Chapter 9
“Are you warming up to the idea of being their pastry chef?” Yasmine asked as we exited the bathroom.
“Sorry, Yasmine. Especially not with my neighbor also volunteering. If that’s not a sign from the universe that I shouldn’t do this, I don’t know what is.”
Yasmine rolled her eyes, but she had promised that I wasn’t beholden to anything more than attending this meeting.
“Just keep thinking about it,” she said. “I need to sit in on the decorating meetings with my mother now, but I’ll call you tonight. Remember, you still have time to change your mind!” she called as she hurried off.
I waved her off, then decided that, if I was going to feel bad, I might as well feel bad and be well fed.
I busied myself with taking a sample of every food that was being passed around. By the time I’d circled the room twice, making sure I hadn’t missed anything, my plate was piled high with kebabs, couscous, fruit, and pastries.
The meeting room was, thankfully, empty, so I sat down to enjoy my feast in peace.
At that moment, Monsieur Bad Times himself had to walk through the door. I gave him a curt nod and turned back to my food. I had three pieces of baklava on my plate, and no one, not even Laurent Roche, was going to ruin a single bite of it.
Except that, apparently, he would.
Although there were plenty of empty tables, he took the seat directly across from me. I didn’t even glance at him.
I bit into my baklava, trying to savor the crispy phyllo dough drenched in honey, but the dark cloud of misery that was Monsieur Roche kept distracting me. His mere presence made me jumpy, and when I went to reach for my coffee, I accidentally knocked it over.
Of course, it spilled all over my neighbor.
He swore and stood up with a start, his suit jacket wet.
“I’m so sorry,” I gasped, pushing all my napkins toward him and running to get more. When I returned, Monsieur Roche was blotting his soaked jacket, looking more aggrieved than ever.
He turned those golden eyes on me. “Every time we meet—which is disturbingly often,” he began, taking the napkins I passed over, “I’m more and more surprised that Le Jules Verne employs you as a server. How many diners have you spilled drinks on?”
“This was an accident, and that’s none of your business,” I said, nearly snarling with embarrassment. How did this man always catch me at my worst?
I had all these sharp retorts ready, about how I knew his girlfriend had left him and his restaurant closed, but now I was, again, caught on my back foot. (And the answer was two. Two diners I’d spilled drinks on in five years, which wasn’t a bad record at all.)
I paused in wiping the table to see Monsieur Roche smirking. “You know, you’re more interesting when you’re annoyed,” he said. “I knew that sunshiny attitude you had at the restaurant was just an act.”
Now that was a bridge too far.
“I’ll have you know,” I said, speaking slowly to remain calm, “that I am a very happy person. Exceptionally happy. And I love my job. As long as the diners aren’t acting like asses.”
Whoops, that wasn’t very sunshiny.
Monsieur Roche grinned wider. “No, I can tell. You might be able to hide it most of the time, but you’re a grump like me. I bet you curse under your breath at slow walkers, too.”
I glanced up, startled, then immediately returned to cleaning the table. “You’re incorrect, Monsieur. I love slow walkers. I adore them. They allow me to slow down myself and appreciate the, uh, beauty of my surroundings.” I smiled radiantly, just for good measure.
Infuriatingly, Monsieur Roche shook his head. “Protest all you want, Mademoiselle Delcour. But I know a fellow grouch when I see one. I just hope you’re able to make it through the gala without wrecking someone’s meal.”
I was still sputtering for a response when the door opened and Fatima and her assistant sailed in.
“All ready to get back to work?” Fatima asked cheerfully.
“Absolutely!” I chirped, smiling my widest smile. Then I sat down and rage ate the rest of my baklava as the others filed in. Not once did I look at Laurent Roche.
By the time I was finished eating, I was fully resolved to see this gala through. I hadn’t felt this motivated to do something in years. Let Monsieur Roche smirk and make his snide comments. I’d show him just how competent I was. And I’d do it with a smile.
“Let’s start throwing out ideas for the menu,” Fatima said once we were all seated. “We want it to have a cohesive theme, nothing too restrictive, but we don’t want a series of disparate dishes, either.”
“The theme should be classic French dining,” a sous chef sitting to my left said.
“Escargots, Crêpes Suzette. The kind of food our grandparents knew they’d be served when they attended a dinner party.
I’m sure everyone here knows how to cook those recipes, and it’ll give immigrants an experience they wouldn’t have had before. ”
As I inwardly blanched at the idea of making hundreds of Crêpes Suzette (so much alcohol, so many flames), a woman sitting on my other side shook her head.
“Isn’t that tone deaf? The gala is to raise money for this organization that supports immigrants from around the world, and we’re not serving a single dish they’d recognize?”
“We’re welcoming them to our country,” the man insisted. “That includes sharing our culture and our food.”
“No one wants to go back to the stale dinner parties of the 1950s,” the woman retorted.
“Have you polled them? What were the results?”
“Alright then!” Fatima’s assistant cut in. “Let’s compromise. What if, every other course, we switch between French and international fare?”
Everyone paused to consider the idea. I wasn’t fully convinced
“Ye-es,” the woman began. “Something like kofta kebabs followed by vichyssoise?”
“That could work,” the man conceded.
Laurent Roche’s eyes flickered to mine. It lasted only a fraction of a second, but it was enough for me to understand that I wasn’t the only person who thought following the strong, spice-forward flavors of kebabs with the delicate flavors of a potato and leek soup was a terrible idea.
Fatima’s assistant loved it, though. “Wonderful! Perhaps we could have the rest of the event follow the switches in the menu? You know, when we bring out a French dish, it’s served on porcelain from Sèvres, and we’ll have the band play something by Edith Piaf.
And when we bring out, say a dish from Algeria, we’ll switch the serving ware, and have the band play an Algerian song, or maybe we could even bring in a mandole player? ”
I knew enough about the restaurant world that I could see the gala quickly spiraling out of control if we attempted that many changes throughout the night, but others were nodding along.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Laurent Roche smirking in my direction again. As if he knew exactly how doubtful I was feeling about this idea. Well, I’d show him.
“I think it’s a wonderful idea,” I said to the woman. She beamed.
“No, it’s a terrible idea,” Laurent said. “It’s much too difficult to pull off, and the final result will be chaos.”
I rolled my eyes at his pessimism. No one needed to know I secretly agreed with him.
His comment set off another round of arguing, which only paused when the door opened and a woman swept in. All of us turned toward her.
She was the kind of person who probably regularly brought conversations to a halt when she walked into a room.
She was tall and elegant with blonde hair pulled into a chignon.
The forest green dress she wore lightly skimmed the floor as she came toward us.
I’d seen enough expensive clothes from my time at Le Jules Verne to have an excellent eye for them.
Despite the dress’s simple cut, I could tell it was made from high-quality fabric and had been tailored to fit her exact size.
“Ah, Sabine, I’m glad you found the time,” Fatima said, pulling out a chair for the woman. “Everyone, this is Sabine, our event coordinator. She’s very busy overseeing all the parts of the gala, but she wanted to drop in and see how the menu was coming together.”
“I’m sure it’s coming along wonderfully,” Sabine said. Her voice was smooth, and a little deeper than I expected. When she smiled, her red lips parted to reveal two rows of perfect white teeth.
Sabine sat down and the argument resumed.
But this time, Laurent didn’t speak up. He sat silently, glaring at his hands again.
That meant Fatima’s assistant was able to spin her ideas without pushback.
By the time she mentioned alternating fire breathers and can-can dancers between every course, I knew I had to step in.
“What about a fusion?” I suggested. “Instead of switching between French and international food, we have every course combine both?”
“How?” one of the sous chefs asked.
“It could be anything,” I said, thinking fast. “Like lamb chops crusted with fennel and cumin or chickpea cassoulet, or croissants with a baklava filling.”
There was a pause, and I looked around anxiously while everyone considered my idea. Maybe it was too out there?
But then Laurent spoke up: “I think that’s an excellent suggestion.” I looked at him for just a second before turning to see Fatima nodding in agreement. Monsieur-Know-It-All must think the back-and-forth cuisine idea was even worse than I did to publicly compliment me.
That set off another flurry of chatter as people began discussing what dishes they could make. Rough ideas were drawn up, and another meeting was set to finalize them. I glowed a little that my idea seemed so popular, but then I noticed Sabine staring at me. She didn’t look happy.
After the meeting ended and people began filing out, Sabine stood in front of me, blocking my way to the door.
“What’s your name?” she asked. She was smiling, but there was nothing friendly in her face.
“I’m Margot Delcour.”
She flipped through her files until she came to the page she wanted.
“You’re a server?” she said, raising an eyebrow.
“I am,” I confirmed, wondering why she’d taken a sudden interest in me. Perhaps she had a secret hatred for fusion dishes and now saw me as the enemy?
“Do you really think you’re up for baking everything we need for the gala?”
How obnoxious. An hour ago I was dead set against doing a single thing for this event, and now, once I’d decided to volunteer, I had people pushing back? Even worse, she was voicing my own fears.
Of course I don’t think I’m up for baking everything you need for the gala! I wanted to cry. I’m an absolute wreck; just last week I forgot to poke holes in my éclairs, and when I tried to pipe in the pastry cream, the steam trapped inside caused them to explode like little pastry grenades.
But she didn’t need to know that.
“I think I’m prepared. I’ll certainly do my best.” I smiled extra sunnily, just because I knew it set people like her on edge.
Sabine stared at me a few moments longer. “Well, we’ll see,” she said ominously. She turned on her heel and left.