Page 47 of The Paris Roommates: Dean
But the dish she’d identified as the Holy Grail for Nanine’s wasn’t ready yet, and it was driving her batshit crazy.
Don’t even ask her about everyone going apeshit over the lobster salad she was now adding to the menu, which had taken her less than five minutes to conceive of and make. This baby was going to kill her. But she was determined.
Dean had his gut. She had hers. The Michelin gods were going to purr when they ate this dish. Every moment she’d poured into it was going to be worth it.
“Yes, let’s go, Pierre,” she said, tying on her apron. “I have to leave with the others to see the cave from your old friend, Chef Beaumont, remember?”
Before seeing Dean’s little joke, she’d actually been excited about the day. Jacqueline had continued to say nothing of the cave in her texts to Dean, and they’d agreed he wouldn’t introduce the subject either, seeing as it was such a French thing to be discreet about one’s affairs. Nanine had agreed, and that had been that.
“Oh, my friend,” Pierre called, suddenly hanging his head and uttering a heart-wrenching dirge.
Madison lurched into action, popping open the lid of the container of almonds she kept for him in the corner. Extending one to the parrot, she said, “Please don’t cry.”
“Désolé,” the parrot apologized, continuing to give that very humanlike sound of deep grief before accepting the almond.
She didn’t know what to do, so she petted the top of his head, feeling helpless. Food she understood. The rest of life was a giant mystery wrapped in aluminum foil.
“It is incredible,non? He understands loss like the rest of us.”
She looked over as Nanine entered the kitchen from the back door, wearing the yoga pants and workout top Brooke had bought her when she’d agreed to start going to yoga classes for her health, something they also did together at home. Leave it to Brooke to make a spreadsheet of all the possible ways Nanine could improve her health and well-being after her heart attack. Then again, she’d had to help her father through the same transition not long ago.
Madison wasn’t into all that woo-woo body-mind stuff where people ate tofu and other sprouted items that would never grace a Michelin-starred menu to usher in that thing they called “a vibration.” But if it helped Nanine recover better and faster like it had with Brooke’s father, she was all for it. Heck, she’d buy Nanine a parachute if Brooke said jumping out of an airplane would help her.
“It’s still hard for me to be working in your kitchen,” Madison admitted, deciding to call it out there as she crossed her arms, feeling even more helpless. “Normally, it would be you at the stove, testing recipes for the new menu.”
Nanine patted Pierre on the head before crossing and putting her arm around Madison, kissing her warmly on the cheek. If anyone else had done it, she would have squirmed. But never with Nanine.
In the beginning, she hadn’t known what to do with the woman’s love and affection. Her only memories of her mother, before the woman walked out without a backward glance, were of her mom pulling her hair when she bothered to brush it or yelling at her for being hungry. Madison still wasn’t completely comfortable with motherly love, but she didn’t want to run from it.
There had always been something about Nanine that made her hold on fast—like the rest of her roommates. When she got to thinking about it, the whole thing was a little screwy. After being betrayed by so many people, she’d never thought she’d fall for anyone like she had these people.
“I would feel the same as you,” Nanine said, touching the gleaming stainless steel counters, “but you cannot know the relief it is to have you here, leading the restaurant with your perfect blend of artistry and efficiency. The staff who worked with me is eager to begin working with you.”
Her stomach bumped as surely as if she were in a car moving over a rocky road. “I’m banking on you not to bullsh—not mislead me.”
“You can say bullshit, Madison.” Nanine looked to be fighting laughter. “I know I have a house rule against swearing—or I did—but you are all adults now. I am hoping you will use your language wisely, but if swearing is something you need to do for your creative process, then by all means, swear away.”
Swear away?She shifted on her feet, feeling more and more like the ground beneath them had stopped being solid. “Are you feeling all right, Nanine? That downward facing dog thing didn’t put too much blood in your head, did it?”
Her laughter had Pierre joining in. “That is a very…vigorous position, isn’t it? I sometimes finish my yoga after Brooke has dashed off to her next thing, and then I take a walk along the Seine and smile at what Bernard would have said about the yoga.”
“I’ll bet he would have liked how flexible you’re becoming,” Madison said with a sly wink.
Nanine laughed again and rubbed the back of her neck, looking so at ease with herself. Madison envied her that. At nearly sixty, she had that timeless sophistication older French women possess. Madison feared that even if she lived to a hundred, she’d still be covering up her enormous tits with a baggy black T-shirt. Because even old guys were total horndogs, she’d discovered in Miami. The thought made her shiver in disgust.
“What are you thinking of?” Nanine asked quietly.
“Being hit on by old lecherous men in white Speedos and gold jewelry,” she responded tightly. “On that note, I’m going to start working.”
“Pierre is ready, Chef,” she heard her parrot friend say.
“The outfitwasDean’s idea,” Nanine commented, adjusting Pierre’s hat. “He does know how to bring humor into a situation, does he not?”
Dean reveled in entertaining others, but this time she wasn’t laughing. “He probably is also thinking the tourists will love the outfit and flood the internet with pics of ourchef de cuisineparrot.”
She sighed heartily, because that same scenario was going to deliver some more hits to her cred as a serious chef. She had to tell herself again that Chez Papa had won a Michelin star with Pierre. Plus, she had become very fond of the little guy and respected his opinion. The other day he’d suggested adding a touch of brown butter to acrème anglaisesauce, an untraditional choice that added an incredible flavor to the dish.
“I’m sorry, Nanine,” she said, words she uttered rarely but always with contrition. “That sounded bitchy. I’m just better in the back of the house. Behind the scenes. I understand marketing, but I prefer to focus on the kitchen.”
