An unlucky young man named Bartholomew Berensky apprenticed to the famous Florentine chef, Ignacio Firenze.

Ignacio had honed his craft on the pirate vessels of the Mediterranean— the rambunctious mercenaries could only be quelled by Ignacio’s flavor packed feasts.

His meals became the stuff of legend— as his notoriety grew, other captains began to target his first ship, The Alvair, so they could enjoy the rare treasure of a home cooked meal upon the waves.

This is not to say Ignacio always parted willingly. There are three scars slashed across his face that would say otherwise.

This turbulent adolescence left Ignacio with enough tales to humble Homer & as many recipes to go toe to toe with Julia Child’s.

Salvation came on the wings of a storm— as it ripped the three masted Proveneo apart and tossed Ignacio into the sea. He washed ashore on the long contentious island of Corsica— an uneasy Italian refugee under authority of France.

For ten years Ignacio cooked for the distant relations of Napoleon on the Bonaparte estate. During which time a young man of Polish and Sardinian heritage appeared in his kitchens, Bartholomew Berensky. The madame, Louisa Bonaparte, favored the Bartholomew’s father, after he saved her favorite stallion from hoof rot, and asked Ignacio to guide Bartholomew as a favor to her.

It was a disaster.

Bart, as Ignacio called him, couldn’t cook to save his life. He once managed to burn the water— of which Ignacio suspected witchcraft, wherein it was simply unintentional chemistry.

Ignacio wanted to throttle the young man, but it felt akin to kicking a puppy or sleeping with your brother’s wife.

Unnecessarily cruel and startlingly easy.
Ignacio plotted to give Bart credit for his most elaborate dishes— as to shuffle him onto another unsuspecting master. But Louisa proved too fond of the young man.
“We couldn’t possibly break you two up. I have never tasted such divine combinations— it’s as if the pope has blessed your cooking. I can’t imagine letting either of your slip away from my kitchen.” Louisa said. Her lips darkened purple from wine from Versailles. Ignacio spent the night looking at his old ship knife. A battered hunk of wood with a rusted blade bent at a forty five degree angle. It had held steady on more than one attempted bucking overboard. Every galley cook knew you dig their knives in deep when a big wave rolled the ship.
The smell of salt spraying in the breeze. The odor of half rotted fish. The sweat that dripped tirelessly, like an eager dog. His heart swelled at the nostalgia— as the small gears in his mind began to spin.

The next week brought clear skies and a heavy sun. The estate stayed shuttered as the rays baked the dirt— searing away any arrogant foliage. Ignacio travelled to the far shore— an hours walk from the grounds. He withdrew a looking glass from his pocket. Eyes hungry to catch sight of white sails.
If he could not will the fates to move Bart, then he must call to the ocean to once again be the gem in its crown.