Chapter 22
Nadia flips the sign from Open to Closed, and the entire staff looks ready to pass out.
It has been twelve long, grueling hours from the beginning of lunch service to the end of dinner, but we pulled it off.
More than that, the sesame-crusted bluefin is a smash hit, and the man we were fairly certain was the critic for The Guardian left smiling . . . a rare enough trait for a Parisian.
If tomorrow goes as well as today did, and I have no reason to believe it won’t, we’ll be able to off-load the entire massive cut of fish with only a minimal ding to the restaurant’s finances. The sort that we could offset with one splashy Valentine’s Day tasting menu with a good markup.
I take solace in knowing that if Michelin had been at the service, they wouldn’t have withheld points for the quality of the products or our price point. Joelle has risen magnificently to the challenge, and I am immensely proud of her.
“Patronne, can I have a word?” Joelle looks dead on her feet, and her hard work hasn’t helped her swelling. I consider telling her to go home and rest and that we can handle her concerns in the morning, but she looks troubled enough that postponing the matter might keep her from sleep.
I usher her into my office, where she flops unceremoniously in the chair opposite my desk. I take my usual spot and pray she’s not about to quit on me after a service that, while successful, was more than a little harrowing.
“We need a new sous.” She croaks the words, exhaustion and pain coloring every syllable. “Soon. And I think we need to hire from outside the house.”
I lace my fingers and exhale. “Agreed.”
She sits up a little straighter. “I expected more of a fight.”
I hold my hands up in surrender. “Joelle, it is your kitchen, and I want you to have the best possible team under you. I freely admit that I overestimated Girard’s value to the staff, and I’m honestly glad we learned what he is capable of.
And while I think promoting from within is generally the best practice, I’ve been racking my brain all night trying to figure out who could take over for Girard, and I’m frankly at a loss. ”
She blinks. “Merci, Patronne.”
It’s clear now that it’s not only my instincts I need to trust, but hers as well. As éugenie always said, it’s a poor chef (or manager) who doesn’t use all the talent at their disposal to its best advantage.
“Do you have any contacts? Anyone you’d like to bring in?”
She shrugs. “Most of the people I’d want have other positions, unfortunately. I’ll have to do some digging.”
The daisy key chain in my bag flashes deep in the synapses of my brain. “I might have someone we could consider. No promises, but he’s talented.”
Her eyes look pleading. “Je t’en prie, not another oh-so-talented genius chef whose ego can’t fit in the kitchen.”
I shake my head. “No, quite the opposite. Brilliant, but he doesn’t see it. Maybe you could help him with that if it works out.”
She looks dubious, as though a male chef with an underinflated ego is some sort of mythical creature. After a beat she finally says, “D’accord, but on a trial basis.”
Naturally, she wants to vet him herself, which is absolutely her right. I extend my hand for her to shake. “You have my word. Now go get some sleep.”
I put her in a cab myself and retreat to my office before I head home. This idea may not work at all, and I’ll have to tell Joelle this unicorn of a chef is otherwise engaged, but it’s worth a shot. She doesn’t need to know the particulars of this bizarre experiment I’m living.
I pull out my phone and look in the contacts. Sure enough, Nikolai is listed there along with his parents. I look at my messaging app, and it appears we have made good on our promise to stay in touch. For years. Not daily, but it seems that we check in multiple times a week.
I read through a long string of our correspondence, which ranges from the banal to the heartfelt.
It looks as though we’ve shared our wins and frustrations, our hopes and disappointments without fail since I left Denmark.
We’ve met up a handful of times, and I find a few selfies of us in various European cities.
He’s offered suggestions for my blog, which is thriving, and I’ve been encouraging him along as well.
And I am delighted. Somehow, notwithstanding this itinerate lifestyle of mine, I have managed to forge a friendship that has lasted.
I’m only sorry that I’ve missed out on so much of it.
And I’ve learned, for better or for worse, my time travel is having an impact on my “real” timeline, though I think that term is disingenuous now.
All of these timelines are now, more or less, mine.
And there is one realization that horrifies me. He’s still at The Mesmerist, though finally working in the kitchen as a vegetable prep cook. Svend has since retired, thank the stars, but Nikolai is still being underutilized.
I should feel sorry for Nikolai, but the emotion pumping through my veins right now is rage.
How dare Bj?rn not see that one of the best chefs in his sphere of influence is being wasted pouring, chopping, and dicing?
I don’t know if Nikolai is just getting off his shift or at home catching up on sleep, but I don’t care if he’s awake.
I’m texting him anyway, and it can be the first thing he sees in the morning.
ME: You’re coming to Paris. You’re going to be the new sous-chef at Maison Ortense. Ask your parents to take Pjuske for a couple weeks and pack some stuff in a bag. I need you here ASAP.
Amazingly, his three dots appear.
NIKOLAI: Are you insane?
A truly interesting question given my recent habit of time travel.
I still haven’t ruled out the possibility that this is all just the result of a traumatic brain injury at Chloe’s party and that I will wake up in a hospital room in my own timeline, three days of my life unaccounted for.
I hope that’s not the case, but coma dreams this lucid don’t seem all that probable.
ME: Never saner.
Fine. The veracity of that statement is questionable, but it’s true enough in this context.
ME: You need to be doing more than peeling carrots. This is where you belong.
NIKOLAI: I’m scheduled to work . . .
ME: And how many times have you ever called out? I am asking for you to give it a shot for two weeks. If you hate it, you can go back to Bj?rn.
His three dots appear and disappear repeatedly, so I busy myself hunting for flights, pleased to see available flights for under a few hundred dollars. I’ll buy the ticket myself, so as not to incur another charge for the restaurant after the bluefin incident. I don’t wait for him to make excuses.
ME: There is a 7 a.m. flight tomorrow . . . Well, later this morning . . .
NIKOLAI: You mean . . . less than seven hours from now?
ME: Yep. You could be sous-chef in a two-star Michelin kitchen by 10 a.m., traffic permitting. Are you really gonna say no? Don’t give me any excuses about sleep—you can nap on the plane.
NIKOLAI: Do you really think I’m ready?
I don’t dignify this with a response. Yet. I purchase the ticket and forward it to his email.
ME: Check your inbox, dweeb. You were ready for this eight years ago.
I take the regional train to Charles de Gaulle and stand sentinel at the passenger-arrival area, just beyond baggage claim, a mere quarter of an hour before Nikolai’s flight is due.
Impeccable timing, and I’m armed against my scant night’s sleep with a coffee strong enough to dissolve the glaze on the dingy subway tiles. All good omens.
Nikolai emerges through the frosted automatic doors, and I realize, a little too late, that I don’t know how to greet him.
A hug? Parisian air kisses? A firm handshake seems a little formal .
. . But he takes all the guesswork out of it when he stops in front of me, discards his luggage, picks me up in a bear hug, and does a full 360-degree twirl before he sets me back down.
I am fairly certain that no one has tried that with me in approximately twenty-eight years. At the age of nine I’d surpassed most adult women in height, and I’d been sure the days of twirling were over. Apparently not.
I take his carry-on backpack while he manages his larger wheeled case, and he takes my hand as we wend our way to the taxi stand. Once inside, he pulls me close and pelts a soft kiss on the curve of my neck.
He breathes in and lingers a moment. “I love the way you smell of coffee . . . and vanilla . . . and gardenias? Jasmine?”
I think of the scent profile of my perfume and chuckle.
“Four out of four. Well done.” Ironic that my mother, who willfully misunderstands me because she refuses to accept that I won’t morph my entire personality to please her, was the one who unearthed my signature scent.
She wanted the dutiful daughter who stayed in Solvang, married a nice boy in tech, and had kids for her to show off on Facebook to all her friends but whom she was simply “too busy” to visit.
She also wouldn’t mind if I’d find a way to lose about six inches in height.
Eight if I really wanted to make her day. Anything to make myself smaller.
I’m rewarded by another small peck on the cheek and one on the back of my hand.
It’s as adventurous as he dares in the back of a taxi.
And I’m glad for his restraint. But it makes me surprised that I couldn’t detect any trace of a formal romantic attachment in the whole litany of text messages we’ve shared over the past eight years.
I may or may not have read the entirety of them while trying—and failing—to sleep last night.
It felt more like snooping than perhaps it should have.
I mean, the phone I have in my possession right now is the actual phone I have waiting at Burbank Airport under Rosaline’s safekeeping.
And the woman he knows and cares about is . . . basically me. If it weren’t for the decision I personally made to try for the job at The Mesmerist, Paris Sabrina wouldn’t have known Nikolai existed. And I have a hunch he might be the secret ingredient that Maison Ortense has been needing.
“Are you really sure about this?” Nikolai looks an impressive shade of kelp green as the taxi slows and we exit onto the pavement in front of Maison Ortense.
It’s a gracious old building in true Haussmann style: ivory facade with ornate iron scrollwork.
And for someone who has been shoved behind a bar instead of being allowed to shine in a kitchen, I imagine it’s a little imposing.
His vibrant blue eyes linger on the red plaque with two Michelin stars that so resemble the daisy key chain he gave me.
I tug on his arm so he’s forced to break eye contact with the infernal plaque. “There isn’t a doubt in my mind that you will impress everyone in there. Including me.”
His usual rosy complexion has gone pallid. “But what if there are doubts in mine? I’ve never been more than a line cook. What if I can’t keep up?”
“The hardest part is the timing. I will be at your elbow helping you with pacing all night. Consider me your link to the expo for the night. Training wheels. And Joelle will be at the helm. You have it in you to follow her lead.”
He lets loose a shaky breath. “I suppose.”
“Go on and suppose all you like. I know you can handle this. A hundred kroner says you stayed up memorizing the menus and recipes I forwarded you and you’ve got them all committed to memory.” I arch a brow at him, daring him to contradict me.
He offers a grudging nod. “I did. Joelle has done well with the bluefin. It was a smart choice, given the time constraints.”
I drag him through the doors. “That she has. And we have to do it again today. Better, if we can.”
He screws on a neutral expression, and he does an admirable job of not looking terrified as we enter the kitchen.
Most of the staff are in the very earliest stages of prep, though several, like Yann the saucier, had to be in more than an hour ago to get things simmering long before service.
All heads swivel at my arrival. That used to intimidate me, if I’m being honest, but I find it natural now.
Joelle and I are the captains of this ship, and this is our stalwart crew looking for some leadership.
And now I know I have it in me to provide it.
I smile but not too broadly. “Bonjour, chefs.”
They look up, most setting down their utensils as though they’ve been called to attention. “Bonjour, Chef,” they reply in chorus. That never gets old.
“I have a new sous-chef for us today, imported from Copenhagen especially for you all. I know you will treat him with the courtesy and respect you did his predecessor.”
There is a failed attempt to hide a snort of derision somewhere near the butcher’s station. Perhaps that’s setting the bar too low. I’m beginning to see Girard wasn’t held in as high esteem as I’d previously let myself believe.
“Better still, you treat him with the courtesy and respect you’d like to receive, were you in his shoes.
” The smirks disappear from faces. “I am counting on you to show him the ropes today. Show him not just how we do things at Maison Ortense, but how we wish to see them done moving forward. Can you do that for me?”
The eyes staring back at me are a little wider now. I don’t know if I’ve impressed them, but I’ve certainly shocked them. They answer, “Yes, Chef.” In unison.
And I hope they can keep up that cohesion for the rest of the service.