Chapter 10
The following day I stand at the massive industrial stove assigned for my use and take a reverential moment of silence in the empty kitchen before setting to work.
This is the closest I will ever come to performing alchemy, and the process deserves respect.
I have a dozen large stockpots at my station, each to be filled with the magic potions that will elevate the flavors of the meat, seafood, and pasta we serve.
Saucier is a huge promotion from commis chef.
As the job title suggests, a saucier prepares all the sauces for every item on the menu and is considered the backbone of a classical kitchen.
In a kitchen that leans French? The saucier is a deity.
Every sauce is derived from one of the five “mother sauces” as laid out by the great Escoffier.
All cream- and cheese-based sauces are descended from the béchamel.
The silky velouté sauce is the starting point for any sauce with a white stock like chicken or fish.
Espagnole, or Spanish sauce, is the darker version of the velouté, often made with beef stock and red wine as its base ingredients.
Hollandaise, egg-based and smooth, is tricky but rich and buttery when done right.
And the sauce tomat, whether a smooth marinara or a rustic Bolognaise, is the bold flavor-filled crowd-pleaser and the basis for my curried Créole sauce.
When this job came up, I had to fly to Dublin to audition.
I’d spent weeks mastering the mother sauces.
I was convinced hollandaise would be the death of me, but with some help from more experienced colleagues, I got the knack of it.
Once I got a handle on those, I began to experiment.
I turned the espagnole into a killer bourguignonne sauce.
I made a Roquefort Alfredo to drizzle on steak that made one of my colleagues propose marriage, much to the laughing chagrin of his wife, who demanded the recipe.
My sauce Provencal, a derivative of the sauce tomat, is a particular source of pride.
The recipes and techniques all come back to me with the familiarity of old friends.
The best kind you can pick up after years apart like nothing has changed.
I love the first hour in the kitchen, before the rest of the staff arrives.
I live for the rhythm of chopping and dicing, simmering and stirring.
Adding spices and coaxing out flavors, muttering my little incantations like a witch over her cauldron—or a dozen cauldrons, in my case.
Later the kitchen will be loud and chaotic when the rest of the staff arrive and set to task.
When the patrons are seated, it will all reach a fever pitch, and I’ll feel like an octopus longing for four more tentacles to manage everything.
And I love every moment of it. Feel inspired in ways I haven’t for years. Once I have all the necessary sauces simmering away, I snag a smaller stockpot from the storage room and work on a small batch of my Créole sauce to audition.
I am so deeply in the zone that when Fiona taps me on the shoulder, I shriek and drop a spoon in the béarnaise.
“Sorry ’bout that, Sorensen. You okay?”
I fish the mixing spoon out with a ladle and move to the sink to wash the whole mess off. “Now that I’ve put my skin back on after jumping out of it, fine. Though I may need a day or two to recover from the heart attack.”
Her expression grows awkward. “Funny enough, it’s your schedule I want to talk to you about.
I don’t know how to say this delicately, but Rian’s mum rang up the restaurant last night—mid dinner rush, mind—demanding to talk to Padraig about your schedule.
Asking for fewer and more consistent hours so you have more time for Rian. ”
I drop the spoon, this time on the floor. I pick it up and fling it in the sink. “She. Did. Not. Tell me no one put her through.”
Fiona crosses her arms over her chest and casts her eyes downward. “We eventually put her through. She wouldn’t stop ringing the place, and we couldn’t have the reservation line tied up.”
Of course caller ID is a thing in this era, but they’re still using a landline for reservations. They don’t have the capacity to easily block her number like we do nowadays. And knowing Orla, she’d just start calling from other phones until she got what she wanted.
“Oh my god.” I grip the edge of the stainless-steel sink for support.
And I know immediately this is all because of the lunch yesterday.
Because I offered her my empathy and expressed my willingness to help manage things for Rian when she isn’t able, so she’s butting in again to ensure I make good on my promise.
She never tried this in my original timeline because I’d never made such overtures of solidarity.
“Needless to say, Padraig isn’t pleased. Thankfully his own mother-in-law is the overbearing sort as well, so he has some compassion for you and your situation. But his patience isn’t infinite.” She doesn’t look reproachful but rather pitying, which feels significantly worse.
I fight the urge to fling an entire pot of velouté sauce across the room, but I have neither the desire to clean it up nor the time to make another batch.
“Heard, Chef. I’ll talk to her. I’ll let her know she’s never to call the place for any reason.
Even if it’s for a reservation, it’ll come through me. ”
Fiona pats my shoulder like a comrade in arms, which we are on many levels.
“As a friend, I highly recommend making sure Rian is involved in this conversation. Preferably leading it. I’ve been married ten years, and my mother-in-law is generally a lamb, but when a boundary needs to be set, it’s on Liam to pull out the map and pencil to draw it out for her, so to speak.
Let Rian be the bad guy. She’ll still blame you, but she’ll know Rian’s on your side and her hands will be tied. ”
How I wish that were true. But Rian is so devoted to Orla that he would never make good on threats to break or even lessen contact over a violation of boundaries, and she bloody well knows it. This is going to be a headache, no matter how much more compassion I bring to the table this time.
“Listen, I know it’s grand altogether, but mothers pull this codswallop a lot when their boys get serious with a girl. She’s testing the waters to see what she can get away with. Just stand firm and it’ll pass. Unless you guys have a baby, in which case all bets are off.”
I groan at the idea of how insufferable she’ll be if Rian and I decide to have kids.
That has never been high on my list of priorities, and she makes the prospect entirely unappealing.
I can’t imagine how little patience I’ll have for her micromanaging while trying to balance childcare, work, and the demands of marriage.
“Thanks.” I’m utterly deflated, knowing I’ll have to confront this situation head-on as soon as Rian and I are alone in the same room together.
“I appreciate you dealing with this. But on the bright side, Padraig thinks the world of you. I tolerate you better than I do most people. We see great things for your future here. Now let’s see how everything is coming along today.”
I stand aside as she takes a dozen tasting spoons and tries a bit of each, cleansing her palate with a bite of water cracker between samples.
The grimrod—a saffron hollandaise with a bright lemony finish—has earned her praise.
I’d spent weeks perfecting it in this timeline, and I am beyond pleased to learn I haven’t lost my touch.
“What’s this one?” She indicates a smaller pot, less than a quarter of the size of the others, with a bubbling red sauce with a tomato base. A frisson of anticipation burbles in my stomach. This sensation—anxiety tinged with adrenaline—has never lessened.
“I’ve been experimenting with a sauce Créole. Adding a dash of curry with the traditional Créole spices to try an East-meets-West sort of thing. I’d love your thoughts, Chef.” My nerves force a lapse into formality, but hopefully she’ll consider it a sign that I’m taking the audition seriously.
She finds another clean spoon, and this time she spoons a small amount of the sauce on a thin slice of baguette.
Her expression shifts from thoughtfulness to something like . . . delight. “Sorensen, if Padraig doesn’t use this on something, I will personally tell him he’s an eejit to his face.”
I laugh. “No, you won’t. You’re nothing like that reckless. But I appreciate you even joking about it.”
She takes another spoonful for another slice of baguette. “Well, he’d deserve it at any rate.”
I can’t contain a smile. “Thanks for the vote of confidence. I’ve been toying with this one for a while.” A decade longer than she realizes or than I can ever let on.
She takes a third helping. “It’s damned fine work. I’ll send Padraig over to try it when he’s in.”
A lilting tenor voice cuts the air. “Next time you use one of your three wishes for a man to appear, I’d pick someone a helluva lot better looking than me.”
Fiona, as his next in command, is permitted a snort of derision at his self-deprecating humor. “Sorensen’s got a winner here, Chef.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.” He accepts a sample of the Créole sauce on a baguette from Fiona. I try not to hold my breath in anticipation, but I fail miserably at the task.
Padraig doesn’t spare me a glance but locks eyes with Fiona. “You’re right. I’d be an idiot not to put this on the menu.”
Fiona’s eyes float heavenward as if she’s offering up a prayer for patience. “I swear you have the hearing of a bloody bat.”
Mischief glints in his hazel-green eyes. “Not a thing is said in this place that I don’t hear.”
She shakes her head. “Like I said, you’re part bat.”
He places the sample plate in the sink and leans against the stainless-steel tub with the ease that comes with literally owning the joint. “Sonar would be a cool nickname, but I don’t suggest you try it out.”