Chapter 2
Isabelle
"The VIP tables for opening night will overlook the west vineyard," Margot says, sweeping her hand toward the pergola where the old stone gives way to a view of the vineyard, the mountains soft and blue behind, and the whole thing bathed in late afternoon light.
"By seven o'clock the sun hits the ridgeline and I swear the vineyards glow.
Trust me, nobody will be looking at their phones. "
It's mid-September and the harvest is underway across Napa. The vines are heavy with grapes, the leaves starting to turn from green to yellow and red at the edges, and there's a hum of activity everywhere you look.
"I believe it,” I say, squinting against the sun, “it's stunning here. Though hopefully they'll be looking at their food, too.”
"They'll be doing both, and posting about it, which is the point.
" Margot tucks a strand of brown hair behind her ear and gives me an amused look.
"Social media is everything. Half our inquiries come from someone seeing a friend's Instagram story from an event and deciding they need to book immediately. "
I nod, making a mental note. Social media has never been my strong suit. I can plate a dish that looks like art, but asking me to take a photo of it is a different skill set entirely, and I’ll trust Margot’s instincts.
Margot wears several hats at Solstice Estates.
Head sommelier, events coordinator, the person who somehow keeps every moving piece of this sprawling estate from colliding mid-air.
The woman could plan a state dinner in her sleep and still have time left over to recommend the perfect Sancerre pairing.
And in less than two weeks, this terrace is going to be full of critics and food writers and people who flew across the country to eat my food.
My menu, my concept, my name. The thought makes my stomach flutter with nerves that I immediately shove down into the same mental box where I keep all my other inconvenient feelings.
"You've thought of everything," I say, shaking my head as I take in the setup.
She grins. "That's what they pay me for."
We've been walking the grounds for almost an hour, Margot and I, going over every detail of the outdoor space for opening night.
I arrived at Solstice a little over a week ago to start prepping for the residency, and we clicked almost immediately.
Which is rare for me, but on my second night here, I'd finished prepping for the day and ended up on the terrace with a bottle of the estate rosé, feeling a little lonely and a lot overwhelmed.
Margot appeared out of nowhere with another bottle and that turned into a three-hour conversation about food and wine and life. By the time the second bottle was empty, I'd laughed harder than I had in months.
She is one of my favorite people I've met in years. Coming from someone who doesn't make friends easily and tends to keep people at arm's length both as a professional policy and a personality defect, this is no small thing.
"Oh, I almost forgot," Margot says, leading me down a stone path. "I got the final proofs back for the printed menus this morning. We should go over those, but there's no rush."
"I had thoughts about the paper stock, actually. The first samples were too thin, I think. I want something you really feel in your hands when the server sets it down."
"Noted." She makes a little check mark gesture in the air.
"Oh, and your father called me this morning.
A few times, actually. He wanted to go over seating arrangements and wine pairings for opening night.
I wasn't sure how much you wanted him involved in the logistics, so I told him I'd get back to him. He also asked me to have you call him."
I let out a long breath. Papa called me twice this morning and I let both go to voicemail.
I cannot keep arguing with him about whether the amuse-bouche should be jamón or prosciutto when I've already told him four times which one it is.
But ignoring Jean-Pierre Beaumont just means he finds the next available person to interrogate, and today that was Margot.
"I am so sorry," I say, wincing. "He is, and I say this with love, relentless.
I should have warned you he'd try to insert himself into every detail of this.
It's what he does. He built his entire career on controlling every variable in every room he walks into, and the fact that this particular room is mine has not registered with him yet. "
"Honestly, don't worry about it," Margot says, waving a hand. "I manage clients who send me thirty-seven texts about napkin colors and then change their minds at midnight. Your father is nothing I can't handle."
"You say that now. Give it a week," I laugh. "I'll call him back when we're done so he stops harassing you. Otherwise you'll end up on his daily rotation, and trust me, that's a list you do not want to be on."
I pull my phone out and glance at the screen. In addition to the two missed calls and voicemails I haven't listened to, there is now a text from him: Isabelle, call me when you have a moment. It's important and urgent.
Everything is important and urgent with Papa.
"He did seem proud of you, though," Margot says, glancing at me. "He kept going on about his 'extraordinarily talented daughter.’ It was kind of sweet, actually."
I smile a bit at that. My father is a lot of things. Controlling, overbearing, incapable of letting me make a single decision without weighing in. But unsupportive is not one of them. He’s given me everything. Every stage, every connection, every opportunity I've had traces back to him.
"He's good at the proud part. It's the letting go part he struggles with. I don't mean to complain. I'm grateful, really. He's just..." I search for the right word. "Involved."
Margot laughs. "Believe me, I get it. It can come from love and still drive you up the wall."
"Exactly. I know he means well, but I think he has trouble understanding that I also want to do things for myself sometimes."
My whole career has been built in my father's kitchens. But this residency is the closest I've come to doing something on my own terms. I pitched Solstice myself using my mother's maiden name. They said yes based on my recommendations and the PowerPoint proposal I put together.
Granted, those recommendations came from chefs I only got to work under because my father opened those doors for me, but I still cling to the tiny piece of this that feels like mine. The yes came before they knew my last name. That has to count for something.
Of course, once they found out, the whole thing blew up into something bigger than I'd originally planned. More press, more attention, more pressure.
"Well, I hope this isn't overstepping," Margot says, "but you seem like someone who knows exactly what she wants. I bet you can handle anyone."
"See, now that is the kind of blind confidence I like to surround myself with," I say, laughing. "You're hired as my personal hype woman."
"Good, cause you're stuck with me." She laughs. "Now let's talk wine pairings, because I have opinions."
"And I want to hear every single one of them," I say as we make our way through the herb garden along the east wing.
The raised beds of rosemary and thyme and basil are immaculately kept by the estate's in-house chef for their regular dining program.
Solstice does a bit of everything: exclusive pop-ups like mine, private events, weddings for people with more money than God.
But it's also a boutique hotel with a six-month waitlist and two full commercial kitchens, one of which is mine for the next month.
As we walk through the door into the kitchen, the scent of dried lavender hanging next to the entrance hits me, and for a second I'm not in California at all. I'm in the south of France, standing in my grand-mère's kitchen as a child.
My father is half French, and I grew up between New York and Provence.
Summers were always in France, with her, in that old farmhouse with the blue shutters and the chickens in the yard.
Learning to cook the way she cooked, by instinct and by taste, without measuring cups or timers or any of the precision I've since built my entire career around.
Those memories have been sneaking up on me all week, catching me off guard at the strangest moments.
Napa isn't France, and Solstice isn't her farmhouse, but there's a resemblance in the light, in the way the air smells after it rains, in the neat rows of herbs growing just outside the kitchen door.
A memory I want to sink into as much as I want to push it away.
I let the feeling pass and try to focus. My fish supplier should be here any minute with samples of the halibut and black cod, and Margot and I have wine to discuss.
She pulls out her leather folio as we settle at the prep table and flips to a page covered in her neat handwriting. Everything about Margot is elegant, from her glossy brown hair to the silk blouse that appears to be immune to wrinkles, and I find it both inspiring and slightly intimidating.
"For the amuse-bouche," she says, uncapping her pen, "I'm thinking Cava. Dry, high acid, small bubbles. It cleanses the palate and the minerality plays off the fat in the mousse without competing."
"I like that." I can already taste the pairing in my head. "What about the halibut course?"
"That's where it gets interesting." She flips to the next page with the kind of reverence most people reserve for holy texts.
"Two options. There's a 2021 Albarino with this gorgeous salinity, almost like sea spray.
Or we go Burgundy. A Chablis Premier Cru, more minerality, less fruit.
The Albarino is the safe pick. The Chablis is the more interesting one. "