Young Filipescu of Gorgani had a taste for a rather complicated dish made from veal liver. Very few people knew how to prepare it properly, and among all the cooks, one butcher was renowned: after carving up animals, he would move into the kitchen and, struck by the wing of culinary art, produce dishes no one ever forgot. But because he had many duties and little time, he had been trying for a while to pass on his talent to his only daughter, Dina.
At midday he would take a break, set aside his cleaver, stick the heavy knife into the bloodstained chopping block, and descend upon his daughter. Surrounded by the entire family— aunts, uncles, servants with overly curious faces—under the watchful eyes of her godmother, nearby cousins, and sometimes even the neighborhood priest, Dina would cook, strictly following her father’s artistic instructions.
A few words about Dina: she had clear, tranquil eyes that relaxed you at first glance. She seemed gentle and kind. But beyond those modest eyes began a carnival. As dull as life in the butcher’s shop was, her imagination blossomed into green balconies of fantasy: unknown cities, enchanted beings, and above all a garden of delights. There she had many friends, among them one Leonida Prapur—so called because he fed on membranes and delicate skins. He was a tiny, winged creature, full of charm. Dina would offer him scraps from the butcher shop, placing them on leaves, in walnut shells, behind the house, tossing them into flowing water or wells. In return, Leonida told her stories of his adventurous youth, when he had once been a great warrior.
The butcher suspected his daughter was somewhat dreamy and kept her constantly busy. He never imagined she had a vast inner world, let alone a friend named Leonida. Even if she had told him, he would not have believed it.
From time to time, the butcher received orders from young Filipescu, especially for veal liver dishes. Filipescu, from a distinguished family of boyars with residences throughout Bucharest—including Gorgani—was a fastidious type. Tall and thin, with large pale ears half-covered by a silk turban, he would taste food thoughtfully, as if sinking into meditation.
On the day everything began, Filipescu ordered stuffed liver—a demanding dish. The liver was carefully cut, filled with a mixture of chopped liver, heart, goose fat, raisins, pine nuts, egg, dill, and orache, wrapped in caul fat, and slowly fried in butter. This delicately seared pâté was laid on lettuce, sprinkled with orange juice, glazed with a touch of jelly, and delivered discreetly to the back gate of the Filipescu household.
The butcher decided it was time for Dina to attempt this dish, one that required passion. Under the gaze of the entire family, she carefully washed the heart, then the liver. And when she picked up the caul fat, Leonida appeared. Drawn by its fine, creamy webbing, he slipped—through a clumsy motion—into the minced liver mixture.
How could one find such a tiny being in a mass of egg and meat?
Dina struggled as advice poured in from all sides. She dropped the spoon, spilled the pepper, forgot the mandatory pinch of cumin. Leonida did not reappear, and Dina fell into deep sadness.
The dish reached Filipescu’s table on time.
From then on, things proceeded oddly. The next day, tiny leaf-like wings appeared on Filipescu’s large ears.
At first, he found it amusing. The petals fell gently into the washbasin. But more grew in their place—rapidly. Within a day, the floor of his chamber was carpeted with wings.
He ordered them gathered and burned. They did not burn. They did not wither. They resembled carp scales, oat flakes, the fingernails of sylphs.
Within weeks, the entire Gorgani district was covered. Houses and streets glittered with glassy wings.
Doctors and healers were summoned. Elixirs, ointments, oils, pills—nothing worked. The wings kept growing.
At last, questions were asked. They led back to the stuffed liver, the butcher, and Dina, who was urgently summoned.
The knife crunched through drifts of wings. Filipescu lay on a divan, gazing resignedly at the sky, doctors circling him. Under the flutter of scales, a faint song could be heard—perhaps from the green balconies of imagination. Or so it seemed to Dina, mourning Leonida’s banal death.
When Filipescu finally asked her whether she always cooked the liver, and Dina admitted this was her first time, he asked a final question:
“Do you like cooking?”
Silence fell. Even the wings paused.
Dina confessed—slowly, carefully—that she did not like cooking at all.
As she spoke, a torrential rain fell over Gorgani. When the sun returned, the wings had vanished.
Filipescu resumed his life, his ears content once more.
As for Dina, she never cooked again. A year later, she began singing at weddings and feasts. Her first ballad, which crossed the city from one end to the other, told of the extraordinary deeds of Leonida the Winged.
