Page 26 of From Paris, with Butter
Chocolate soufflé.
“No makethis,” Colette said, passing by with a plate of bucatini pasta with chive lemon sauce. “Every time I bring a plate of it out, I want to bury my face in it.”
By the end of the shift, my mind was reeling with suggestions. The staff meal we had at one of the empty tables didn’t make things any clearer.
“You need to keep the menu simple,” Yasmine said.
“No, you need to impress him,” Colette insisted.
“What about a vegetarian meal?” Paul suggested.
“Oh, Margot, have a baked potato bar. They’re all the rage now,” Luc said, although he might have been trolling.
They jumped from one idea to another, and by the time Colette and Luc started concocting a French/Mexican menu, I was so overwhelmed that I didn’t even bother telling them their idea of putting escargots in tacos was objectively appalling.
Suddenly, a shadow loomed. Everyone went silent.
Standing over us was Chef La Croix. There were bloodstains splattered across his apron, and even though I knew (??) they were from cutting short ribs for the menu’s fourth course, they made him look even more frightening than normal.
When he spoke, his voice was low and quiet.
“Is someone in need of a menu?”
I’d never heard a more terrifying sentence. No one moved for several seconds. I would rather serve Laurent one of his frozen pizzas and torpedo the dinner than have Chef La Croix learn I needed his help.
Then, Yasmine pointed a traitorous finger in my direction.
Chef La Croix’s gaze snapped to me. I gulped. The bloodstains really weren’t helping him appear more approachable.
Chef La Croix’s eyes narrowed. “Come with me, Margot.”
As I stood to leave, I took a final glance at my coworkers. They stared back as though I was headed for the gallows.
Chef La Croix led me to the kitchens, past the long counters where two sous chefs were putting ingredients away, over to a dimly-lit back corner. From a cabinet, he pulled out two small stools and set them on the ground.
“Sit,” he ordered.
I immediately sat. He settled himself across from me.
Somehow, he appeared even more intimidating hunched on a tiny stool.
“Explain it to me.”
I gulped, then started talking. I told him about my new neighbor and thepredicament I’d landed myself in when I’d impulsively invited him over for dinner before learning he was a Michelin-starred chef who had likely surpassed me in cooking skills before he could write his own name.
Chef La Croix listened carefully, his brow furrowed and his dark eyes never leaving my face. He only spoke after I had petered into silence.
“His name is Roche? And his restaurant was in Aix?” he asked. “I know of him. You’ll need to introduce us sometime.”
I nodded, although I couldn’t imagine a more nightmarish scenario than my terrifying boss meeting the neighbor I was sort-of-very-much-hoping I was planning a date for.
Chef La Croix went silent, and that made me nervous, so I began listing some of the suggestions the others had given.
“Colette suggested beef tartare, but Yasmine said to do crêpes, and Paul thought—”
“No,” Chef La Croix said, cutting across me. “I heard their ideas, and they are all terrible.”
“Oh.” I’d actually thought Yasmine had been on to something with the crêpes, but never mind.
