Page 81 of Brooke
Fabian had worked for Nanine for decades. Fortunately, he didn’t seem to have an ego about working for a younger chef like some of the prima donnas she’d worked with. Nanine had picked her, and that was that.
Whisks whipped into action. Eggs were cracked against glass bowls. The sizzle of onions being added to a frying pan filled the air. She straightened her chef’s jacket and walked back to her position, her stomach trembling as if someone had thrown a rock in her digestive acids. Sure, she was nervous, too. She was cooking for three of the best chefs in the world!
Who did that?
Her. An insane person. Even Nanine had asked if she was sure. But why play it safe? Shewantedthat star—more than one—and you had to trust yourself and plunge off the cliff.
She picked up her cleaver, her favorite tool in the kitchen, and severed a duck thigh from a breast. God, that felt good. Now she could focus…
The dishes came fast after that. She’d insisted the guests must be allowed to select anything from the menu, so they had to be ready for anything. When she detected the aroma of burnt bread in the air, she looked over at the line chef and called softly, “Start over.”
Their bread pairings were their signature, something no one else in Paris was doing. She hoped it would make the Michelin people notice them. Favor them. And yet it addedanother level of complexity in the kitchen. Each bread had to be as perfectly executed as the course they were serving. She kept her nose alert for any more burnt smells, knowing Pierre was doing the same from his perch on her shoulder.
She checked every dish that went out, and by the time her black uniform was drenched through with sweat, she’d only had to send back two plates for the appropriate chef to begin again. Sure, it screwed with their timing, but the pace was good so far. The worst thing that could happen was getting behind on dishes. When orders backed up, staff hurried. They burned things. Forgot an ingredient here and there. Made colossal mistakes.
Mentally, she paid attention to the stream of dishes being selected. ThePain d’Epiceswith foie gras was a huge seller. Her poached lobster salad was also highly popular, which amused her since she’d thrown it together one morning for Dean’s first picnic date with Jacqueline, her attempt to help him impress a girl he liked. They’d added it to the menu when Jacqueline had gone crazy over it. Thea’s fabulous pairing with an apricot walnut bread brought out the salad’s citrusy dressing beautifully.
Of course, their boeuf bourguignon with midnight black bread was ordered in triplicate. Nanine’s had been known for it as for the roast chicken, which they now served with fennel and a caramelized orange bread. They had two orders of the stuffed pumpkin, and she rather savored capping the pumpkin tops after checking to make sure the insides were deliciously in balance with the Toulouse sausage. She expected it would be a hot fall dish, and since it was early November, pumpkins were plentiful in the local markets she visited.
Two orders of roasted pork topped off with a rhubarb glaze accompanied by lemon poppyseed bread was about what she’d expected tonight. And only one person ordered thepot-au-feu au veauwith the French thyme and gruyerebread. Although she didn’t know who’d asked for it, she’d bet a month’s salary it was Marcel.
The four orders of her duck with cherries had her dancing a salsa step in place as she added her winning ingredient. A flash of Kyle came and went in her head as she inhaled the tarragon to frizzle. She reached for her cleaver and pushed him from her mind. Otherwise, her focus would be shot.
Pierre flew over only twice to help one of the line cooks add a sliver of rhubarb to the pork plate he’d forgotten and to tell another that his toasted bread needed to be turned or it would burn. She’d sent him a quick nod of thanks—that was his role as her helper and extra set of eyes. Sometimes she didn’t know how he did it—but she figured if a dog could detect cancer or cocaine, why couldn’t a parrot have these kinds of instincts about food?
The salads went out, as did the carefully selected cheese plates along with their special bread pairings. And then they reached the home stretch…
When the dessert plates started arriving for her to finish and approve, she took a moment to crack her back. She had a tendency to hunch over after the first couple of hours, and it was a bad habit. She eyed the dishes in front of her. Poached pears with crystallized gingerbread. Cherries Jubilee with cinnamon swirl bread. Granny Smith apple tart with a fudgy chocolate bread. They were as delicious and decadent as their very own Sixth Course, Kyle, whom Nanine had rightly named for his own deliciousness.
His Golden Boy features flashed in her mind again. She wondered how he thought things were going. She couldn’t wait to compare notes with him. Sure, her roommates were all out there, as was Nanine, but Kyle was the one she could push and press for every detail.
God, the way they got each other was freaking unsettling, and her volcanic lust for him—and his for her—made her feel like they were wearing hair shirts from way back in Frenchmonk times. Blame that allusion on the cognac in her hand from a celebrated abbey.
“The front says we’re finished, Chef,” their liaison between the front and back announced crisply.
Nanine’s chandelier finally gave a watery melody of celebration. The famous kitchen fixture never rang during service.
Part of her wanted to let out a cheer, but she only nodded equally crisply and glanced around the kitchen. “Good work, people. Let’s clean up. Then we will make ourselves available to our guests and learn their thoughts. After, we can have a drink to celebrate.”
Tomorrow, she would take any private input she received along with any other analysis—the kind she’d expect to have from Kyle and Nanine—and disperse it to her staff. Then they would refine and prepare for the restaurant’s full opening in a week.
God—a week!
Not a thought she needed to entertain right now.
She picked up a metal brush and got to work on the stove. Cleaning the kitchen with her staff was something she’d told herself she’d never give up after becoming a head chef. Marcel didn’t believe anyone was above cleaning up, and his sense of equality had created respect and cohesion in his kitchen.
But God, she really hated scrubbing pots when her uniform was clinging to her skin. She hoped she wasn’t rank. Sure, she smelled like food all the time, her own personal cologne. But her guests didn’t need to smell an off-putting odor when she met them.
Pierre landed on her shoulder as she wiped her hands on a dish towel. “Excellent, Chef.”
She reached for an almond for her little friend. “You think so? Well, I appreciate your help tonight, Pierre. Now we face the true music.”
Leaving the kitchen with her staff following behind her,she walked into the main room to find a relaxed group of guests laughing and drinking digestifs. Dean rose immediately and took Pierre from her, but she had eyes only for Kyle. In a sea of people, she wanted to see his face first. To know that he thought she’d succeeded.
When he lifted his brandy toward her with a shit-eating grin, her feet wanted to do a little salsa step.
Then her old boss stood up from his table and crossed to her, kissing her on both cheeks for the whole room to see. A ball of emotion lodged in her throat when she saw the tears in his faded blue eyes. “My dear Chef Madison. I believe you will have your star. The food was exquisite, and the bread pairings… Ingenious! Wine pairings will become mundane.Bread pairings will become all the rage. They will put you and Nanine’s on the map.”
