Page 21 of From Paris, with Butter
“We’re welcoming them to our country,” the man insisted. “That includes sharing our culture and our food.”
“No one wants to go back to the stale dinner parties of the 1950s,” the woman retorted.
“Have you polled them? What were the results?”
“Alright then!” Fatima’s assistant cut in. “Let’s compromise. What if, everyother course, we switch between French and international fare?”
Everyone paused to consider the idea. I wasn’t fully convinced
“Ye-es,” the woman began. “Something like kofta kebabs followed by vichyssoise?”
“That could work,” the man conceded.
Laurent Roche’s eyes flickered to mine. It lasted only a fraction of a second, but it was enough for me to understand that I wasn’t the only person who thought following the strong, spice-forward flavors of kebabs with the delicate flavors of a potato and leek soup was a terrible idea.
Fatima’s assistant loved it, though. “Wonderful! Perhaps we could have the rest of the event follow the switches in the menu? You know, when we bring out a French dish, it’s served on porcelain from Sèvres, and we’ll have the band play something by Edith Piaf. And when we bring out, say a dish from Algeria, we’ll switch the serving ware, and have the band play an Algerian song, or maybe we could even bring in a mandole player?”
I knew enough about the restaurant world that I could see the gala quickly spiraling out of control if we attempted that many changes throughout the night, but others were nodding along.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Laurent Roche smirking in my direction again. As if he knew exactly how doubtful I was feeling about this idea. Well, I’d show him.
“I think it’s a wonderful idea,” I said to the woman. She beamed.
“No, it’s a terrible idea,” Laurent said. “It’s much too difficult to pull off, and the final result will be chaos.”
I rolled my eyes at his pessimism. No one needed to know I secretly agreed with him.
His comment set off another round of arguing, which only paused when the door opened and a woman swept in. All of us turned toward her.
She was the kind of person who probably regularly brought conversations to a halt when she walked into a room. She was tall and elegant with blonde hair pulled into a chignon. The forest green dress she wore lightly skimmed the floor as she came toward us. I’d seen enough expensive clothes from my time at Le Jules Verne to have an excellent eye for them. Despite the dress’s simple cut, I could tellit was made from high-quality fabric and had been tailored to fit her exact size.
“Ah, Sabine, I’m glad you found the time,” Fatima said, pulling out a chair for the woman. “Everyone, this is Sabine, our event coordinator. She’s very busy overseeing all the parts of the gala, but she wanted to drop in and see how the menu was coming together.”
“I’m sure it’s coming along wonderfully,” Sabine said. Her voice was smooth, and a little deeper than I expected. When she smiled, her red lips parted to reveal two rows of perfect white teeth.
Sabine sat down and the argument resumed. But this time, Laurent didn’t speak up. He sat silently, glaring at his hands again. That meant Fatima’s assistant was able to spin her ideas without pushback. By the time she mentioned alternating fire breathers and can-can dancers between every course, I knew I had to step in.
“What about a fusion?” I suggested. “Instead of switching between French and international food, we have every course combine both?”
“How?” one of the sous chefs asked.
“It could be anything,” I said, thinking fast. “Like lamb chops crusted with fennel and cumin or chickpea cassoulet, or croissants with a baklava filling.”
There was a pause, and I looked around anxiously while everyone considered my idea. Maybe it was too out there?
But then Laurent spoke up: “I think that’s an excellent suggestion.” I looked at him for just a second before turning to see Fatima nodding in agreement. Monsieur-Know-It-All must think the back-and-forth cuisine idea was even worse than I did to publicly compliment me.
That set off another flurry of chatter as people began discussing what dishes they could make. Rough ideas were drawn up, and another meeting was set to finalize them. I glowed a little that my idea seemed so popular, but then I noticed Sabine staring at me. She didn’t look happy.
After the meeting ended and people began filing out, Sabine stood in front of me, blocking my way to the door.
“What’s your name?” she asked. She was smiling, but there was nothing friendly in her face.
“I’m Margot Delcour.”
She flipped through her files until she came to the page she wanted.
“You’re a server?” she said, raising an eyebrow.
