The first kitchen, with the sober food taster and his five underlings watching every move of the small army of cooks, is that of the Sultan alone. Then comes that of the Valide Sultan—Nur Banu had it now—then that of that of the Sultan’s current favorite. Under Selim, she (or he) changed so frequently that that room was always in a state of confusion. It tried desperately to meet each new taste, sometimes two within the same afternoon. The favorite’s kitchen was a synonym for chaos.
“How was the market today, habibi?” one might ask. “I understand the new shipments from China are causing quite a stir.”
And the reply one might receive: “Yes, by Allah. A regular favorite’s kitchen!”
The fourth kitchen was for Safiye to share with the women of royal blood; the fifth for the chief white eunuch; the sixth for the viziers and other members of the Divan when they dined in; the seventh for the rest of the eunuchs, pages, and other lesser officials; the eighth for the rest of the female slaves; the ninth for the attendants of the Divan; and the tenth served the three hundred men who manned these kitchens as cooks, confectioners, accountants, butchers, grocers, chandlers, dairymen, icemen, water carriers, scullery hands, herbalists, tinkers, and apprentices. You notice I didn’t mention bakers—the palace bakery, every bit as large as the kitchens, was in another place, in the outer or first court of the palace.
A mosque stands at either end of the complex, serving five kitchens each. The hours of prayer are devotedly kept here because it often happens that this is the only time a cook can sit down. Otherwise, even their meals are taken on the run; a bite here of whatever is boiling, the scrapings of a bowl. On a normal day, as I have said, they have about a thousand souls to feed, more on Divan days. But for the circumcision, there would be over six times that number for the week-long duration, when family and friends not only of the Prince but of the charity boys would have to be served as well.
In spite of her separation from the heat and noise, and in spite of the kitchen’s massive, all-male hierarchy, it was still possible for a woman of the harem to make an impression on the food preparation, however. No favored woman would give up a single route to influence the men of the selamlik, certainly not one available to her sisters even in the poorest households.
And, however little Safiye knew about the inner workings of her young son’s mind, she did know that dates were his favorite food. A boy given to frequent sulks, Muhammed could always be coaxed out of them with a handful of the sticky brown nuggets. So Safiye had contrived to have six dates smuggled out of an oasis in Arabia which was the only place in the world where this particular variety grew. They were known to most, if not all, of Constantinople by name alone because the natives were so jealous of their prize that they posted guards day and night in all seasons about their trees. And, though they might honor a pilgrim with a taste, they required that every pit be returned again to a careful account.
Each date was as big as Muhammed’s eight-year-old fist, as sweet and creamy as honey whipped with butter and so rare outside Arabia that their weight in gold could not purchase them. With these treasures, Safiye planned to beguile her son during his suffering.
However Safiye’s messengers managed to get the dates out of Arabia, it was no more difficult a task than getting them into the harem. Or so it seemed. They got as far as the kitchen storerooms, brought in like any other foodstuff. But when Ghazanfer came to pick them up to bring them to his lady’s room for safe keeping, he found Nur Banu’s eunuchs already there, making similar claims of possession.
This, at least, was one version of the conflict. There were several other versions in circulation including its mirror image told by those in Nur Banu’s camp. If Nur Banu couldn’t have her way over the age of her grandson at circumcision, she would certainly provide herself with the best of gifts to celebrate the occasion.
So while I was having the porters set their tartlet trays down in the storeroom, the overseer came and stood behind us, watching with an eagle eye that we didn’t come too close to the encrusted gold casket that held the dates. It was in his neutral custody until someone higher up should come and tell him whether Safiye’s eunuch should claim it or Nur Banu’s.
“Present bias does seem to favor Nur Banu,” the overseer confided to me with a philosophical air. “She does have the greater authority. My personal inclination is, however, that the actual facts favor Safiye. It would be too bad if authority overruled the facts in this case.”
My immediate thought on meeting this man was. What a time his mother must have had birthing him! For his head, though narrow, was incredibly long. His turban sat ill upon it, looking more like some Venetian dandy’s hat than the usual neat, tight knot because of the stretch. Although he was a slim man, a double chin or, rather, no chin at all beneath a beard neither present nor yet quite shaven added to the length. In the very middle of that head’s length rested a mouth of disconcerting smallness, held constantly in a rather simple pout as with some persons born feeble-minded.
Upon acquaintance, however, it was clear that if not particularly profound, he was neither witless nor inattentive to duty. When he was certain he could trust me, he let me have a look at the dates, more valuable than the casket in which they nestled like half a dozen eggs in a nest. As I could never taste them,
