Chapter 6
I enter Hotel Esmeralda on Edward’s arm, enjoying the warmth of his flank against mine despite the muggy air of the ballroom that’s already overwarm from the heat of too many bodies. The ballroom really is one of the most sumptuous spaces in New Orleans, and I’m glad for the chance to see it again.
In years past, the appetizers passed by tuxedo-clad waiters have been first rate: smoked salmon, caviar, savory-filled pastries—some classic, some experimental.
Last time I was in this timeline, Edward hadn’t cooked for the party.
Perhaps something small has changed for him as well, like making all the lights in traffic instead of being held up.
Maybe this time he arrived on time and was roped into the job .
. . A shiver trickles down my spine like a frigid bead of sweat as I consider how many other things may have changed just enough to make a world of difference.
I’m several years newer to the business than Edward, so I know fewer people here, but I don’t feel as daunted by the sensation now as I did back then.
Now I am used to being in rooms of people I don’t recognize, it being a rather critical function of my work.
Young Sabrina was worried about being a wallflower and feeling left out and awkward.
Present-day me (I refuse to call myself old me) considers this an opportunity to observe and learn.
“Hell, Cecil Granby made it. He hasn’t bothered to come in four years.
I wonder what dragged him out?” Edward discreetly gestures toward a man who is actually wearing a smoking jacket unironically.
He is quite possibly the only person I’ve ever met who can pull off the look without coming across as an absolute loon.
The Rolodex—and given the year, it feels like a Rolodex—in my brain whirs to the card for Cecil Granby, the owner of Le Métropolitaine.
It’s one of the most exclusive eateries in town, on par with Hotel Esmeralda.
Perhaps even more posh. It also has a long and storied past, invaluable in history-steeped New Orleans, that Hotel Esmeralda lacks.
Edward’s boss, Jerome, and Cecil are longtime friendly rivals.
I have the advantage of knowing Cecil’s pet-project restaurant in New York will earn its first Michelin Star in 2012.
Jerome, despite efforts to break into Michelin markets, hasn’t yet been successful.
From the scuttle-butt in the industry, their little feud turned from friendly to hostile shortly after Cecil’s triumph.
But one point on which Jerome and Cecil, and most of the culinary establishment, can agree is that New Orleans not being a Michelin city is a crime against gastronomy.
I don’t dispute this. Only just now in my own timeline is Michelin expanding to New Orleans and across the Southeast, an honor far past due to this culinary gem of a city.
We’d not been courageous enough to introduce ourselves to Granby before, and I have a strong feeling that this is exactly what needs to change.
Moving from Jerome’s kitchen to Cecil’s would be a coup for Edward.
If he plays his cards right, it might accelerate his career.
I am convinced now that my role here is to make sure the two men make a good impression on each other.
I can’t think of anything better for Edward than getting him out of his toxic work environment.
“Let’s go talk to him.” I gently tug his arm in Cecil’s direction.
He looks at me as though I’ve just suggested we serve Cheez Whiz on saltines to the guests. “He has no idea who I am.”
I playfully tug on his arm again. “And how will that change if you don’t introduce yourself? This is a party in 2009 New Orleans, not a Mayfair ballroom in 1805. You don’t have to wait for a mutual acquaintance to introduce you.”
He looks dubious but plants a kiss on my temple as he gathers a long breath. “I guess we can give it a whirl?”
I return his kiss and meet his gaze with determination. “You have nothing to lose.”
I wish someone had told me the same thing at this age and a few other times in my life, but there’s no time to mull over that moldy regret now.
We approach Cecil, who doesn’t appear to be dismayed by our approaching him unbidden.
Edward smiles, exuding confidence, and introduces himself.
Edward mentions his employer and slides in a compliment about the last dishes he tried at Le Métropolitaine.
Very smooth. The pair seem sufficiently impressed with each other before Edward takes a long enough pause to introduce me.
I extend my hand. “A pleasure to meet you in person rather than by reputation alone, Chef Granby.”
Edward discreetly shoots me an astonished look. The version of Sabrina he knows is much shyer and would meet the introduction with some stuttered pleasantries and blushed cheeks.
“Enchanted, I’m sure. I was hoping to be introduced to the loveliest lady here this evening, and it seems that objective has been met in the first half hour.
How splendid.” Utter malarkey but well delivered.
He places a kiss on the back of my hand like a proper southern gentleman.
He’s a diminutive man, so he peers up at me without releasing my hand.
I don’t let the sensation of towering over him make me feel awkward.
It’s better to own the air in my own stratosphere.
“Are you in the business as well, my dear?”
“Rather new to it. I’m working as a commis chef at La Fontaine Mirabeau. Just out of culinary school.”
He chuckles, his accent of the Louisiana gentry thicker than swamp water. “Brava. No doubt my old friend Antoine is putting you through your paces.”
I can’t help but reciprocate a chuckle. “He is. But Jean-Rémy has been an amazing mentor and something of a firewall between Antoine’s temper and the rest of us.”
His posture straightens and recognition gleams in his eyes. “Oh, Ms. Sorensen, yes indeed. I’ve heard talk of you. If Jean-Rémy Landry has taken an interest in you, young lady, you must be a prodigious talent.”
Edward’s jaw twitches ever so slightly. I’m charming one of the most preeminent executive chefs in New Orleans, and I don’t think he’s all too pleased about it.
This should be his moment, not mine, but it does seem Cecil is more interested in poaching me from Antoine’s kitchen than Edward from Jerome’s.
This is not at all what I want. “Oh, I’m as eager to learn as any new chef worth their bleached coat.” I try to deflect the attention from myself, which contradicts every instinct I’ve honed to use every contact I can to advance. “Edward helped with the hors d’oeuvres tonight. Aren’t they amazing?”
Cecil locks eyes with Edward, his interest piqued. “Did you make the pastry for the savory palmiers? That was exceptional.”
Edward blanches a few shades. “No, sir. That would be our patissière, Lana. I made all the fillings, but the pastry is hers.”
Cecil looks vaguely disappointed. “Well, they were a good effort, son. Keep plugging away.” Cecil pats Edward’s shoulder and moves to mingle in the crowd, but not before shooting me a meaningful look. “You call me if you need a spot in a kitchen” is written all over his face.
“I need a drink,” Edward mutters as soon as Cecil is out of earshot.
I gesture to the champagne flute in his hand. He empties it in one gulp. “Something stronger,” he mumbles before he’s even lowered the glass, his words reverberating into the crystal and bouncing back in his face. He sets the flute down on an obliging tray with a clink and strides off to the bar.
Rather than chase after Edward, I maneuver toward one of the waiters with a tray of Edward’s appetizers.
I snag samples from two different trays to see what had made Cecil grow tepid.
The palmiers, a savory take on the sweet French cookie, filled with bacon, Gruyère, and caramelized onion, look fit for the cover of Bon Appétit magazine.
The pastry is on point, firm but flaky and bursting with butter flavor, but the fillings are dry and under-seasoned.
A crime punishable by flogging in New Orleans, the home of Cajun spices, I’m sure of it.
The canapé is standard: a thin slice of toasted baguette, cream cheese, smoked salmon, and a bit of dill.
Like the palmier, the baguette is the best part of the canapé and is Lana’s work, not Edward’s.
The cream cheese is unremarkable, the smoked salmon is bland, and the dill is wilted.
Rather than seeing this opportunity as an audition, or even just a chance to show off to his friends, Edward phoned in the whole thing and made tired, uninspired choices.
No one would complain about the fare tonight, but they wouldn’t be talking about it tomorrow, much less next week, except to praise Lana’s pastry work.
She earned the accolades, not Edward. Worse, he was given Lana’s excellent handiwork to form the foundation of something exceptional, and he let her down.
Remarkably, this makes me madder than the words I know he is about to speak against me.
There is little worse in my book than letting down colleagues, and that’s precisely what Edward has done.
And, not for the first or last time, he has sabotaged himself.
There is nothing I can do for this Edward. I’ve only been here half a day but know, deep within myself, that this relationship was always fated to end when it did.
I scan the crowd for Edward and feel my stomach drop as I see him in the corner surrounded by his small group of friends from the restaurant that he trusts aren’t out to stab him in the back on the way up the ladder.
I remember this moment from fifteen years ago, though I approached him blissfully unaware last time.
Now, I am at least armed with the knowledge of what’s coming so I can brace myself for it.
I take three steadying breaths and walk toward Edward and his entourage.