Page 12 of Falling for Paris
“The videos are fantastic. We’ve been active on that channel for years but the second your cheese demonstration went viral, the subscription numbers skyrocketed.”
“The only word that made sense in your statement ischeese.”
“So…Victoria Espinoza. She’s getting a lot of buzz too. That fiery exchange you had when she scolded you started a massive debate about culinary snobbery.”
“You know my background, Inez. I’m far from being a snob.”
“I know you clawed your way to the top. Scholarships in the best schools, winning every competition you entered, being the executive chef in some of the best establishments in the city. You can’t tell me all of that blood, sweat, and tears didn’t change you.”
She was correct that his life dedicated to his craft changed him as a person. But it was always about the skills of the trade and never about gatekeeping snobbish notions of food. He believed that some culinary experiences—if one enlightened oneself while preparing or consuming—were a privilege and a responsibility. If that meant he was somewhat controlling, well, so be it. His expertise earned him that right.
That is, until his body reminded him of its limits. Limits that were always there, deceitfully dormant until they detonated his life as he knew it.
“I heard Helena is doing the chocolate demonstration today,” Inez interrupted his righteous self-pity. He welcomed the reminder.
“I should get things ready. We’ll be making a three-course meal.”
“Are you now?”
“What?” He didn’t like the mischievous tone of his friend.
“It seems the more you depart from the original syllabus, the more creative you’re getting.”
“A three-course meal is hardly the height of creativity. And it is mostly the basics.”
“If you say so.”
Chocolate everywhere: from cocoa powder labeled by region of origin, to shaved milk chocolate of assorted infusions, to different blocks of dark chocolate at various levels of bitterness and density. Rafael offered an abbreviated version of chocolate’s varied properties.
“Chocolate is a flavor, a medium, a filling, a carrier,” he stated from in front of the class. “Today we will push beyond expected desserts and use chocolate in various dining experiences by making a vinaigrette, a dry rub for tenderloin, a classic French ganache tart, and a cocktail with cocoa bitters.”
The guest chef, Helena Chang, was the owner of a successful fusion restaurant recently featured in a Parisian magazine. But Rafael and Inez knew her when she was the kid helping with the family’s restaurant laundry business. Rafael’s letters of recommendation gained her entry in an elite culinary school.
The young woman began the process of gathering balsamic vinegar, pomegranate juice, garlic, Dijon mustard, avocado oil, and shaved dark chocolate while Rafael spoke.
“A basic vinaigrette pairs well with chocolate, picking up on the depths of the balsamic. It is all bound together—emulsified—by a good French Dijon mustard.”
“You’ll want to use darker chocolate, although I see Chef Rafael prepared quite a range,” Helena added conversationally.
“I wanted to show them the variety for when we make the ganache. But for the vinaigrette, there is no better choice,” Rafael confirmed. “We’re adding fresh strawberries which pairs best with darker chocolate,” he added.
“Of course, Chef,” Helena said pleasantly while demonstrating the emulsifying technique.
The class moved on to the dry rub for the tenderloin. Rafael lectured on how to choose the cut, how to test the pan for the right heat, and how to gauge the readiness depending on their cooking preference. And bypreferencehe meant rare or medium rare.
He walked around the classroom while Helena demonstrated from up front. When he reached Victoria’s station, he watched her focusing on the pan like it was the carrier of age-old secrets. Her face was so serious, lips puckered just shy of a full pout.
“Wait for the smoke,” he said, stepping closer before she lay the meat. She kept the cut of meat suspended by tongs.
“You know the pan is ready when the butter bubbles, all the water evaporating. And when the olive oil reaches—”
“Like now?” she asked breathlessly.
“Yes. Now,” he agreed.
She proceeded with searing the meat, setting her timer, and busying herself with tidying up her workstation instead of looking at him.
Rafael moved on. Like a decent teacher should. Instead of wanting to push back the tendrils that escaped her ponytail, black wisps clinging to her sweat-moistened neck. Her aroma mixed with the complex layers of flavors in the kitchen. And yet Rafael was sure that all the chocolate in the world wouldn’t erase the taste of honey on her skin.
