Conclave by Joe Karson

 

This is not really a Mardi Gras story and it was never included in Killer Rubboard, but I can't help it.  I read this story around the  same time as Killer Rubboard was being published and loved it.  I hounded Joe Karson for it until he gave it up to include here.  Food is an important part of celebrating the season and that's good enough for me.

 

CONCLAVE

 By Joe Karson

Pope Ken I was still lying in state inside St. Peter’s Basilica. Cardinal Lovano had just paid his last respects and now he joined the other cardinals at San Damaso Courtyard, the lawn outside the palace where the new pope would reside. This was the second sede vacante, period between popes, in the past year. Ken’s reign as Supreme Pontiff was brief by design, but the cardinal had hoped for a little more rest before returning to his Vatican duties. At their last conclave, the College of Cardinals had become hopelessly deadlocked, and, following a time-honored procedure, elevated their eldest member to the Throne of St. Peter. Ken, born Francis Kenneth Dolan, was eighty-nine and thus became the first American pope. Despite the historic precedent, his six-month papacy was as brief and unremarkable as anticipated.

   Still, like all popes before him, Ken I brought a few harmless innovations to the Vatican. Replacing the helmets of the Swiss Guard with leather aviator caps bearing the Harley-Davidson insignia seemed a harmless whim; as did transforming the sedia gestatoria, the pope’s ornately carved mobile throne, into something resembling a dune-buggy. No, these were minor deviations from tradition that the new pope would surely set straight. But it was in just this matter of electing his successor that Ken had chosen to truly assert himself. This was certainly his privilege. Though the ritual of Holy Conclave has been chiseled in stone, Vatican Law allows that each pope may ordain specific instructions for the next election in his will. Ken had done so. And until the election, the deceased pope was still Sovereign of Rome. Cardinal Lovano sighed and shook his head. Well, maybe Ken’s instructions for electing the new pope would make things easier. He hoped so. The typical squabbling and political intrigues of the last conclave had made the aging priest weary of the whole process.

   “Extra omnes! Extra omnes! Everyone out!” Cardinal Lovano listened to the command that for centuries has heralded the start of the secret conclave. He watched the Swiss Guard struggle with their billowing costumes as they shut the gate to St. Peter’s Square. Funny, he was starting to like those new hats. The shadow of the enormous gate fell across the cardinal’s bright red cassock. Dutifully, he wheeled his Il Fumo Deluxe charcoal grill to its assigned position in the courtyard. The chili cook-off to select the next pope was officially underway.

*

Cardinal Lovano watched the other cardinals as they stoked their grills and hunched busily over their worktables. Nearest to him were the Americans. The cranky old Pole from Chicago and the dapper Boston Irishman didn’t have a prayer. Their mothers had still cooked for them until the women were too feeble to stuff a kishke or peel a potato. Neither of the Americans knew how to boil an egg. Besides, the priests of the Curia Romano, the Vatican bureaucrats who were doing the judging, would never choose another American. Ken I had easily settled the issue of American popes for the next millennium. At least the issue of North American popes.

   There were still the Latinos. Cardinal Lovano figured that the Central Americans and their Caribbean cousins were out of the picture. Once, while serving as a missionary in Guatemala, he had shared a pepper pot that gave him heartburn for a week. A bowl of menudo in Santo Domingo made it instantly clear to him why the cattle herds of that region were raised mainly for the manufacture of baseballs. But the South Americans—that was another story. They had the beef, the chiles, the spices. And they knew how to use them. The arch-conservatives of the Curia, however, had little love for the progressive South American priesthood. Half the Catholics in the world lived in Brazil and Argentina, but the Roman clerics were certain that they were all being led straight to purgatory. In L’Osservatore, the Vatican newspaper, priests and bishops from the Catholic Continent were frequently branded as radicals and communists. No, the next pope would not come from the New World.

   Then there were the French. In a culinary conclave, it would seem only natural to give the French a little edge. Cardinal Lovano knew better. The French contingent had passed by with a dazzling collection of provisions and utensils. This, thought Cardinal Lovano, will be their downfall. They would undoubtedly produce a fine dish, but it would be five shades of pastel, ruffled and truffled and fluffed into a mousse, then floated in a hearty gel of daffodil nectar. The French were good but chili just wasn’t their game. The Curia would be looking for something alla zappatora—simple and nourishing. They wanted Verdi and the French would give them Debussy. Also, the Curia knew catechismically that the only good things about French cooking had been stolen from Italy. Most of them applied this principle to French culture in general. As good Italians, they could never make a Frenchman the new Vicar of Christ.

   Politics would also keep the Spaniards out of the running. Like their brethren across the Atlantic, the Spanish clergy had become too liberal for the stodgy old priests of the Vatican. All the sunny flavors of Spain, no matter how expertly blended, would not warm their hearts enough to accept a Spanish pope. There had been only two non-Italian popes in the past five hundred years and the present keepers of The Church were going to put things back on track. The Grateful Dead posters in the palace were history, no doubt, but they would be replaced with the original Botticellis—not Picassos or Renoirs. Cardinal Lovano could see the handwriting on the kitchen wall. The next pope would surely be Italian and it was all going to boil down to who could cook.

   Cardinal Lovano scanned the courtyard, searching out his countrymen. The Italian cardinals had been scattered about, according to the Curia, to keep them from collaborating. The old priest had to laugh. The Inquisition would have been unable to extract a recipe from any of these men. No, the Italians had insisted on being separated so they could mix their ingredients in pectore— secretly. Of course, separating Italians when they cooked was always a good idea. Cardinal Lovano remembered a Feast of Ste. Cecillia when his mother and an aunt had argued in the kitchen over how many onions to stuff into the porchetta, the suckling pig. His aunt relented; but when his mother presented the succulent entree to the table, Zia Lydia grabbed it and threw it out an open window. Cardinal Lovano had no problem cooking away from his fellow Italians.

   Paoletti, the Florentine, was set up near the gate. Cardinal Lovano watched the man work at his cutting board. He had a reputation as a good cook and his native region produced some of the best beef in the world. But he was a Tuscan and all Tuscans were mangiafagioli—bean-eaters. They couldn’t scramble an egg over there without tossing in a handful of favas. The Church was still officially split by the Bean Schism—Ken I had introduced this dilemma and left it as a Mystery of the Faith—but Cardinal Lovano was sure he knew where the judges stood. Strict traditionalists in all other matters, he figured that they were anti-fagioli to a man. Poor Cardinal Paoletti would undoubtedly load his otherwise excellent chili with beans and blow himself right out of contention.

   Cardinal Lovano located his old friend, Bellini, without even looking. He smelled him. Cardinal Bellini was from Portofino and all he could cook was fish. Everyone had heard the story of how he once went into the hills above his famous fishing village to perform a baptism. The grateful parents rewarded Bellini with a fresh rack of lamb, which he took home and boiled into a chowder. A man who could do that was surely facing a stiffer test than most at the conclave. Still, fish was Bellini’s strong hand and he would have to play it. Lovano caught the unmistakable odor of calamari drifting over from his friend’s grill. The old cardinal shook his head. Even in California, fabled birthplace of Ken I, people did not put squid in their chili.

   The cardinal from Turin, Rosario, was close enough to look over his shoulder and shoot Father Lovano a confident smile. Truffles were his game. He had brought an entire sack of the precious mushrooms from the steep hillsides of his home. Those Piedmontese and their tartufi, sighed the old cardinal. He knew that all the truffles in the world would not save Rosario’s cooking. Cardinal Lovano was acquainted with the man’s fare and the rudeness of his palate. Would he balance the somber-toned fungi with sweet basil and menta? No. Would he cut the musk with just a pinch of dragoncello? No. Would the olio be fruity and light? And, Heavenly Father, what about the wine –what chance did he have of getting the cooking wine right? Cardinal Lovano knew the answer. Plus, he knew the Curia. Would those cautious old padres turn the Vatican treasury over to a man who put truffles in chili?

   On a bit of high ground, beyond Rosario, Cardinal Lovano spotted the somewhat disheveled cassock of Gremaldi. He was the one the other cardinals called “Saint Francis.” Cardinal Gremaldi was from Calabria, the southernmost part of the country, and he was a vegetarian. Although many of his colleagues considered this to be a serious character defect, he could not be instantly dropped as a papabile—a serious candidate for pope. Not for his dietary creed alone. True, he would be stewing vegetables for the descendants of monks who had long regarded Friday as a fast day because they had to survive merely on pasta, cheese, lobster, and pastry. But even this would not disqualify him in Cardinal Lovano’s mind. The cardinal’s faith in good cooking was so strong that he believed it could triumph in any situation. Unfortunately, he had tasted Gremaldi’s food. The man deemed salt an exotic spice! He could make an eggplant, the glory of his sun-drenched homeland, bland as a Communion wafer. His polenta should send him to the confession booth. It would take an intervention by St. Francis, indeed, for Gremaldi to prevail on this day.

   And there was Cardinal Reda of Venice. Intentionally, he was set up far from Gremaldi. The only vegetation to ever reach Cardinal Reda’s mouth was his cigar. Venetians were said to be big meat eaters because they lived so near the Austrians and Slavs. Cardinal Lovano had been told as a child that Venice had canals because they were needed to remove all the gore. Perhaps it was true. He remembered Venetian restaurants where you could not get a scampi that hadn’t been stuffed with sausage and rolled up in ham. If you ordered a salad, there was a boiled tongue sticking out at you. After dining one night on what turned out to be tripe and jellied pig’s ears, he learned not to ask too many questions. There was fine food in Venice, but Reda had been raised on the city’s carnivorous excesses and these were all that he brought to his cooking. Like Rosario, he knew nothing of subtlety—the gentle touch needed to create a great dish. He would fail.

   Cardinal Lovano looked out past the courtyard. The sun was directly overhead, shining down on the Tomb of St. Peter, and already the square was nearly filled. All morning long people had thronged through the Porta Santa Anna and under the Arch of the Bells to be close to the historic event. The noise was becoming incredible. L’Osservatore had leaked the details of the conclave, so the Swiss Guard was busy with overzealous Romans who tried scaling the courtyard wall with recipes and bundles of spice. The civil police broke up brawls between militant groups of fagioli and anti-fagioli. Fortunately, most of the crowd just stood patiently in front of the Sistine Chapel where they had been promised a decision by nightfall. Coals from the chosen grill would be put in the celebrated fireplace to produce the puff of smoke announcing a new pope. But that was still a long way off. Right now, there was work to be done.

   The cardinal diced his onions then measured them carefully. It had to be right. He had always thought of onions as social vegetables. Alone, they could be bitter, but in a stew they were mellow and sweet.

He dropped the onions into the pot. Next, he prepared the garlic. Garlic was certainly the most Catholic of vegetables. He had met Anglicans and Episcopalians who recoiled like vampires at the slightest hint of the pungent bulb. There were Lutherans who had never heard of it. For old Lovano, garlic was a rare and intoxicating perfume—and it was as such that it had to be applied. As with the onions, using just the right amount was everything. Bay leaf and dried, sweet red pepper, of course, would accompany the garlic. These three ingredients were the Holy Trinity that brought the savoriest flavor out of all meats. Cardinal Lovano had learned to always use them together. When he added these to the veal shank searing at the bottom of his pot, an aroma arose that caused more than a few of his colleagues to turn their heads. One of the Americans, the one opening cans of Hormel and praying, suddenly lifted his nose like a bird dog. The cardinal reached into the pot and turned his veal. By using the whole shank, with the bone, he added marrow to the broth. This was the flavor of his mother’s osso buco and there was nothing richer in the whole world. The Lovanos were from Milan, in Lombardy, where the secrets of slow cooking in covered pots had been handed down for centuries. Cardinal Lovano inhaled deeply. The beef and the whole peppers he would next add were to be the heart of the dish—the veal stock was the soul. He closed the lid.

   The beef Cardinal Lovano chose was from the Chiana Valley, near Florence, because it is simply the best. It had been favored by Roman emperors. But he did not use the popular loin cuts. These were valued for tenderness alone and were often bland. Instead, he used the tastier meat from the shoulder and neck. The pot would make it tender. He added his beef to the veal, which was flaking off the bone.

   Now came the peppers and tomatoes. Cardinal Lovano had selected three varieties of pepper: plump green bells, mild and fragrant; medium-strength yellow wax peppers; and fiery red Serranos—the same hot peppers sold by street venders during the Feast of St. Gennaro and consumed by young men to show their bravery. But he did not use the Serranos to make his chili all ‘arrabiata, or “rabid,” as was the style in some parts of the country. He used just enough of them produce a seductive nip. They would keep the mouth watering for another spoonful without overwhelming the whole dish. This was very important. Every ingredient had to serve its role, but no more. The tomatoes that the cardinal chose were San Marzano plums, ripe little beauties that smelled of summer. These had the full flavor and thick flesh that could stand up to the heat of the pot. He mixed in the peppers and tomatoes along with a dash of rose-scented Tivoli olive oil and a pinch of basilico.

   After everything had simmered together for a while, Cardinal Lovano checked his creation. It looked and smelled just right. The time had come to add the vino. He uncorked a bottle of mellow red wine known in his native Lombardy as sangue del Giuda—“blood of Judas.” Yes, this seemed to the old priest like the perfect agent for warding off any treachery inside the pot. It would help keep all his ingredients working in harmony without any overly ambitious flavors. He poured in some wine directly from the bottle—the proper amount could not be measured but only tasted—and stirred the pot. A growing audience watched intently. Every time he opened his lid, Cardinal Lovano attracted more attention from the other members of the College. Now, several of them had abandoned their own pots and stood around him, closely following each move that he made. When he brought his big wooden spoon up to his mouth, they strained to smell and taste the chili along with him. Old Father Fontanella of the Curia, frail and bent, hung on to a younger cardinal for support. His lips twitched as if he were reciting the rosary. Cardinal Lovano closed the lid. He was not quite finished.

  
Back at his table, the cardinal carefully unwrapped a crusty little nugget. He had been saving this treasure for a special occasion and now it had arrived. The finely aged cheese barely seemed edible. But when he began shaving the stone-like morsel into a bowl, his nose was treated to a feast of spicy aromas. Each magical scrape of the grater brought the cheese more to life. The cardinal lowered his face to the bowl, savoring the resurrection. This sharp, spirited pecorino romano playing over the top of his chili would be just the final touch it required.

   Cardinal Lovano carried the cheese to his pot and opened the lid again. The other cardinals, who had been joined by two more judges, pressed closer. When he sprinkled on his cheese, the bouquet of delicious fumes that had been hovering over the pot burst into full bloom. Old Fontanella cried out, Santissimo Padre—Holy Father!” Cardinal Lovano bowed his head and closed his eyes. The cardinal from Milan was the humblest of men, but he knew that satisfaction with a job well done was not a sin. Breaking into a broad smile, he looked up at his fellow priests. He had worked hard and his recipe was good. It was very good. Maybe even . . . infallible.

(c) Joe Karson 2020