Page 8 of Kept 2
“If madam orders, I will make suggestions,” the sommelier smiles, all courtesy and kindness, just like the waiter. I wonder if they hire people with these personalities, or train them to be this way.
“I would like poulet val?e d’auge (Normandy chicken),” I pause and look to the sommelier.
“Might I suggest an oaked chardonnay?” he offers.
I nod.
“I’d also like the escalopes de foie gras aux pommes (escalopes of foie gras with apples).”
“A gewürztraminer?”
I nod.
“And for dessert, cr?mets with strawberries.”
“A demi-sec champagne,” he nods, writing this down also, and seeing I have no comment, leaving.
I smile at Amande.
“I probably wouldn’t have thought of the demi-sec,” I smile, “but I think I would have chosen all the others properly.”
“Fine dining brings experience,” he nods.
I frown at this. It so closely echoed the horrible words of Madame Boufant during my most recent, and still freshly painful, failed interview at the culinary academy.
“Do you ever try the food here?” I ask, “so you know how best to describe it?’
“Of course,” he chuckles, “all the waiters taste the menu at the start of each week during our staff meetings – I would ensure I do so even if this were not part of our employment,” he adds as an afterthought.
“Why?”
“I am training to be a chef.”
“You are?” I know my voice has gone up an octave, “where?”
“At the PCI, The Paris Culinary Institute,” he quantifies.
“Then how come you are working as a waiter?”
“It is part of the training,” he smiles, “every would-be chef must learn the front of house roles and rituals; it is the only way a restaurant can run smoothly. If the chef is aware of the pressures and restraints of those serving his or her meals, he will run a calm restaurant – 12 months at front of house is mandatory before graduation as a chef.”
“Wow,” I shake my head, “I had no idea.”
I frown as I think over my failed attempt to enter the Boston academy. I have been so fixated on learning the recipes, getting the meals perfect, that I haven’t really studied any other aspects of life as a chef, or the expectations for chefs these days or even, really, the fine dining experience outside of what was on the plate – I have a lot to learn.
“Can you tell me,” I ask quickly, aware that I shouldn’t really be making conversation with my waiter, “after you learn the sauces, what do you concentrate on next, as part of your chef’s studies?”
“The pastries,” he smiles, “but just between you and I, they are easier than the sauces.”
“Pastries,” I murmur, “of course.”
Seeing my eyes drift back to the fire, Amande leaves to place my order.
Mentally I begin flicking through my mother’s books and thinking about practising my pastries. Some I was already good at, like shortcrust, but others, like choux, well, I might need a little more time with. I wish I had brought the recipe books with me, but I hadn’t, there was only one book I carried everywhere with me.
Sipping my champagne, I pull out the journal and once again begin my hunt for clues as to where Ereston is, and what weaknesses my pursuer might have. But at the same time, I’m thinking about pastry and what tips Mum might have left in her recipe book that would give me the edge in mine.
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