Chapter 23
Bon travail.” Joelle holds up her hand toward Nikolai in a high five gesture. She is, for the first time in recent memory, smiling while at work.
Nikolai returns the gesture and beams at her.
I’ve never seen anyone more natural in the kitchen.
From the moment he was placed in front of a stove, his nerves dissolved like a pinch of salt in boiling water.
He not only kept pace with Joelle and the rest of the staff but is also encouraging them to up their game.
Already. He didn’t need me by his side to excel; he just needed me out of the way.
And from the look on Joelle’s face, she’s ready to offer him a job for life.
And to sweeten the pot? We sold out of the blasted bluefin before any of it went bad.
Nikolai had suggested a second special: a bluefin tuna tataki appetizer.
Elegant little bites of sesame-seared tuna with elaborate garnishes that would allow a table to sample the tuna without committing to it for their main dish.
Nearly three-quarters of the tables ordered it, and the profit margin was even higher than Joelle’s dish.
Nikolai’s plane ticket is quickly becoming the best three hundred bucks I’ve ever spent.
Nikolai and I finally escape the kitchen and opt to walk the eight blocks back to my flat.
It’ll be cramped, but I could hardly ask him to foot the bill for temporary lodgings for a two-week trial period.
He’s been to Paris a few times but generally the more touristy parts of the city.
He’s as enchanted as I am to stroll into the “real” neighborhoods where average folks live and work.
“You were amazing today.” I pull my coat tighter around me against the autumn air that is just beginning to take on the fangs of winter.
He takes my hand in his. “I don’t know what to say other than thank you for the opportunity. It’s been like living a dream.”
I turn my head to look at him. “Nikolai, why? The Mesmerist will never use you to your full potential. If you’d left and found a job at even a middling restaurant back when we first met—one where they’d utilize your skills and invest in you—you’d be a head chef by now. Vying for stars and all the things.”
He looks up at the sky, where all the actual stars have been obscured by the low-hanging clouds of fall. “I don’t really care about the stars, though I know plenty of chefs say that without meaning it. I just want the chance to create and experiment. To feed people.”
“And that is a reachable goal for someone with your talents.” I squeeze his hand.
“All I know is, Joelle looked ready to propose marriage back there, which I doubt her poor boyfriend Paul would appreciate. But I think it’s safe to say she’ll want to offer you the job at the end of your trial period. If she can wait that long.”
He looks serious, taking a pause to gaze at the city enrobed in the soft glow of streetlights. “It doesn’t seem real.”
I fight the smile tugging at the corner of my lips. “I am more familiar with that sensation than I ever cared to be.”
His voice is low and strained. “What if today was a fluke?”
I roll my eyes. “First of all, it wasn’t and you know it.
How often do you practice at home?” I know from the historical record of our text messages that he develops new dishes at home All.
The. Time. He keeps careful notes of all his recipes in dozens of leather-bound notebooks.
His parents, friends, and neighbors are the best-fed people in all of Denmark.
“Three or four new recipes a week. Sometimes more when I’m feeling particularly creative.” He looks almost sheepish at the admission. Like it’s an indulgence to spend so much time cultivating a talent he’s not being paid to use.
“Precisely. You could probably plan five years of seasonally appropriate menus from your notebooks without breaking a sweat. My one worry was how well you’d manage a team, and you’re a natural at it.
You applied everything you learned at The Mesmerist along with what you’ve taught yourself at home to your work today, and you nailed it. Everyone noticed how good you are.”
“I loved it,” he confesses.
I lean over and brush a kiss on his cheek. “I could see that. And you deserve to have a life you’ll love.”
We stop in the middle of the sidewalk, and he leans his forehead against mine. “You know that I could be handed the keys to my own restaurant tomorrow. The restaurant of my dreams. And it would be a good life. A great one. But it wouldn’t be a life I would love if you aren’t in it.”
I free my hand and wrap my arms around him as he wraps his around me.
It doesn’t matter that my perception is that I’ve only spent a day or two in this man’s company.
The lived experience of every version of me that has spent time with Nikolai feels imprinted on my soul.
I had loved Rian. Naive me had thought I loved Edward.
But Nikolai? Nikolai is home.
What if all the feelings of sadness and regret that came bubbling to the surface at Burbank Airport were just the universe telling me I’d missed meeting the person I’m meant to be with?
And for some unfathomable reason I was granted the gift of making it right.
As much as Michelin, Joelle’s star, and the restaurant world are important to me, being with Nikolai is an opportunity, a choice, a life I don’t want to botch either.
I let out a shaky breath. “Let’s make it work.”
The version of me who has spent eight long years as pen pals with Nikolai has been dragging her feet.
I know myself in any timeline well enough to know I’ve always worried that a serious romantic entanglement would have the potential to derail all my plans.
And those plans matter, a lot. But I realize, as the other versions of myself aren’t quite able, that love doesn’t have to mean forsaking everything else in life.
Quite the opposite, really. The right partner is an asset in attaining all those external goals.
The right partner is a cheerleader—nay, an entire hype squad—for the person they love.
I know Nikolai is mine. He has sent me novels’ worth of texts over the past eight years, cheering me on as I moved from post to post.
And I want to be his hype squad too.
He swallows hard against threatening tears. “You mean it?”
“I do.” I wipe away the few tears that have managed to escape their confines and compose myself. “It may not be easy, and it may have to look different from the average relationship, but I want us to be together.”
And for the second time in my adult life, he picks me up and twirls me. Because every woman, even a Viking warrior, loves a good twirl now and again.
“It’s here, but I couldn’t bear to read it.” Nadia appears at the open door of my office with a copy of The Guardian, open to the food section, held against her chest like a beloved teddy.
I expected the review would be printed today but had hoped to keep it under wraps until after service so it wouldn’t derail morale if it’s less than glowing. No such luck. Thankfully no one is within earshot except Joelle, Nikolai, and me, the three of us gathered for a preservice confab.
Joelle makes to grab for the newspaper but thinks better of it. She looks to me. “No, you read it.”
I suppress a giggle. Like many chefs, she’s a tad on the superstitious side.
As if somehow my reading the words in her stead will magically transform a poor—or worse, a mediocre—review into a positive one.
I motion for Nadia to close the door. If the review is a clunker, I don’t want the rest of the staff to hear about it until we can’t conceal it any longer.
Like Joelle, I’m trembling at the thought of what the review might contain, but I keep it on the inside so I don’t get their nerves more rattled than they already are. I scan the article, processing quickly so I don’t let the anticipation get out of hand. I read aloud:
Chef Joelle Durand is proving herself a more capable replacement for the great éugenie Rosier than might have previously been thought.
While she is young, her talent is a formidable one.
Her work with bluefin was exceptional, especially given that it can’t be a medium she’s worked with extensively.
Chef Durand shows a great nuance for flavor and has created a more-than-satisfactory experience.
Special nod to the pastry chef who prepared the best tarte au citron I’ve had in recent—and not so recent—memory. Maison Ortense is worth the visit.
“Merci à Dieu.” Joelle clasps her hands and presses them against her lips. Her first review as head chef is better than anyone might have hoped from such a notoriously cranky reviewer.
I shoot her a glare from across my desk.
“Don’t give Him all the credit.” I gesture toward the ceiling.
“Reserve some for yourself. You pulled off a miracle with that bluefin.” And it was nothing short of a miracle.
It turned out so well, I have refrained from murdering the fish vendor with my bare hands.
Joelle and Nikolai’s cooking has been amazing, but their heroism in the ledgers is the sort of triumph the public will never see.
“You should be proud. Your first major review as head chef is a big deal. We’ll frame the review for display in the entryway, and you should keep one for your portfolio too. ”
“Oui, Chef. I will need a few minutes before service if you don’t mind.” She is so elated that I worry she is going to levitate right out of her chair.
“Let me guess, off to the nearest tabac presse to buy up every copy of The Guardian?”
She nods. “My mother and brother will want copies . . .”
I hand her ten euro from petty cash. “It’s on the house. Reserve one for étienne, too, since his tart was called out.”
She nods and bounces off like a nine-year-old sent to a candy store with a hundred-dollar bill.