tray and waiting for them to enter the kitchen.
Everyone stopped what they were doing and bowed or curtseyed. It was clear the housekeeper was in charge of preparing the duke’s food. At a gesture from her, the activity resumed, and Clara watched as two scullery maids continued to pluck capons for that day’s lunch. Somewhat distractedly, another maid seasoned two pullets, while in the background, a fat woman supervised them out of the corner of her eye while she prepared a mushroom sauce to accompany the meat.
