Chapter Thirty #2
My heart thundered, and my stomach flipped for more than one reason. “That sounds like a date.” I wrinkled my nose in jest. “I don’t think that’s allowed. Someone might report me to my boss.”
He rolled his eyes and laughed. “Consider it research. Eating someplace off the beaten path will provide a little contrast from all the tourist-centric cafés near the water.” He swung an arm in the direction of the pristine beauty of Nice below.
“Yeah, this is awful. I’m glad we’re getting away.”
He nudged me in the ribs for my sarcasm, and my arm rose on instinct to lock with his. Before I could pull away, he bent his elbow further and tugged me close.
“I wouldn’t worry about your boss,” he added quietly. “I’m confident he would approve.”
We walked back to our hotel in twilight and companionable silence, arms intertwined, and my heart screaming like a schoolgirl.
I entered the big white classroom with Lucas by my side the next morning. Our matching white chef’s hats and jackets were exactly the same, yet comically different. I hustled along beside him, avoiding curious stares from a handful of classmates in identical garb.
“I can’t believe they got my size this wrong,” I said. “I look ridiculous. Is this for a giant?”
He stifled a laugh. “This may be partially my fault,” he said. “I originally thought John would attend the classes with me. I guess I forgot to change the uniform order when I updated the attendees.”
“John?” I squeaked, sleeves flapping like a baby bird. “You mean the man with at least eight inches and a hundred pounds on me? That John?”
Lucas lost his sober expression and burst into laughter.
I shoved the sinking chef’s hat back up my forehead so I could see.
When he nodded emphatically, I whacked him with the length of my sleeve.
“Then this is not partially your fault, you goofball,” I whisper-screamed as he ran away. “This is all your fault.”
The workstations were tall and sturdy, like the ones high school chemistry students stood behind, except these, like everything else in the cavernous culinary arts classroom, were white.
Everything, everywhere, was white.
Lucas watched as I shoved my sleeves up on repeat. “I think it’s nice that we match,” he said.
“We do not match. We look like a pair of marshmallows, but a giant smashed one of us into a puddle.” I pinched the sides of my jacket and tugged them wide for emphasis.
Lucas sighed and reached for me.
I stilled, waiting to see what he’d do.
“Here,” he said. “Stop that. You’ll be covered in food if you don’t roll up these sleeves.” He took one of my arms between his hands and neatly rolled the stark-white material.
Electricity zigzagged through the air between us as he worked.
He made eye contact as he secured the fabric behind my crooked elbow.
When he reached for my other arm with abundant caution, I suspected he felt the energy too.
I hadn’t been touched by a man other than Robert since I was still a kid, younger than Camilla.
Everything about this felt different. I felt cared for, treasured. Precious.
The urge to grab onto him with both hands was powerful. To be held by this man. To be kissed—
Lucas finished rolling up my sleeve, then set me free.
I pulled in a short, shuddering breath and hoped he didn’t notice.
A few minutes later, a dozen more students in well-fitting uniforms filed into the room like a wave, choosing their tables until no open spots remained.
I peeked at the newcomers’ faces, eager to stop myself from staring at Lucas.
Were any of them from America? Did everyone speak English?
Oh, god. Was I supposed to speak French?
The crushing sensation that I was a complete impostor and likely to humiliate myself sat on my chest like an elephant.
“Why are you panicking?” Lucas asked, pulling my eyes to him. “Did something happen? How can I help?”
I made wide, wild eyes at him. “I think the real question is why you aren’t freaking out,” I said. “This is a professional culinary arts class in France. This is huge, and I don’t know anything about cooking. I’m a baker.”
He waved unworried hands. “We aren’t cooking,” he promised. “Only learning how we can make foods on plates look better.”
“Okay, well, what if I can’t do that? What if we both fail?”
His brows rose. “I’m not going to—”
I grabbed his arm. “What if I fall down?” Memories of wiping out in my kitchen, at the restaurant, and in my backyard flashed into mind. “I do that a lot more than I should.”
“At our age, probably any amount of falling is too much,” he agreed. “So we won’t do that. Yes?”
“Yes.” I bobbed my head. Obviously. “No falling.”
“None.”
I released a labored sigh. “You’re right. We can do this. It’s not hard. It’s art.” Creativity was my strong suit. Plus I’d researched food plating extensively leading up to the trip. I knew the technical terms and techniques, more than enough to prevent me from embarrassing myself.
“I forgot to ask you this morning,” he said, interest furrowing his brow. “Were you able to reach the marina?”
My thoughts jumped to our morning together. We’d ordered real French press coffee from a café near the beach and shared a sliced baguette spread with butter and jam. I’d told him about the boat at the yacht club.
“I spoke with the woman I met at the yacht club last month, and she’s looking into it and calling me back.”
A tall, broad-shouldered man in a black ensemble, including a chef’s coat and hat, entered the room, and the class went silent.
He raised his arms above his head and spoke in French.
Thankfully, he switched to English a split second later.
“Welcome, students,” he declared. “Call me Chef. Raise your hand if you’re in crisis.
Otherwise, we’re covering a lot of material in a short amount of time, so let’s save questions for the end of the day. ”
I kneaded my fingers in anticipation. I had dozens of questions already, and we hadn’t even started.
“First we will plate scallops,” Chef said. He lifted a plump circle of white flesh into the air for us to see. Then, without warning, he chucked it into the classroom.
I gasped.
Chef chuckled as someone at the table in front of me thrust up a hand and caught it.
The student examined the disk. “Plastic,” he called.
Chef crossed his arms and nodded. “All the foods we’ll use for the next few days, while we learn and practice techniques, are replicas.
That means you can plate, rinse, and repeat the processes until you get the effect you’re attempting.
You can get your supplies out now. They’re stored beneath the tabletops. ”
Lucas and I arranged the contents on our workstation.
Sauces in plastic squeeze bottles. Small pots with jams and butters.
Oils, purees, reductions, and emulsions.
We lined up shakers of spices and seasonings beside bundles of fresh herbs and edible flowers.
And finally, a plastic toy box of fake foods.
“Let’s dig in!” Chef called, rubbing his palms together as he walked the aisles. “Often, when we plate, we use odd numbers. Let’s start there.”
I placed three plastic scallops on my plate. Lucas plated five.
“This is a popular technique that draws the eye around the surface, causing our brains to take in more details,” Chef said. “Now, we use the sauces and liquids like edible paint. Plating food is art, and we are the artists.”
I slid my eyes in Lucas’s direction, expecting to share a commiserating grin. Instead, I found him too absorbed to notice me. All around the room, everyone else busily arranged scallops on their plates.
I eyeballed the other ingredients.
“If you aren’t sure where to begin,” Chef announced, drawing my eyes to him. “Try overturning a teacup on the plate before you add the food. Shake a seasoning, like pepper or paprika, over the cup. Now, remove the cup, and voilà, a perfect circle of color for your base.”
A few students made soft sounds of ooh and ahh.
Chef returned to his place on the platform and worked methodically through countless ways to dress up a handful of scallops. Then a steak. Some chicken. And soup.
We dropped dollops of tomato reduction paste onto cheese soup, then dragged a skewer through the colors. I’d used a similar technique with frosting and knew the trick well.
Chef made the process seem magical.
Something in my gut insisted this lesson was nice, but plating was not for me. I did not share Chef’s passion at all.
Chef spoke of edible flowers as if he’d invented them, but I’d used the same colorful buds to add interest, height, and texture to a number of specialty cakes every week for three years.
By lunchtime, I was mentally drained and out of motivation. I tried pretending all the food was pastry and imagined how I could translate the skills learned here to improve my business back home.
When Chef demonstrated the use of heavy, Dijon-based spreads on plates for flank steak, I imagined the mustard was caramel sauce, and the steak was a brownie.
His paprika was my cinnamon sugar.
Beside me, Lucas intently mimicked every move our teacher made. I couldn’t help but think he’d brought the wrong staff member for training, and I needed to tell him sooner rather than later. I didn’t want to plate for one more hour, let alone three more weeks, and a lifetime after that.
I also didn’t want to disappoint him. Lucas had brought me all the way to France because he believed in me. Could I really let him down?
He smiled and nudged me, pleased with his plate. I beamed appropriately in response. His joys were my joys, because I cared about his well-being. Just as he cared for mine.
I refocused on my plate. I could be an excellent plater of food for Lucas in the evenings and run my baking company by day. Couldn’t I? Why did it have to be one or the other?
“You okay?” he whispered. “Is he going too fast?”
“No.” I shook my head. “I’ve got it.” I upturned the bottle of pea puree and streaked the poison-green goo across a jet-black plate.
I just had to make it through this lesson. Then I had dinner plans with Lucas. Something major to look forward to, and only a few hours away.
When I might finally meet my biological dad.