Page 9 of From Paris, with Butter
“I…I thought at first it needed fresh herbs, but I think the soup’s flavors are too light for that. It’d be overpowered.” I swallowed again, this time from nerves. “Maybe an herb-infused olive oil, drizzled over just at the end?”
Chef La Croix took a spoonful of soup from his own bowl and swallowed it. There was an alarming moment of silence.
“Ye-es,” he said slowly. “Perhaps chives or even tarragon if I can keep it light enough. That’s not a useless idea.” He gave a tooth-baring grin that was known to strike terror into the heart of every cook at Le Jules Verne. I returned it with a wavery one of my own.
“How did the strawberry soup go over with the diners?” Chef asked, naming the chilled starter that had debuted over the summer.
“Accolades all around,” I quickly replied.
Then, because she apparently had a death wish, Yasmine added, “One table said they found it a little oversalted.”
Chef La Croix, who had closed his eyes as he sipped another spoonful of soup, immediately snapped them open. “Who said that?” he demanded. He stood, looming over us as his face darkened. “Were they British? I’ve told you, I don’t want to hear their complaints. A country that has built its cuisine on the back of boiled cabbage does not understand properly seasoned food. They live in eternal jealousy of us, this kind of behavior is to be expected of them…”
I was shaking in my boots, and even Yasmine looked to be regretting her burst of honesty. Chef La Croix continued in this vein for quite some time until a rap on the door rescued us.
Our savior, a cheery delivery man, stepped in. He brought with him severalrounds of Reblochon, the soft Alpine cheese that was an integral component of the salad currently starring as the third course on Le Jules Verne’s menu. Chef La Croix opened the boxes and lifted the cheeses out, taking care to smell each one and weigh it in his hand.
“Yes, much better than the crumbling piles of garbage they tried to give me last time,” he murmured, setting the cheese in a neat row. The delivery man held out a form to sign, and Chef La Croix dashed off a florid signature.
The man glanced at the signature, then looked again more closely. “Monsieur La Croix?” he read.
I knew what was coming,
Chef La Croix’s face darkened. “Yes. That is my name.”
The delivery man grinned, and I silently willed him to just bid us farewell and take his leave.
But they never could.
The man looked between the signature and the chef, who was positively glowering by now. He pointed at Chef La Croix. “You have the same name as the bubbly water drink?”
“Get out of my restaurant!” Chef La Croix roared, the noise echoing around the kitchen. “And never, ever mention that abomination of a drink in my presence!”
The man fled without looking back.
Chef La Croix turned to me and Yasmine, still looking thunderous. “Do you have anything to add?”
“No, Chef,” I said meekly.
“See you for the dinner service, Chef,” Yasmine added.
“Don’t speak of this to anyone,” Chef La Croix said, as though we’d just overheard a state secret. “Now, get out.”
As we fled to the elevator, I could still hear Chef La Croix in the kitchens, muttering dark oaths about the atrocities of sparkling water.
Once outside, Yasmine and I breathed in the warm evening air.
“I hope Chef doesn’t work himself into too much of a state,” Yasmine said, smoothing her hands over her cherry red blouse. The color made her glow under the streetlamps. “You all take work so seriously, I swear. One of these dayseveryone at the restaurant is going to drop dead of a collective stroke.”
I smiled. Yasmine liked to make a great show of being above it all while the rest of us agonized over every little detail at Le Jules Verne, but I knew that, despite her blasé air, she cared just as much about getting things perfect. She’d worked at Le Jules Verne even longer than I had and was the best server I knew.
“What have you been baking?” she asked.
I dug around in my purse. “My creation from this morning,” I said, handing her a little paper box.
Yasmine lifted the lid, and the scent of parmesan and pastry wafted out. Inside, nestled like golden-brown eggs, were a quartet of gougères, savory cheese puffs. I was always hard on my baking, but even I could admit these looked gorgeous. They were buttery and cheesy, with a crisp, golden crust and a sprinkling of parmesan and black pepper across the top. When I’d taken them out of the oven this morning and tasted one, it was so light it had practically dissolved on my tongue.
Yasmine pulled a gougère out and bit into it, her eyes closed. “Oh, Margot. These are delicious,” she said, shutting her eyes as she chewed. She took a second and appraised the glossy cheese puff as it rested on her palm. “You played around with the recipe. It’s better now.”
