Chapter 1 #2
Jean-Pierre shifts into a different mode instantly, warm and gracious and charming in a way that feels practiced but not insincere.
"Caroline, how lovely. Thank you, we're very pleased with how it's come together.
Have you met Alex Midnight? He runs Harbor & Ash in Dark River with his brother, Theo. "
Caroline turns to me and her face lights up. "Harbor & Ash? I ate there last fall. The tasting menu was one of the best meals I've had on the West Coast. Rustic, yet refined. The scallop course alone..." She puts her hand on her chest.
"That's incredibly kind of you," I say. "The scallops are from a guy in the San Juans who's been diving for us for about six years. I'll tell him he has a fan."
She squeezes my hand and turns back to Jean-Pierre, telling him about some chef she thinks he should meet, and I wait patiently because this has been happening all night. The man can't walk ten feet without someone stopping him to pay respects.
As I watch them, part of me still feels like I'm shaking hands with a shark. Jean-Pierre is aggressive, opinionated, and not someone you want to cross. But I'd called a few of the chefs he backs, quietly, on my own.
They all said the same thing: he's intense and he has opinions about everything. But he delivers on every promise he makes, lets them run the show, and their restaurants are thriving. That's good enough for me.
"Merci, merci," Jean-Pierre says to Caroline, clasping her hand in both of his. She gives me a parting nod, and then it's just us again, and Jean-Pierre's face resets to business like a switch being flipped.
"As I was saying." He settles back into position by the window.
"I've made my decision, and I'm ready to move forward with you opening a place in Seattle.
Local sourcing, Pacific Northwest cuisine, elevated to a national stage.
But there is one additional component to the arrangement, and I'd like to discuss it before we go further. "
"A catch?” I ask.
"A condition. You remember when I asked about your time at Solstice Estates?"
I nod. He'd been oddly specific about it during our last dinner, asking detailed questions about my trips to Napa Valley, the wine country connections I'd made over the years. I'd chalked it up to Jean-Pierre being thorough, but I'm starting to think I should have been paying closer attention.
"I'd been asking because my daughter, Isabelle, is launching a six-week-long pop-up residency at Solstice," he says, and there's unmistakable pride in his voice when he says her name.
"Three weeks from now. She organized the entire thing herself, and it's already nearly sold out.
Food writers, wine industry people, a few names you'd recognize. There's significant buzz."
Isabelle Beaumont. The name pulls up a half-memory of a profile I'd skimmed in Food & Wine a while back, or maybe it was Bon Appétit.
A few years younger than me, French-trained, and being groomed to take over one of her father's restaurants.
I remember thinking she was incredibly attractive in the photos, which is a detail I decide to keep to myself given present company.
"That's impressive," I say instead, clearing my throat.
"Organizing a residency at Solstice from scratch is no small thing.
Theo and I have done a few collaboration events over the years in Seattle, pop-ups, guest chef nights.
They're a completely different kind of pressure than regular service. Logistically they can be a nightmare."
"It's your success with exactly that kind of thing that makes me particularly interested in what I'm about to propose.
" Jean-Pierre takes a sip of his drink. "Isabelle will be taking over as executive chef of my flagship New York restaurant in a few months.
Chef Laurent is retiring after a celebrated run, and she will step into his position. "
I resist the urge to let out a low whistle. His New York City restaurant is one of the most celebrated in the country, three Michelin stars, the kind of place presidents and celebrities go when they want to be seen. Though personally it's never been my taste.
I'd eaten there a few months ago while visiting my brother Dominic, who splits his time between Dark River and Manhattan.
The food was technically flawless, but a little pretentious for my liking.
And I say that as a man who has six different single-origin olive oils in his pantry, so I'm not exactly one to talk.
But there's a difference between caring about quality and turning dinner into performance art, and Jean-Pierre's flagship leans toward the latter.
Still, the reputation of the place is enormous, and handing the whole thing to a daughter in her mid-twenties is going to have every food writer in the country sharpening their knives, ready to write a takedown piece the second she stumbles.
"She is more than capable," Jean-Pierre continues with obvious pride.
"She was trained at Le Cordon Bleu and is technically flawless.
However, she has never led a full operation independently.
The Napa residency is her proving ground, her own idea.
But because my name is associated with it, it needs to succeed.
I can't afford bad press right before she takes over New York. "
"All right," I say slowly, starting to see where this is going and not particularly liking it. "So where do I come in?"
"I need someone on the ground at Solstice.
Someone with experience who understands what it takes to manage a team, handle suppliers, create a menu from scratch, put out fires when things go sideways.
" He fixes me with that cataloging gaze.
"I need someone who has actually run a restaurant for a decade to be in that kitchen with her and tell me whether my daughter is ready for New York. "
I set my glass down on the window ledge next to his. "You want me to spy on her."
He pauses, and I catch something in his face that might be amusement, or might be irritation. With Jean-Pierre it's hard to tell the difference.
"That's a rather dramatic way to put it," he says, raising an eyebrow.
"It's a rather dramatic thing to ask someone to do, sir," I say, and I can't help smiling a little because this is absurd.
The corner of his mouth lifts again. That's two almost-smiles in one evening. I might be setting a record here.
"I want you to collaborate with her on the residency," he says, making it sound perfectly reasonable.
"Help handle the logistics she hasn't dealt with before, make sure everything runs smoothly.
And yes, provide me with an honest assessment of her readiness for New York.
" He says it casually, like this is a perfectly normal thing to ask a stranger to do to your daughter.
"Six weeks in Napa. When you return, we break ground on Seattle. Simple as that.""
"And will she be alright with it?" I ask, uneasy. "Does she know about this?"
"Not yet." Jean-Pierre picks up his glass from the window ledge and turns it in his hand.
"But I will tell her, of course. However, Isabelle is willful and proud, and there's no point in ruffling feathers until I know you're going to agree to the arrangement.
Once it's confirmed, she'll be informed.
She won't love it. But she'll understand. She knows how I work."
The whole arrangement reeks of a father who can't let go of the reins.
And I'm not thrilled about being the tool he uses to keep his grip.
But my own restaurant is dangling right in front of me, fully funded, ready to go, everything I've wanted for years, and I'd be an idiot not to at least hear him out.
"With all due respect," I say carefully, "I'm not sure 'she knows how I work' is the same thing as 'she'll be fine with it.'"
Jean-Pierre waves a hand like his daughter's opinion on this is a minor detail. "She'll be furious initially, yes. But she'll accept it, because she wants the New York position and she knows the path runs through me. She's pragmatic when she needs to be."
Fucking great. So I'm walking into a situation where the person I'm supposed to be working with is going to hate me on sight. This is going to be fun.
"All right. So what exactly would I be watching for? Assuming I agree," I add, even though we both know I'm going to.
"Everything," he says, taking a sip. "Her leadership. How she manages her team under pressure. How she handles suppliers, crises, the unexpected. Whether she can hold a full service together when things go sideways and there's no one above her to fix it."
I sigh and run a hand through my hair, glancing out at the crowd.
The party is still going strong, and Theo is across the room talking to someone I vaguely recognize.
I wish I could hit pause on this conversation and walk over there, or call our brother Jack in Monaco, and ask what they think. Though I already know what they'd say.
Theo would tell me it's a bad idea, that it's unprofessional of Jean-Pierre to put me in this position, and that evaluating his daughter is messy and bound to blow up.
Jack would laugh and tell me to do it for the plot.
Unfortunately for Theo, and for my own better judgment, I tend to side with Jack on these things.
"I'm in," I hear myself say, much to the angel on my shoulder's disappointment. Devil it is. "I'll do this, and then we break ground on Seattle?"
He nods once. "You have my word. And I'm sure you've done your diligence and know that my word is reliable. Once the residency is complete, we move forward immediately. But I need this first." He looks at me steadily. "For my daughter's sake."
I nod, ignoring the part of my brain that's screaming that this is a terrible idea.
"Wonderful,” he continues. “I’d like you to arrive a week or two before the pop-up opens.
My assistant will send you all the details.
You'll be staying on the property at Solstice, they have private guest cottages that are quite comfortable.
Everything will of course be covered by me.
Travel, accommodation, meals, whatever you need to do your job effectively. "
I don't argue. Harbor & Ash has been more successful than Theo and I ever dreamed, financially and otherwise. I do well enough for myself. But if a richer man wants to pay for everything, hey, let him pay. I'm not about to turn down a free month in wine country.
"One more thing," Jean-Pierre says, and he leans in slightly, and all pleasantness is gone.
"My daughter is a beautiful woman who has fended off many suitors over the years.
But I expect that someone I am doing business with, someone I am trusting with a significant investment and a crucial evaluation, does not in any way, shape, or form pursue her romantically.
She is precious to me, Alex. And pursuing her while you're there will end our deal immediately. "
Of all the things I expected him to say tonight, that was dead last on the list.
"Of course," I say easily, like this isn't the most awkward thing anyone's ever said to me at a party. "I have no intention of complicating anything."
He laughs, short and dry and completely humorless. "Alex, you're single, are you not?"
"Married to the job," I say, which is mostly true.
I'm obsessed with cooking in a way that doesn't leave much room for serious relationships. I leave out the part where I thoroughly enjoy the company of women and date frequently and enthusiastically. They’re the better half of the species, after all.
But as far as Jean-Pierre Beaumont will ever know, I'm a monk on a mission who has never once looked at a woman sideways and whose idea of a good time is reorganizing his spice cabinet.
"Well, be that as it may, I am not blind to the situation I'm creating," Jean-Pierre says.
"A month in beautiful wine country, working closely together under pressure.
These things can develop. But I am telling you now so it is clear: you are not to pursue my daughter.
She is my world, and if I discover that something has developed between you, the Seattle arrangement will be off the table.
Immediately. Is that clear Mr. Midnight? "
He holds my gaze and I hold his. He doesn't just have the power to pull the Seattle deal.
He has the kind of reach in this industry where one phone call could make sure I never open a restaurant in any city worth cooking in.
If Jean-Pierre Beaumont decides you're done, you're done.
Blacklisted. Finished. And he doesn't strike me as the kind of man who does anything halfway, including grudges.
"Crystal clear," I say, and then I lean in slightly and add, "and it's Alex."
He smiles, thin and completely without warmth, and I have the distinct feeling I just signed my own death warrant.