Chapter 9
Isabelle
There isn't time to panic. There isn't time for anything except the next sixty seconds, and the sixty after that, and the lamb that is currently sitting on the cutting board in front of me, two hours short of where it needs to be.
"Okay," I say. "Let's move."
I grab my sharpest knife and start slicing the shoulder against the grain, thin and even, each cut about a quarter inch thick, letting the blade do the work.
Alex has the cast iron on the burner beside me and I can feel the heat radiating off it from two feet away, the pan so hot the air above it shimmers.
"Sauce," I say, nodding toward the stove. "Would you pull the cacao reduction and thin it with about a quarter cup of braising liquid. Then mount it with cold butter."
"Yes, chef," he says, and winks at me as he reaches for the saucepan, pouring the braising liquid in a steady stream with one hand while whisking the reduction with the other.
It's hot, if I'm being honest with myself.
Not just the kitchen, not just the cast iron throwing heat at my face.
Him. He doesn't second-guess me or ask questions, he executes everything exactly how I want it, perfectly, matching my rhythm like we've cooked together for years.
Anticipating what I need before I call for it, moving around me without collision, handing me tools before my hand is fully extended.
And he does it all while looking very, very good.
"Ready for the sear," he says, sliding the screaming hot pan toward me.
I lay the first slices into the cast iron, and the sound that fills the kitchen is exactly what I need to hear, a hard, violent sizzle that means the Maillard reaction is happening fast and hot.
The smell hits me immediately, rich and meaty and complex, and I feel the first flutter of hope that this might actually work.
I flip them and the undersides are dark and caramelized, and the smell that rises off the pan is smoky and rich and almost chocolatey from the residual braising spices in the meat. Perfect. Exactly what I needed.
"Sauce is ready," Alex says behind me, and I hear him tasting it, the small sound of the spoon against his lips. "I added a splash of the espresso. It needed the extra bitterness to stand up to the sear."
"Good call," I say, because it is.
"Purée?" he asks.
"Already plated."
I pull the lamb from the cast iron and let it rest for thirty seconds on the board while I grab the first three plates. The celery root purée is already there, a smooth pale swoosh across the lower third of each plate, exactly where I want it.
I fan the slices across the center, overlapping them slightly so the crust is visible on every piece, the interior pink and tender where the knife went through.
Alex is beside me with the sauce, spooning it in a thin, glossy pool around the base of the lamb, not over it, so the crust stays crisp and the diner gets to drag each slice through the sauce themselves.
"Garnish," I say, and he hands me the microgreens and the flaky salt without me having to specify which ones.
I place them with tweezers, three leaves of baby arugula and a scattering of Maldon, building the final composition the way an artist adds the last touches to a painting. I step back and look at the plate.
It's not my original dish. It's not the slow-braised shoulder that falls apart when you breathe on it, the one I spent three months developing and fourteen iterations perfecting.
But what's sitting on this plate right now is beautiful.
"I need to taste it," I say. Because if this bite doesn't work, I am standing in front of three food critics with a hole in my menu and nowhere to hide.
Alex cuts a small piece from the end of one of the reserve slices, drags it through the sauce, and holds the fork out to me. I take the bite, and the world narrows to just this, the food on my tongue and what it's telling me.
It's fucking glorious.
I look at Alex, who is standing very still, watching my face with an expression of such barely contained hope that I realize he cares about this working out just as much as I do.
And not because of Jean-Pierre or the Seattle deal or any of the professional machinery surrounding us, but because it matters to me.
I grin at him. "It's fucking amazing."
He throws his head back and laughs, and then his arms are around me and he's lifting me off my feet in a hug that knocks the breath out of me.
I grab onto his shoulders and laugh into his neck and for three seconds the critics and my father and the ruined food on the floor and everything else disappears, and there is just this, the two of us in a kitchen at the center of a disaster we just turned into a triumph.
Every course after the lamb lands exactly as it should, the kitchen finding its rhythm again like a heart that skipped a beat and then steadied.
The dessert course goes out to quiet murmurs of approval that carry all the way back to the kitchen, and when the final guest leaves at half past ten, I stand at the center island and just breathe.
The kitchen is quieting around me, the frantic energy of service giving way to the slower rhythm of breakdown and cleaning.
Someone has turned on music, something low and acoustic, and Martinez is organizing the walk-in while Sofia wipes down the cold line and the closing crew moves around us taking over the rest.
We did it. We actually did it.
Alex left a while ago. He'd gone back out to the dining room to talk with my father and handle some last-minute front-of-house things, then came back to help with breakdown before I sent him off to his cottage.
I wanted him gone before Papa came back to the kitchen, because I don't want my father picking up on anything between us.
It's for everyone's good. Especially Alex's.
"Chef." Samantha, one of the hosts, appears in the doorway. "Olivier is still in the dining room. He's been asking for you."
Ugh. Papa came back to the kitchen about twenty minutes ago to congratulate me on a job well done, which is rare enough from him that it made my whole chest ache with gratitude, and then left for his hotel with a promise to get breakfast together tomorrow.
I would have thought Olivier left with him.
"Could you tell him I'm busy with breakdown?" I ask hopefully.
"I tried that." Samantha grimaces. "He's very insistent. He said he'd wait as long as it takes."
I rub my forehead, feeling the headache that's been threatening all night start to bloom behind my eyes.
Of course he is. Over the past few years my father has presented me with several men who he thought would be appropriate company, as if we are living in the eighteenth century and I am a broodmare to be matched with a suitable stallion.
He means well. I think. Or maybe I've just been conditioned to believe that, the way daughters of controlling fathers learn to call possessiveness love because it's easier than fighting every single day.
But no matter how good his intentions are, it's infuriating.
There was Thomas, the perfectly decent investment banker who was so boring I wanted to chew my own arm off at dinner.
And Philippe, who thought women shouldn't work in professional kitchens and told me so over the appetizer course.
And James, who talked about himself for ninety straight minutes and then asked if I wanted to see his car collection.
Papa picks them because they are successful businessmen from respectable families, men who he thinks will be good for me and good for the Beaumont name.
Olivier is just the latest in the lineup, and I'm sick of it.
No matter how many times I tell him Papa, no more, I can choose my own partners, he just nods and says just meet them, Isabelle, there is no harm in meeting, you could fall in love.
Samantha is still standing there and I realize I've been tapping my foot and staring off into space, running through every reason I could give for not going out there.
"Isabelle?" She looks worried, as though I might have finally cracked under the pressure.
"Sorry. Just spacing out. I'll deal with him. Thanks, Sam."
"You got it," she says, looking relieved to be excused from the situation.
I push through the doors into the dining room, which is mostly empty now, just a few staff members clearing the last tables and resetting for tomorrow.
The candles have been blown out, the linens are being pulled, and the whole space has that exhausted, post-service feeling of a party that's ended but hasn't been fully cleaned up yet.
Olivier is at the bar, a glass of something amber in his hand, and when he sees me his face does something I'm sure he thinks is a charming smile but actually just makes me want to turn around and go back to my kitchen.
"Isabelle." He stands as I approach, reaching for my hand like we're in a period drama instead of a twenty-first-century restaurant. "That was quite a performance tonight."
I let him take my hand briefly, then extract it and cross my arms. "I'm glad you enjoyed the meal."
"The lamb was particularly impressive." He takes a sip of his drink, watching me over the rim in a way that feels calculated. "Though I heard there was some excitement in the kitchen. An accident of some kind?"
"Nothing we couldn't handle." I smile politely, keeping my voice neutral.
"Your father was concerned. He mentioned it before he left.
" Olivier sets his glass down and moves closer, invading my space in a way that makes my shoulders tighten automatically.
"He worries about you, you know. He wants to make sure you're surrounded by the right people.
People who can support your career, help you navigate the challenges ahead. "
"I have people," I say, fighting to keep the irritation out of my voice. "My team is excellent."