Page 43 of From Paris, with Butter
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 Señor 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, buthe 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.
