Chapter 16
The next day, I heard a soft knock as I was drinking my morning tea. When I opened the door, I found a familiar-looking package resting on the ground.
I hurriedly brought it inside and unwrapped the paper to reveal a slice of perfectly golden quiche.
It had caramelized onions and—I sniffed—maybe Gruyère?
Whatever it was, it smelled beautiful. I flipped it over.
The crust was nicely browned, but Laurent’s always were. The proof would be in the tasting.
The first bite I didn’t get enough crust, so it got lost in the flavor of the quiche (which was superb). For the next bite, I cut away some of the crust to taste it on its own. I chewed it slowly.
Oh. Damn.
Instead of the shoe-leather-inspired crusts of Laurent’s first two quiches, this was shockingly close to perfection. It was crisp. It was buttery. It was flaky. It was flavorful.
Laurent had added thyme to the dough, which I’d always thought too fussy a step, but here it worked, adding another layer of flavor to the quiche, something green and fresh to cut through the heaviness of the eggs and cheese and onions.
I savored every last buttery crumb before getting my phone.
You’ve finally listened to my advice, I texted, adding a winking face. Don’t let work drag you down.
Laurent wasn’t the only one working long hours lately. Le Jules Verne had been especially harried this week. The Prime Minister of Spain and her boyfriend would be dining at Le Jules Verne tomorrow. Not only that, her boyfriend was planning to propose at dinner.
We weren’t unused to VIPs at work, but they normally didn’t require so much security and preparation.
As the server with the best Spanish skills, I’d be waiting on them.
I’d served famous people before, and it didn’t particularly faze me.
But I certainly wanted to do a good job with Prime Minister Abascal and her soon-to-be fiancé.
When I got into work that afternoon, Chef La Croix was near the point of apoplexy.
“WHAT IS IT THIS TIME?” he roared, sending everyone in the kitchen scrambling. “These people ask for changes to the menu as though I am a lowly restaurant that serves fast food. Even at McDonald’s they would be offended by this.”
“What’s the matter?” I whispered to Yasmine.
“The Prime Minister’s boyfriend has a somewhat…limited diet,” she said in a low tone, looking out to make sure Chef La Croix wasn’t barreling our way.
“He’s asking for all sorts of modifications to the menu, and he wants the final course changed entirely. Said he and the Prime Minister had wine and cheese on their first date, so that’s what he wants to end the meal with. Chef refused, but the owners told them he had to make the changes.”
“A complete change to the final course?” I repeated, watching Chef La Croix rage around the kitchen. “He’s taking it better than I expected.”
“I know,” Yasmine agreed. “He only swore in two languages during the phone call, when you know he usually swears in three when he’s really angry. Luc mentioned meditation classes to him last month.”
Yasmine paused as Chef La Croix bellowed for a new cutting board. Three were immediately thrust at him.
“I thought Chef was going to skewer Luc at the time, but maybe he took the suggestion to heart.”
Le Jules Verne could make changes for dietary reasons if given enough lead time, but to change an entire course based just on habit was an affront to Le Jules Verne and to Chef La Croix.
Diners tried to do this occasionally (“Oh I love macarons; do you think I could have some of those for dessert instead?”). We always explained that it wasn’t possible, and it bothered me that we were being forced to go along with these changes now, just because of the guest’s political rank.
“He’s making other demands, too,” Yasmine continued. “They want to be in Le Comptoir now,” she said, naming Le Jules Verne’s private dining area for small groups.
“And they want the material of the napkins changed. Apparently, synthetic fibers irritate Senor Costa’s skin. He wants the napkins to be only pure cotton or linen.”
I glanced at Chef La Croix. His jaw appeared permanently clenched, but he was no longer shouting.
I looked at Yasmine. “I need to get the name of his meditation guru.”
“I’m so glad I’m not the one serving them. Oh, these look delicious,” Yasmine said as one of the souf chefs handed us each a chocolate mousse.
“I think I’ll be OK,” I said, taking a bite of mousse. It was creamy and velvety, the bittersweet taste of dark chocolate offset by a drizzle of salted caramel that dripped down the edges of the ramekin.
“You always say things will be OK,” Yasmine said with a grin. “How’s Laurent?”
“Being worked to the bone. I’ve barely seen him this past week.”
“Poor Margot,” Yasmine said. “You finally find someone decent, and he’s a workaholic, just like you.”
I took another bite of mousse. “Don’t worry about my troubles; we need to end your dating drought. Have you seen the photos of the Prime Minister’s security team that were sent over? There’s one who’s just your type. You should flirt with him while I’m hustling out the courses. Here, look.”
***
The next day I woke up early even though I wasn’t working until the dinner shift. I was feeling my nerves and decided some baking would settle my mind.
A loaf of brioche–the buttery, airy bread with its cloudlike texture–would do nicely. I’d work out my anxious energy with all the kneading.
I was fist-deep in sticky dough when there was a soft but insistent knock at the door. I knew that knock. As expected, when I opened the door, I saw Madame Blanchet’s diminutive form, Bijou squirming in her arms.
“Good morning, Madame,” I said as I wiped dough from my hands with a towel.
“Margot, there is a towering man here for you,” she said, stroking Bijou. “He looks like one of those mercenaries with the Foreign Legion.”
“A mercenary?” I repeated blankly.
“He said his name was Jean-Baptiste.” Bijou gave a little bark.
“Wait, Chef La Croix?”
What on earth was he doing here? How did he even know where I lived?
“Did he say anything else?” I asked.
“Only that it was urgent and nothing you could be doing with your life was more important than speaking to him,” Madame Blanchet said calmly.
Baffled, I ran back into my apartment, scrubbed my hands under the faucet, then hurried down the stairs, dodging Madame Blanchet as I went.
Chef La Croix looming on my doorstep was one of the odder sights I’ve seen in my life. For one thing, I’d never seen him without his chef’s coat, and certainly not in the jeans and striped sweater he was wearing now.
He was smoking a cigarette with one hand and using the other to smooth down his hair, which was blowing all over in the wind. On his face was a look of absolute murderous rage.
“Margot!” he barked as soon as I stepped out. “Another crisis.”
I was still reeling from seeing my boss at my home, but I managed to nod.
“The Prime Minister’s boyfriend now wants—non, he is demanding—a particular type of cheese served for the dessert course.
Tetilla cheese. It’s from his hometown in Galicia.
You’d think he’d be able to eat enough there,” Chef La Croix growled.
“Even though this is France, and we are a French restaurant, I’ve been ordered to include it in the meal. ”
Chef La Croix took a final drag from his cigarette, then dropped it and stomped on it with such force I thought he might crack the pavement. He lit another cigarette and looked at me.
“I need to get to the restaurant and begin cooking, and your apartment is the only one on my way, so I’m giving this task to you.
Before your shift, I need you to find tetilla cheese.
It must be from Galicia. I’m told Senor Costa has a habit of voicing his thoughts on social media when places don’t meet his standards. ”
I started to roll my eyes, then stopped because it would be unprofessional, then remembered my boss was chain smoking on my doorstep while complaining about a political VIP and an eye roll probably wouldn’t do any harm. So I eye rolled.
This was one of the most stressful aspects of working in the service industry: you could do everything perfectly for a thousand diners, but if the 1001st didn’t like something, even if what they wanted was objectively unreasonable or even impossible, they could thrash you all over the internet and ruin your reputation.
I’d known restaurants that had shuttered over a single disgruntled guest. Le Jules Verne was too established for that, but if the Prime Minister’s boyfriend voiced his displeasure publicly, it could certainly take time for us to recover from the effects.
“I’ll do it,” I said firmly. “I promise.” Chef La Croix appraised me for a moment, then nodded.
“We beat them in the war, you know,” he said, taking a long drag on his cigarette.
“That would be the, uh, Franco-Spanish War? From the 1600s?”
Chef La Croix began walking away. “And don’t let them forget it.”
***
Thus commenced the most frantic afternoon of my life.
My first step was my local fromagerie, which I’d shopped at for years.
I didn’t remember them selling tetilla, but I hoped I’d only overlooked it.
It would be just the break I needed, to simply go down the block, purchase the cheese Le Jules Verne desperately needed, then walk into work like a hero.
But the owner shook his head. “I’m sorry, Mademoiselle Delcour, but we don’t sell tetilla. Would you be interested in something similar?”
I explained the situation, and he pulled out his contact list of other fromageries in the city.
While I waited, simultaneously grateful and anxious, he called a handful of the closest, but none of them sold tetilla.
One of them suggested a shop that was known for selling Spanish goods, but when I tried calling them, they didn’t pick up.
“It’s not too far,” I said looking at the location on my phone. “I’ll take the métro there. Thank you!” I called as I ran out the door.
Two stops on the métro later, I found myself in a new shop, again with the owner shaking his head. “We only get occasional shipments of tetilla, and we’ve been out for weeks. But I may have another place for you.”
This shop was across the city, so I ran back down the steps to the métro, squeezed myself into a hot, crowded train, and tried not to look at the time too often. That journey ended in defeat as well, as did the next one, and the one after that.
“Why would I sell Spanish cheese here?” one owner asked, and that seemed to be the general sentiment.
I was starting to get as wrathful as Chef La Croix. Who goes to France and demands they be served a food you could eat every day in Spain?
By now I was out of breath, overheated, and had to get ready for work very soon. Standing outside the most recent shop, I scrolled through my phone. Maybe I should try a supermarket? Some of them had a pretty decent cheese selection. There was one sort of on my way home.
One final, sweaty métro ride later, I found myself standing in the cheese section of a grocery store, pawing at each bundle to see if it was tetilla. I searched through the entire selection twice, then found a worker and asked him.
“We don’t have that here,” he said, shaking his head. He turned away to continue his restocking. I was left alone in the aisle, having an internal meltdown as shoppers parted around me.
I’d promised Chef La Croix I would do this, and I’d failed. We weren’t going to have the cheese, and the Prime Minister’s boyfriend would throw a fit.
I pictured Chef La Croix, perfecting each course of a meal that’d be forgotten as soon as this one shortcoming came to light.
Maybe they’d cut the staff, then Yasmine wouldn’t be able to save up enough to move to Switzerland, Colette would have to drop out of her costume design course, Paul’s wife would have to go back to work and leave their twins…
I looked at my watch. I had to get back home now and shower; I was already cutting it close. There wasn’t time for anything else.
Unless…
No. We’d barely started dating and, besides, his work was keeping him shackled to his desk. Even if he wanted to help me, he wouldn’t be able to. It was the middle of the work day. There was absolutely no way I was going to bother him.
I pictured my coworkers’ crushed expressions again.
Ughhhh.
I pulled out my phone and dialed a number, half-hoping he wouldn’t pick up.
“Margot?” Laurent sounded startled. Which, of course he was.