The empress of ice cream

Carlo

White strawberry ice cream: the delicate flavour of these fruits needs no adornment, save perhaps for a dusting of white pepper.

The Book of Ices

Charles’s great banquet, the beginning of his summer of festivities, was to be held on the feast day of St George, England’s patron saint. The irony of this, of course, was not lost on those who knew who the king’s patron really was, or which country was actually paying for his celebrations.

Almost a month before the feast, I moved out to Windsor to supervise the arrangements. The new Great Hall was still being worked on by the builders, while carpenters were making the last of the tables at which the king’s guests would be seated. The yeomen of the pantry were also at work, unwrapping thousands of pieces of tableware that had not been used since the coronation. The candelabra alone would take a team of eight two weeks to clean.

There were no ice houses, but I requisitioned a cellar, and had ice brought directly from the caves where I had stored it. First I began the work of carving the ice sculptures, and set workmen to preparing the great beds of crushed ice on which the cold food would be served.

But as to exactly what ice cream I would serve to the king’s table, I still had not decided.

In the weeks since the virtuosi and I had perfected the technique of making a perfectly smooth ice, I had experimented with every flavour under the sun. As soon as a new fruit or vegetable

became-available in the markets, I froze it. Asparagus, Jerusalem artichokes, celeriac, even cabbages . . . Radishes turned out to be surprisingly good, and over-wintered spinach; sorrel had its merits, too. I went down to the docks and bought strange fruits off the boats that returned from the Colonies. I made ice creams of peppers, of melons, of mangos, and fruits so ugly they did not even have a name.

They were none of them right. Not for a dish made in her honour.

I toured the orangeries and pineries of the great nobles’ estates, a letter of curte blanche from the king in my pocket. More than one pineapple was pulled from its tree, sliced open, sniffed at, and discarded.

Elias said, ‘There is a man at Sonning who has grown some white strawberries, they say. They are as big as gulls’ eggs, and perfecdy sweet.’

‘I hardly think that is likely.’

‘He is a sailor. He brought the plants back from America.’

I did not believe it, but I rode out to Sonning anyway to see for myself. And found that Ehas was right: there was an old sailor, his boots covered in mud, who grew strawberry plants in a raised bed warmed by vents from a fire. As he fondled the berries in his calloused hands he muttered to each plant, stroking it and apologising for the loss of its children. He was quite mad, but his strawberries were remarkable. The fruits were completely without colour: I thought at first they must be unripe, but then he gave me one to try, and I realised it was not just sweet but completely different from the normal kind of berry - as white as cream, heavily fragrant, and with none of the tart sharpness that most strawberries have. Each one nestled under a leaf that was covered in fine prickles, like a gooseberry or a nettle: they stung a little when you handled them.

I recalled that there was an old custom that any white beast or albino belonged to the king. The white hart or stag was the

ancient symbol of kings; swans were reserved for the royal table, while a coach pulled by white horses was a sign that the occupant was connected to the royal family.

Louise, too: that white, white skin, reserved for the king alone.

I took all the^strawberries the man had, and divided them in two. One half I would serve plain; the other I would make into ice cream, with a little white pepper, for the king’s pleasure alone.

The day of the feast arrived - or rather, the first day, as the celebrations were to last the better part of a week. Flags fluttered from every point and turret of the castle; fanfares were blown, and everywhere you looked soldiers paraded in ceremonial display. There were exhibitions of horsemanship to entertain the guests, and a mechanical statue that sang. It was not Versailles - the castle was too much of a castle to be completely elegant, and the atmosphere was altogether more like a rural fair than the formal, choreographed ceremonies of France - but there was no mistaking the majesty of the occasion. The frescos on the ceiling of the Great Hall might not be dry, but it was vast, and it was painted, and as the thousand noble guests walked through the carved doors you could see them looking up and wondering at it.

And then Louise made her entrance.

The gown she wore that day was remarkable. It fitted her like a glove, and indeed her waist was so slender that a pair of gloved hands could almost have encircled it. The cloth was sown with a delicate pattern of diamond shapes; the skirt and bodice were separate, in the new French style; the skirt itself had a split at the side, so that as she walked one slender leg could be glimpsed amongst the folds of drapery, which was swept up to one side and pinned with a brooch. Only her hair - that unruly thicket of dark curls was not French in the least: it was not pinned up under a hat, but simply parted in the middle. It was as if she were saying: From now on I will be the arbiter here. I will copy what I want, and you will copy me.

The king bowed and led her to his table, which was separate from the others on a little raised dais. The queen was nowhere to be seen.

Shortly before I was due to serve the ice cream, one of the stewards came over. ‘This is to go into the ice,’ he said. ‘At the king’s command.’ He opened a small velvet poufh, and shook something out of it into my palm.

It was written on the menu that stood by each guest: For the kind’s pleasure alone: one plate of white strawberries and one plate of ice cream.

But it is not written how it happened: the blast of trumpets, the shout of the heralds, a sudden hush: all eyes on me as I walked, at the head of a solemn procession of servants, towards the figures at the topmost table.

My eyes made contact with hers, I believe, as I bowed low over the damask. But with that lazy eye, it was hard to be sure.

I stepped back. The king reached into the platter of crushed ice on which the bowl of strawberries rested and pulled out the end of a fine chain. He pulled again, and this time it swung free; laden, pendulous, heavy with flashing nuggets of what looked like ice: ice that suddenly caught flame in the glow of the candles.

A necklace of white diamonds, the stones as big; as strawberries, dripping in his fingers as he lifted it from its icy womb.

Only now did I notice that her neck had been left bare in preparation for this moment. As he fastened it there, whispering something only she could hear, I could imagine the goose-skin on her shoulders and collarbone from the jewels’ cold; the soft, almost velvet texture her skin would have beneath his hands.

She looked at him, adoring yet bashful, and then she turned to smile at the whole room: an innocent delighted, the happiest girl in the world. Instinctively, they applauded her, many of them rising to their feet as they did so; and if there were a few, like Rochester and Buckingham, whose claps were just a httle slower.

a little more cynical, it was swallowed up in the general buzz of approval.

For the kind’s pleasure alone.

And even I - courtier, confectioner, accomplice to my own heartbreak - even I put my hands together, and called a cheer I did not feel.

4

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