Chapter 11
“He’s coming over for dinner?” Colette squealed. It was the evening after I’d run into Laurent and had my entire worldview thrown into disorder.
“Is it a date?” Yasmine asked.
“Just a platonic, neighborly meal,” I said.
Eyerolls all around, which I chose to ignore.
“Did he seem like he was flirting?” Yasmine pressed.
“I don’t think so?”
“But he said he wanted to have dinner with you. And he baked you a quiche,” Colette said firmly, as though that settled things.
“He baked a quiche and gave Margot a slice,” Luc corrected.
“But still, to have dinner at someone’s house, that’s no small thing,” Colette insisted.
“Did you kiss? Hug? Shake hands?” Yasmine asked.
“No. He was, well, holding a bag of trash.”
This stumped even Colette, and there was a moment of fraught silence. I wasn’t even sure what to think myself. Laurent Roche was, despite his apologies, still a snobbish grump. He wasn’t a good dating prospect, even if he had a cute cat and looked like a catalog model (Yasmine’s opinion, not mine).
“In any case, it doesn’t matter if it’s a date right now,” Paul said, speaking up from where he sat in the corner, sorting through newly-arrived shipments of wine. “Anything can become a date, even if it doesn’t start as one. The question we should be discussing is: what is Margot going to cook?”
This sent everyone into a flurry of suggestions, but before I had any time to consider them, the elevator dinged and it was time to get to work.
It was the first day of Chef La Croix’s fall menu, and menu switch days were always chaotic.
We had to learn all the details about the new courses to relay to guests, the kitchens had to get the timing of them just right so no diner had too long of a gap between courses, and sometimes, even when we did everything right, a guest had a meltdown because they were expecting last season’s menu, even though Le Jules Verne made this information very, very clear.
I pushed any thought of Laurent out of my mind and stepped into the dining rooms feeling like a soldier heading into battle.
But, tonight at least, every diner at Le Jules Verne seemed pleased with the menu. As they should be. I’d tried it myself weeks ago, when the kitchens had been doing a test run, and every course had been perfection.
As the evening wore on, the other servers whispered suggestions of what I could make Laurent each time we passed each other.
“Broiled swordfish,” Colette said, balancing a platter of empty wine glasses. “Easy, but impressive.”
“Absolutely do not serve a man fish on the first date,” Luc said, passing in the opposite direction. “The main course should be roast chicken.”
“No chicken, no fish,” Yasmine said later, carrying out a pair of chocolate mousses.
“A sophisticated chef will only appreciate red meat. And don’t try making any Provencal specialties,” she added, stepping aside as the kitchen door swung open and Colette blazed in, looking harassed.
“You’ll never be able to make them as well as his mother. ”
As the evening progressed, the suggestions kept on coming.
Duck confit.
The scallops with a citrus reduction that had been a standout from last year’s summer menu.
Baked Camembert.
Chocolate soufflé.
“No make this,” Colette said, passing by with a plate of bucatini pasta with chive lemon sauce. “Every time I bring a plate of it out, I want to bury my face in it.”
By the end of the shift, my mind was reeling with suggestions. The staff meal we had at one of the empty tables didn’t make things any clearer.
“You need to keep the menu simple,” Yasmine said.
“No, you need to impress him,” Colette insisted.
“What about a vegetarian meal?” Paul suggested.
“Oh, Margot, have a baked potato bar. They’re all the rage now,” Luc said, although he might have been trolling.
They jumped from one idea to another, and by the time Colette and Luc started concocting a French/Mexican menu, I was so overwhelmed that I didn’t even bother telling them their idea of putting escargots in tacos was objectively appalling.
Suddenly, a shadow loomed. Everyone went silent.
Standing over us was Chef La Croix. There were bloodstains splattered across his apron, and even though I knew (??) they were from cutting short ribs for the menu’s fourth course, they made him look even more frightening than normal.
When he spoke, his voice was low and quiet.
“Is someone in need of a menu?”
I’d never heard a more terrifying sentence. No one moved for several seconds. I would rather serve Laurent one of his frozen pizzas and torpedo the dinner than have Chef La Croix learn I needed his help.
Then, Yasmine pointed a traitorous finger in my direction.
Chef La Croix’s gaze snapped to me. I gulped. The bloodstains really weren’t helping him appear more approachable.
Chef La Croix’s eyes narrowed. “Come with me, Margot.”
As I stood to leave, I took a final glance at my coworkers. They stared back as though I was headed for the gallows.
Chef La Croix led me to the kitchens, past the long counters where two sous chefs were putting ingredients away, over to a dimly-lit back corner. From a cabinet, he pulled out two small stools and set them on the ground.
“Sit,” he ordered.
I immediately sat. He settled himself across from me.
Somehow, he appeared even more intimidating hunched on a tiny stool.
“Explain it to me.”
I gulped, then started talking. I told him about my new neighbor and the predicament I’d landed myself in when I’d impulsively invited him over for dinner before learning he was a Michelin-starred chef who had likely surpassed me in cooking skills before he could write his own name.
Chef La Croix listened carefully, his brow furrowed and his dark eyes never leaving my face. He only spoke after I had petered into silence.
“His name is Roche? And his restaurant was in Aix?” he asked. “I know of him. You’ll need to introduce us sometime.”
I nodded, although I couldn’t imagine a more nightmarish scenario than my terrifying boss meeting the neighbor I was sort-of-very-much-hoping I was planning a date for.
Chef La Croix went silent, and that made me nervous, so I began listing some of the suggestions the others had given.
“Colette suggested beef tartare, but Yasmine said to do crêpes, and Paul thought—”
“No,” Chef La Croix said, cutting across me. “I heard their ideas, and they are all terrible.”
“Oh.” I’d actually thought Yasmine had been on to something with the crêpes, but never mind.
“The menu,” Chef La Croix began, eyes boring into me, “needs to be food that you love. Food you love to cook and food you love to eat. If you don’t love it, anything you make will be garbage!” He banged his fist into his other palm with the final word, and I nearly fell off my stool.
“Understand?”
I nodded quickly.
“Good. Now, what did your family cook when you were growing up?”
The question caught me off guard. “Oh, I can’t really think of anything,” I began, but then the memories started coming thick and fast.
Waking up to the scent of baking bread and knowing that, when I sat down at the kitchen table, my mother would have a croissant spread with Nutella waiting for me.
Living in Alsace, in the northeastern corner of the country, with its bountiful orchards and vineyards.
I’d go apple picking, and my grandmother would turn my haul into a tarte tatin with puddles of sugar and melted butter swimming among the fruit.
Gorging myself on jiggly, creamy blanc-manger coco when my mother and I lived in Martinique.
Carefully slicing apples for a pie in Washington DC and beaming with pride when my mother told me what a good job I’d done.
Chef La Croix sat silently as I poured out the stories. If he noticed me getting teary-eyed, he didn’t say a word about it. When I was done, he pulled out a ratty notebook and a pencil stub.
“Now, this is what you’re going to make.” He flipped open the notebook and began to write, explaining the reason for each course and how I should go about cooking it.
When he finished, he tore the page out and handed it to me. I took it as though it were a precious object. Which it was.
I could not have come up with a better menu if I’d dedicated a year to it.
It was all food I was deeply familiar with, all food I’d grown up with and, yes, all food that I loved.
It was heavy on my Alsatian background and played to my strengths as a baker.
It was impressive but not overly so. It was elevated, but still comforting.
There it all was, written in Chef La Croix’s loopy cursive.
Entrée: Saltfish acra (Fried fish fritters, generally served with a spicy sauce, and a favorite dish from the year my mother and I lived in Martinique.
Chef La Croix had been delighted when I’d mentioned it.
“A perfect start to the meal. It’s exotic, but not strange. It’s light, but not insubstantial.”)
Salad: Arugula with fig and goat cheese (“A standard, but it’s a standard because it works,” Chef La Croix had said. “People like food they know, especially after a dish they’re less used to. This is familiar and a lighter contrast to the other courses. Go heavy on the black pepper.”)
Main course: Tarte flambée (The crispy pizza-esque flatbread that was a specialty of Alsace.
It’s my favorite food in the world and thus merited an instant spot in Chef La Croix’s menu.
I’d made it probably a hundred times over the years and could practically do it in my sleep.
According to Chef La Croix, it was essential that I feel confident in a dinner’s main course.)
Dessert: Tarte tatin (A pastry with fruit, often apples, caramelized in butter and sugar before being baked. “I could recommend no other dessert to an Alsatian,” was all Chef La Croix had said.)
I read the menu through twice, then looked up at Chef La Croix. “It’s perfect,” I breathed, tears pricking my eyes again. I nearly reached out to clasp his hand.
It was a good thing I didn’t because Chef La Croix had resumed looking terrifying. He raised a disdainful eyebrow. “Yes. I know. Now get out of my kitchen.”
I hurriedly obeyed, the precious paper still clutched in my hands.