4. Béchamel
BéCHAMEL
*use a pinch of garam masala instead of nutmeg if you’re feeling adventurous.
“ Y ou can do this.”
My whisper echoed down the corridor connecting the main house at Prideview to the staff quarters behind the kitchen and above the garage. It was literally a fork in the road.
If I continued to the right, I could follow the caterers streaming in and out of the kitchen that was so familiar, it had been my second home since high school. The only home I had left now that Nonna had moved back to Italy.
I could even change into one of the spare uniforms and pretend I’d never put on the vintage Dior slip dress Louis had forced on me at an estate sale in the Sixteenth Arrondissement last month. It would be completely appropriate and completely expected.
Completely old Marie.
If I turned left, I would cut through the rose garden and join Joni and Nathan when they arrived, as if I, too, were a legitimately invited guest along with some of the wealthiest and most influential people in the country, if not the world.
According to Joni’s last text, they were five cars from the valets. I had until then to make my choice.
I stared at my reflection in one of the mirrors lining the hallway.
“You look ridiculous,” I told myself. “You look naked .”
I still wasn’t sure how I’d let Joni talk me into the blush-colored silk, which was only a shade or two from my natural skin tone.
Held up by whisper-thin straps, the buttery fabric flowed over my body like water to my ankles.
My only accessories were the St. Mary medallion on the thin gold chain I’d received at my confirmation and the bold red lipstick Louis had declared my new trademark.
When I’d modeled the dress for my sister over FaceTime, her applause was immediate.
But now, with my short, dark hair slicked behind my ears, the style seemed to make the uneven parts of me even more prominent.
My lips, with their asymmetrical fullness, looked absurdly provocative.
My breasts, which had always felt uncomfortably large for my height, were right out there .
And my green eyes seemed even wider than normal, blinking like a scared deer under the fluorescent lighting. I felt like a fraud.
“Marie?”
I was shaken out of my doubts by the sound of my name in a very thick, very matronly French accent. As Ondine Bataille stepped into the kitchen doorway to approve outgoing trays of hors d’oeuvres, her eyes met mine and popped open with delight.
“ Ma chére Marie!” she cried as her short, squat form toppled forward, arms out for an embrace. “You are back!”
I traded kisses to each cheek in the way that had become familiar during the last year in France, then allowed myself to be drawn into a tight hug by my mentor. She smelled the same as ever, like vanilla, butter, and a hint of white wine. Gray curls tickled my face as she squeezed me close.
“ Oh, là là ,” she whispered as she looked me over. “You are a vision. Now I see why you don’t have a moment to say hello.”
I flushed. “I…it’s a lot, I know.”
“ Bien s?r , it is,” Ondine agreed in her no-nonsense way. “But also, very beautiful. Marie, I never knew you can be so…” That hand waved again, this time more like it was summoning someone from far away.
“Ostentatious?” I volunteered, already feeling my cheeks pink.
“I was going to say belle .”
“Oh. Um. Thank you—I mean, merci .”
It was still strange, getting these sorts of compliments. In Paris, no one had ever known the old Marie, so they were never surprised to see me like this. Here, everyone seemed shocked, like they never imagined I could appear so…human.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t come earlier,” I said. “I knew you were prepping for the party, and I’m not due to start back until tomorrow.”
“And you are obviously meeting someone.” Ondine looked over my dress, my hair, and my makeup like she was appraising cuts of meat at the market. “I would not have recognized you until you turned. You are so different. Si élégante .” She smiled, almost sadly. “So lovely. You enjoyed Paris?”
I nodded enthusiastically. “Of course. You know I did.” I had sent her letters saying as much, though she only ever sent two curt notes in return.
Ondine wasn’t much for correspondence. She hated email and texting even more.
“Thank you so much for talking to your friends at the Institute. I learned so much there.”
“Is Henri still a horrible snob?”
I snorted. Snob was probably putting it lightly. Henri Gestault, the chef who taught knife work classes, was the strictest instructor at the Institute.
“He was great,” I lied, knowing they were good friends.
Ondine nodded happily. “Good, good. Now, where are you going in this confection? You look better than the croquembouche I make for tonight.”
She rolled her eyes, and I understood why.
The caramel-encrusted tower of custard-filled choux pastries wasn’t the most difficult dessert in her repertoire, but it was impressive, especially when built into extravagant shapes and designs.
Mrs. Lyons almost always requested it for parties like this.
It was, however, time-consuming to bake and fill what sometimes ended up being thousands of creampuffs.
“What was it this year?” I asked.
“Monticello.”
“Thomas Jefferson’s house?”
It was a slightly unimpressive choice for a fortieth anniversary, but Mrs. Lyons was hamstrung by her own theme.
Every year, she chose a landmark to recreate that took the same amount of time to construct as the years she and Mr. Lyons had been married.
Thirty-six had been my favorite. That year, we got to make St. Paul’s Cathedral.
Ondine waved a hand. “I don’t know what this is. A house with a big dome, enough for five hundred guests. But she say it take forty years to build, just like them.”
Guilt twisted in my gut. Relatively simple or not, making enough choux for five hundred people was a job that must have taken forever on her own. “I should have come earlier. I could have helped you construct, at least.”
I followed her into the kitchen, where several assistants hired for the evening cooked away under Ondine’s direction. A few looked up, eyes flickering over my outfit, but they quickly returned to work. There was a lot to do.
“My last party,” Ondine lamented. “The next will be for Christmas. And you will be in charge, ma chére .”
Just like it always did, the knot in my stomach tightened at the reminder of why exactly I was here and why I’d been sent to Paris for a year.
Ondine was a former Michelin-starred chef whom the Lyonses had plucked from a restaurant in Paris thirty-five years ago.
But as she approached retirement (and the desire to return to France and spend her golden years with her grandchildren), she had convinced the family that paying to train me as her replacement would be cheaper and ultimately better for their tastes than paying for another top-tier chef at the height of their game.
I was a good cook. Maybe even on my way to being a great one. But I wasn’t sure culinary school had made me a proper chef. Not yet.
Nevertheless, a chef I was expected to be. And for the Lyons family, that title came with the responsibility of events like these, where no mistakes could happen.
I swallowed and smiled. “At least we have a few more months together before you leave.”
Ondine pinched my cheek and smiled. “ Oui , we do. Now, where are you going tonight, looking like dessert, hein ? Maybe you should go to the party instead.”
I bit my lip. “Well, actually…”
Ondine looked up from where she was checking one of her line cooks’ julienned zucchini. “You are going?”
I forced myself not to fidget with my dress, knowing the delicate silk would wrinkle with one twist. “My sister and her boyfriend were invited. His parents are neighbors, and she wanted me to come to…”
I drifted off. I didn’t want to lie to Ondine.
But my mentor knew me too well. I’d never said a word to her about my secret and soul-deep obsession with Daniel Lyons, but there had been hints that she was aware. A pat on the shoulder. A kind reassurance. And the look on her face right now.
“Marie,” she said in a low voice, coming closer so the others in the room wouldn’t hear. “I know you always want…that you and Monsieur Daniel might…” She looked over my dress, which practically screamed “Make me a woman!”
My cheeks blazed.
“It’s not like that,” I lied blatantly as my voice rose about two octaves. “My sister wanted me to come with her. That’s all, I swear.”
Ondine tipped her head. “Ah, well. You are young. You deserve to have fun and be a little stupid.” She patted my cheek before going back to her oversight of the kitchen. “But we have a saying in France, chérie . Ne jamais mélanger les torchons et les serviettes .”
I frowned as I mentally translated. “Never mix dish towels with napkins?”
The meaning was clear: everything and everyone had their place. But what did that make me at this moment? The dish towel?
“ Oui, your French is much better. Mince !” Ondine erupted as she rushed to the other side of the kitchen to snap at one of the chefs. “What do you think this is, a Starbucks? We are not making the pumpkin spice garbage, so pas de nutmeg, entendu ?”
I chuckled. That was Ondine: sweet one moment, salty the next. She had a mouth like a trucker when anyone made mistakes, and with a nose like a bloodhound, which was probably what made her such a brilliant chef.
“Marie,” she called with a wave of her hand. “ Viens . This andouille over-spiced my sauce. Tell me what it needs to fix.”
I approached the long marble counter and took the proffered spoon that had been dipped in the béchamel sauce.
“It’s to put with the veal, but I cannot serve like this.” She looked at the chef, who had the decency to stare at his feet. “You had better listen to what she say. She will be your boss if you want to work here again.”
I winced as I tasted the sauce. It did indeed have far too much nutmeg in it. “Blend it with some cashews and curry it with your Madras mix. Make that an option with some chutney and tamarind to balance the sweetness, if you have any.”
I had no doubt she did. The Lyonses’ kitchen was better stocked than the grocery store.
I snapped my fingers and was surprised when the ashamed sous-chef obediently handed me a bit of Ondine’s custom-made spice mix along with a bottle of tamarind extract.
I grabbed a pinch bowl from the cabinet above the stove and mixed the flavors together, careful not to get anything on my dress.
When I was finished, I handed a new spoon to Ondine for a taste.
“Ah, Marie,” she hummed, eyes closed, as though the new flavor soothed her senses. “This is why I miss you so much.”
Warmth replaced the knot in my chest as I relaxed, just like I always did when I finally got something right with Ondine. Or with anyone, for that matter.
“Maybe I should stay,” I offered before I could help myself, just as my cell phone dinged with a message from Joni, announcing her arrival. “I could help remake the sauce, and?—”
“No, no, no,” Ondine objected immediately. “I saw what you did, and I can fix. You go—go be the napkin tonight, my love. Because starting tomorrow, it’s nothing but dish towels for you.”