Chapter 8
CHAPTER
EIGHT
Four days of laughter, sex, and fun had led to this moment.
Madison was standing in the kitchen at Nanine’s, staring at the kumquats she’d picked up at the Friday outdoor market. Why? Because she’d dreamed of kumquats last night.
Now, she was so fixated on them that her kitchen staff could start an accidental oil fire.
Those zombies she’d joked about with Kyle could charge into the restaurant, making Nanine’s famous chandelier sound the alarm, but she still wouldn’t be able to look away from those enticing little orange balls of tart goodness waiting to be turned into something exceptional.
Normally, she didn’t do the food shopping—they had it delivered—but the season was on, even in Paris, since most of the city’s fruit came from Corsica, and the pastelitos had gotten her thinking about tropical flavors.
This spurt of creativity was what Thea had experienced after meeting Jean Luc! She knew it. Because God, every day since she and Kyle had begun their new whatever, she felt terrific. Super charged. Crystal clear. Excited for life.
Huge relief.
In fact, she’d caught herself singing today during prep. On a mere Thursday.
Hold. The. Phone.
Pierre gave a hearty squawk as he sniffed the air. “?a sent bon.”
“Oui,” she answered with a hum.
The kumquats did smell good. Exotic. Citrusy. Tart. A little like Kyle’s skin, which had her mind popping out hot images of them. She reined them back in.
“Chef?”
She had to shake herself out of her reverie. Her sous chef stood a few feet away. The rest of the staff seemed to have slowed down their preparation. “Yes, Fabian, what is it?” she answered in French.
“Are you creating a special?”
Since the restaurant had barely been reopened for a month, they hadn’t created any specials yet—only a set holiday menu. “I’m considering it. Kumquats are in season.”
He crisply nodded, hands behind his back, standing at attention in his businesslike way. “The staff stands ready to assist.”
She and Fabian were doing well, along with Nanine’s other former chefs.
She’d brought in a few people she’d hired on her own, of course, but they were gelling with the original staff.
For the menu creation, she’d done nearly all of the planning herself.
Thea, of course, had added her bread ideas after Madison came up with the bread-pairing concept.
Everyone loved their pairings. However, the practice had led to her current dilemma: she’d need a bread to accompany any special she created. One, Thea wasn’t there, and two, specials were inspirations of the day typically. She’d rather boxed herself in there.
Maybe the time had arrived to invite her staff into her creative process.
“Who’s had a dish with kumquats?” she asked.
When a few hands rose, she called them over and began her first collaborative brainstorming with Pierre nodding along.
After hearing about the French dishes they’d tasted, she scanned their eager faces.
“We need something else that’s seasonal for the dish to make sense. ” She snapped her fingers. “Oysters.”
She remembered her French mentor in Miami, Chef Marcel Fournier, telling her that he and his family would buy two boxes and eat and shuck their way through the holidays during his childhood in Brittany.
“Can you find me top-quality oysters, Fabian?” she asked, rubbing her fingers together as she contemplated the flavor profile of the dish.
With a crisp nod, Fabian was off. The rest of the staff returned to their prep, and Madison started pickling the kumquats. Why use lemon when you could use something more spectacular?
Now all she needed was a bread accompaniment.
Without Thea around, she went to the next best source—an actual French bakery.
Walking inside, she called out Bonjour and started clinically going down the glass case, scanning pastries.
When she caught sight of the canelé, the hairs on the back of her neck rose.
She ordered a few from the patient server, paid quickly, and took a bite of one before she was out the door. The rum and vanilla flavors were strong, as was the caramelized texture, but the custard crème center tempered it.
“We have a winner!” She nearly punched the air before she realized she was standing on the sidewalk in her own cooking Lalaland.
Rushing back inside Nanine’s, she made a beeline for her pastry chef and thrust out her half-eaten canelé. “Can you make this?”
Antoinette folded her hands in front of her apron and gave a regal nod. “Chef, I am from Bordeaux. They are a specialty of my region. I can make the bread today and have them ready to bake tomorrow.”
Right, because most breads needed to rest overnight for optimal flavor…
Launching their first special on Friday night would be perfect.
“Wonderful!” She bounced in her high-tops. “I want the crème custard infused with kumquat to match the oysters.”
Her pastry chef blinked. “With the oysters, Chef?”
What was she missing here? “Is that too weird?”
The woman lifted her shoulder, her eyes scanning right and left. Madison turned around. The kitchen was silent again. “No, Chef.”
God, this one was clearly still hesitant to give her opinions. “Please. I want to hear your honest thoughts.”
“Well,” she said slowly, “they are a snack. People usually have them with a café or tea.”
She turned around and held the pastry up. “Who else has opinions?”
Her question broke the proverbial ice like a mallet on sugar glass.
Everyone had an opinion about when to eat the revered canelé.
The French were great that way. Passionate.
Firm in their convictions. She munched on the rest of her pastry as heated conversation danced around her.
Once the arguments died down, she gave her best devious smile.
“I seem to have struck a chord. So tomorrow night, for our first special, we will serve raw oysters with pickled kumquats and crème fraiche accompanied by mini-canelés filled with kumquat crème. Now this is exciting! Anyone want to finish the rest of these pastries?”
Too many hands went up, so she detoured back to the bakery and bought out the rest of the pastries for her staff.
By the time Friday dinner service rolled around, she was in the zone.
Every cooking instrument felt like an extension of her own hand.
The cherry sauce for her duck simmered, the sound sheer perfection to her ears.
The smell of vanilla, caramelized sugar, and Jamaican rum, along with her kumquats, added extra spice to the kitchen.
Tonight was going to rock!
Kyle, sex, and the Romance Shrine was working. Too bad he hadn’t hired the former Michelin critic yet. She’d loved to receive some professional notes on their special.
When her ma?tre d’ appeared beside her at the stove, she stiffened. There was only one reason the head from the front of the house would come back to the kitchen during dinner service, and she knew it wasn’t for a problem. They were killing it. “Who’s out there?”
Her palms grew damp. God, had they finally IDed a Michelin critic?
Claude leaned forward and whispered the name in her ear. The person wasn’t with Michelin, but she still almost dropped the spoon in her hand. He was one of the most famous food critics in the world: William Silver. Holy shit!
“Thank you, Claude,” she said, her voice calmer than she felt. “Make sure he gets whatever he wants.”
The rest of the staff was working, but they were on alert. She didn’t bother to tell them who it was. Her kitchen’s policy was to cook as if everyone was a critic. Even so, she knew William Silver’s review was going to be huge. He published in various leading newspapers now, given his stature.
All she wanted to do was text Kyle. That William Silver had come to Nanine’s was its own compliment, but when he ordered her kumquat special, she was swaying to a Latin beat in her head as she plated it and added the three accompanying warm mini-canelés.
She sent Pierre a sly smile as she handed it to the server.
He nodded crisply and took off with an all-business stride.
She did her best to block out the knowledge that Silver was eating her special.
Her training at La Fleur in Miami had taught her to keep her mental focus when someone big dropped in to eat.
They didn’t have a Michelin star for nothing.
This felt different, though. She was head chef now.
Sure, they’d gotten a lot of praise so far, but if William Silver enjoyed her special, it would be like Clint Eastwood liking your movie.
When her ma?tre d’ returned to her side, she leaned in. “Mr. Silver said the special was one of the most excellent dishes he’s ever had.”
She clenched her teeth to stop herself from shouting out, Yes! “Good to know.”
“He’s eager to enjoy the rest of the menu,” Claude informed her, making her fight the smile that wanted to break through. “And he sends his compliments to you. Personally.”
She would have to dance around and celebrate later. In the meantime, she retained her aloof air and said, “Please thank him for his regard.”
Claude gave his semi-formal bow and left the kitchen. She could feel the staff watching and decided to give them a boon. Turning around, she gave a thumbs-up. “Good job, Antoinette,” she made sure to call.
The woman’s mouth curved, but she got back to work.
So did Madison. By the end of the evening, Claude had returned twice more with compliments from William Silver.
By then, she was bursting with pride. She wanted to text Kyle so bad.
Heck, she wanted to run up the stairs and tell Nanine.
She…wanted to wrap her arms around herself for a moment and let it all sink in.
This confirmed it: her romance with Kyle was inspiring her to new heights. William Silver’s praise was all the validation she needed.
Of course, one night of culinary perfection wasn’t enough. She had to pull this off every night, which was why she was grateful Kyle was still planning on hiring an ex-Michelin critic to keep an eye on her.
By the end of the evening, she was humming a Latin beat as she cleaned up. When Claude appeared again, she dried her hands on her apron.
“Monsieur Silver requests your presence, Chef, to thank you for the meal, if you are available.”
She followed him out of the kitchen, her heart rapping against her ribs.
The robust man was seated with a few other men she didn’t recognize.
Again, she wondered at the industriousness of people finding a way to garner a reservation, because she doubted they’d made one as soon as the restaurant had reopened. They were booked out for nine months.
“Chef Garcia,” William called, twirling his snifter of Chartreuse Jaune, which would complement the poached pears and crystalized gingerbread he’d had for dessert.
“I cannot think of when I have enjoyed a better meal. When I heard all of the rumblings about your bread and food pairings, I knew I needed to come to Nanine’s.
The praise is well deserved. I plan to add mine to the growing list. Your menu is inspired. Sheer perfection.”
She had to lock down a hefty flood of emotion. “Thank you, Mr. Silver. It’s an honor and a pleasure to serve you here at Nanine’s.”
“The pleasure was mine.” He lifted his glass to her—to her! “The special of oysters with kumquats and mini-canelés was spectacular. Did you really come up with that only yesterday?”
Nodding, she let herself smile, not surprised he’d asked the waitstaff. “You know chefs and seasonal produce.”
Lifting his glass to his lips, he took another sip.
“You clearly are a talented chef, but I would expect nothing less from someone who’s worked with Chef Marcel Fournier in Miami.
Nanine’s is lucky to have you. I know Nanine’s has had a history with the Michelin people, but I wish you the very best. From where I’m sitting, your excellence stands in a class all its own. Thank you again for our meal.”
The other people at the table smiled at her and thanked her as well.
She made herself smile back before muttering her own thanks and taking one step at a time back to the kitchen.
When she was inside, she gave another thumbs-up to the staff.
Then she detoured to the cooler. Inside, she took off her apron and fanned herself with her T-shirt.
Her inner temperature had been turned to broil.
Talented chef.
A class all its own.
Holy shit! He was going to write that kind of stuff for the whole world to see. She took a few deep breaths of cold air, gripping a cold shelf to calm down.
As she did, the shock from William Silver’s praise faded. Buried within it was a dark seed, one she didn’t like to think about—Nanine’s history with Michelin. But he’d mentioned it, which meant there were still murmurs about it.
Was it significant?
Everyone knew Nanine’s had never received a star because of another larger-than-life person in the cooking industry. The status William Silver held as a food critic wasn’t even close to the power Chef Auguste Dassault wielded.
Beyond being a three-star Michelin chef and honoree of every culinary and excellence award both in and out of France, he was one of three people who advised the French presidency on who was worthy of being part of the famed French culinary scene.
He was one of those men who ran the system and created glass ceilings for people like her.
He was already a legend when he’d seduced Nanine at cooking school by pretending he was divorcing, only to deny he’d fathered a child with her, call her a slut far and wide, and blackball her from finding a job in the industry.
Another chef had eventually hired her on, largely because Chef Dassault had also seduced his wife.
But Dassault had later used his power in French cooking circles to keep Nanine’s from receiving a star.
He was retired now, however, and Nanine was no longer the head chef.
They’d hoped this meant his vendetta was over and the past finished.
So why had William Silver brought up the past snub?
Madison kicked the aluminum leg of the storage shelf. Dammit, maybe she was being paranoid, but her nature was suspicious. She didn’t expect anyone to give her anything.
That star, though…
She’d worked for that. Shaking herself, she walked back into the kitchen to continue cleanup. Tonight she would have a drink with the staff. They had good reason to celebrate. Then she was going home to Kyle to share the news.
William Silver was going to write about Nanine’s, not shredding them with his pen but praising their menu.
She had to trust the Michelin people would be as open-minded.
Except she’d always been short on trust.