The Secret French Recipes of Sophie Valroux Read online

  BERKLEY

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  Copyright © 2020 by Samantha Vérant

  Readers Guide copyright © 2020 by Samantha Vérant

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Vérant, Samantha, author.

  Title: The secret French recipes of Sophie Valroux / Samantha Vérant.

  Description: First edition. | New York: Berkley, 2020.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2020002370 (print) | LCCN 2020002371 (ebook) | ISBN 9781984806994 (trade paperback) | ISBN 9780593097731 (ebook)

  Subjects: LCSH: France—Fiction.

  Classification: LCC PS3622.E7325 S43 2020 (print) | LCC PS3622.E7325 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020002370

  LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020002371

  First Edition: September 2020

  Cover design by Eileen Carey

  Cover photographs: woman by Rolando Caponi/EyeEm/Getty Images; french buildings © Chris Reeve/Trevillion Images

  Interior art: wreath by gst / Shutterstock

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE: The recipes contained in this book are to be followed exactly as written. The publisher is not responsible for your specific health or allergy needs that may require medical supervision. The publisher is not responsible for any adverse reactions to the recipes contained in this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  pid_prh_5.6.0_c0_r0

  contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  L’amuse-Bouche

  Part I

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Part II

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Part III

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Le Dessert

  Readers Guide

  Discussion Questions

  Sophie’s Recipes

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  This book is dedicated to my grandmother Dorothy “Dotty” Thomas, my beloved Nanny, and to all the other grandmothers in this world who inspire us with unadulterated love and nourishment.

  Author’s note: Champvert is a fictional village that is inspired by my life in southwestern France.

  L’Amuse-Bouche

  Every woman should have a blowtorch.

  —CHEF MARY BERGIN TO JULIA CHILD

  I

  fall

  The thing about all my food is that everything is a remembered flavor. Maybe it’s something I had as a child or maybe it’s something I had in Milan, but I want it to taste better than you ever thought.

  —INA GARTEN

  1

  counting stars

  A zucchini flew over my head, missing it by a few centimeters.

  Miguel, my commis, caught the torpedo of a vegetable with flair, swaggered over to the Bose sound system, and changed the music from Vivaldi’s The Four Seasons to Madonna’s “Lucky Star.” Nobody whipped Miguel’s ass with a kitchen towel or slugged him on the arm as he danced his way back to our station. Instead, after exaggerated moans and groans from a few of the macho men, the brigade sang along, Miguel using the zucchini like a microphone.

  Insanity, momentary madness, spread like wildfire. Vegetables were launched in all directions, a few tomatoes thudding on the floor with a healthy splat. Freedom. Chaos. The rules went out the window. I smiled so wide my cheeks hurt.

  Miguel set the zucchini down on a chopping block and then he nudged my ribs. “Look at you, Sophie, you’re always so serious. But right now you look like that weird Cheshire cat in the Disney movie—all teeth and crazy eyes.”

  “This is my wonderland,” I said, sweeping out my arms.

  “Wonderland? You sick?” He placed the back of his hand against my forehead. “You’re looking a bit pale and skinny.”

  “I’ve always been pale and skinny,” I said with a laugh.

  When I’d first stepped foot into this kitchen five years prior, the entire brigade made fun of my whiter-than-white complexion and teased me, saying they’d expected me to break like a porcelain doll. But I proved to them that I was far from fragile—conquering late nights and early mornings, not to mention all the burns, cuts, and bruises. It wasn’t long before they dubbed me Scary Spice, the guys having learned never to drop their pants in front of a woman wielding an oyster knife.

  “Dios mío, Sophie, I never, ever thought I’d be a part of something like this,” said Miguel. “Do you think we’ll get it?”

  I couldn’t respond because I was praying with my heart and soul we would.

  Rumor had it that any minute now we’d find out if we’d received our third star before Michelin released next year’s New York red guide. Renowned chefs throughout the city were already receiving courtesy calls—a few of them gaining stars, and a few becoming starless. Judging by the six-month wait to dine at Cendrillon NY, this third star was shooting right toward us in all its shining glory. I clasped my hands together and lowered my head, my spine tingling. I wanted this more than anything. I wanted to be blinded by the light of this magnificent event, the splendor.

  “Chica, you’ve zoned out,” said Miguel, hip-bumping me. “Do you think we stand a chance?”

  “Well, we deliver the ultimate dining experience,” I said, floating back from my galactic-inspired fantasies and coming back down to earth. “The third star is in the bag. For sure.”

  Miguel made the sign of the cross with his right hand, exuberantly—up, down, left, and right.

  “Pray to the food and wine gods,” I said, and we both snorted.

  Miguel grabbed me by the waist and we sambaed. Or we did our best with my two left feet. Yes, this kitchen was my crazed wonderland.

  Normally, we were a well-oiled machine, operating with precision—the way any Manhattan-based Michelin two-star restaurant should
run. If Auguste Escoffier—the French chef who’d codified the brigade system for the hierarchy of kitchen staffs in the early 1900s—were still alive today, he’d have flambéed our crew of eighteen one by one. But today was an exception, and perhaps even Auguste would have cut us some slack. I’m sure he strived for his dreams, too. If Michelin decorated Cendrillon with its third star, every kitchen door in the world would swing wide open for me, and the thought of running my own restaurant sent chills down my spine. The kitchen was the only place that made sense in my world, where I had control and could make people happy with my cooking. The kitchen was my life.

  A cough came from the doorway. Miguel raced to the Bose and turned the music off. The brigade froze as Chef O’Shea sauntered into the kitchen. He stood in silence for one of those moments that felt like an eternity.

  Barrel-chested and broad-shouldered, O’Shea’s appearance was more similar to a redheaded street boxer from Southie than that of a two-star chef. We’d joke he was part pit bull, part man, but not when he was around. His hands were enormous—it was amazing he could handle his knives with such grace. The man could fillet a yellowfin tuna in under a minute. And while he may have left his South Boston life behind him when he came to New York as a venerable chef, he still had the temper of a kid from the streets. But this guy, this man, was a culinary visionary. Regardless of the fear factor he imposed, we were working with—and for—the best.

  “Is this the kind of kitchen I run?” O’Shea asked with a hiss. “No more messing around. We have a busy night ahead of us.”

  “Yes, Chef,” came our nervous answer.

  Instead of going off on one of his tirades, when his face would turn beet red and his large nostrils would flare, O’Shea broke out into a wide grin. “I can’t wait to show those French pussies in Paris what an American thug from the docks can do. A third star will seal the deal for opening a Cendrillon in the City of Light.”

  Pots and pans banged.

  O’Shea turned on his heel and headed to his office in the back of the kitchen. “I’ll join you in twenty for the family meal. Get back to work.”

  I set the commercial immersion blender on high, puréeing my velouté to creamy perfection. As I squeezed a lemon to add a dash of acidity to the base, a hot breath on my neck sent shivers of dread down my spine. Catching his musky scent, a mix of cologne, sweat, and cigarettes, I didn’t have to turn around to know Eric stood behind me—too close for comfort. “So, have you thought about my offer?” he asked.

  I turned to face him, putting a few inches of needed space in between us. “Have you told O’Shea you’re leaving yet?”

  “Nope,” said Eric. “But it’s not like he can hold it against me. He was—what? Seventeen when Jean-Jacques Gaston discovered him at the fish market? And he left Le Homard shortly after it received its second star—”

  “We all know his rags to riches story. And it seems he’s passing the torch on to you,” I said with sarcasm. “Moving on up from chef de cuisine to an executive chef with your own restaurant. May the stars be with you.”

  Eric placed a hand on my shoulder. “Our stars, they align. Leave Cendrillon to work for me. And then we’ll take things from there.”

  “You have to be joking,” I scoffed, pushing his hand off me.

  “I’m not,” said Eric. “Every time I look into those gorgeous green eyes of yours, I get lost. Do me a favor, think about all the good times we had.”

  Good times? Was he nuts? He’d had them with other women.

  “Oh my God, what the hell have you been smoking?” I choked back my laughter and yanked out my necklace from underneath my coat. Attached to the chain was an engagement ring, complete with a sparkling five-carat canary diamond the color of glistening butter. “You do realize Walter and I are engaged.”

  “Rings are worn on fingers.”

  “Not one as big as this. Don’t want to lose it in the soup,” I said, tucking my necklace back into my jacket. I let out an annoyed huff. “You seem to have a new flavor of the month every week.”

  “They mean nothing to me,” he said. “Brain-dead food groupies. Starved for attention.”

  Eric crossed his arms over his chest, the black ink of his tribal tattoos peeking out from under his sleeves. “What kind of relationship do you have with a stale, boring attorney, anyway? You never see him. You’re always here in the kitchen with me.” He tugged my braid. “We were so good together, Sophie. And now we can be even better. A real team. Don’t forget I was the one who took the risk and convinced O’Shea to hire you after your stage.”

  “I proved my worth during my internship. And he hired me, not you,” I said.

  “Sure, Sophie,” he said. “Whatever you want to think.”

  For a moment, he almost had me, the way he locked onto my eyes. Still, we were over. I was never going to go through that pain again—no matter the temptation of his perfect smile.

  Lanky with a goatee and tribal tattoo arm sleeves, Eric broke the mold when it came to sexy chefs. His eyes were dark, the color of dried cloves—dark brown and hard—his eyelashes were long, and his body was buff. In the beginning, when I was young, dumb, and full of hope, his charm and charisma had drawn me to him, right into his bed. I’d loved watching him rule the kitchen, clipboard in hand, acting with finesse even when under pressure.

  But, unfortunately, up-and-coming chefs in New York City were like rock stars, and our personal relationship had flamed out. After Cendrillon received its first star, Eric was written up in the Times and Post almost as often as O’Shea was, and he attracted food groupies looking for fresh meat. When O’Shea traveled—opening new restaurants or appearing on cooking shows—Eric’s status of chef de cuisine became equally important and he ran everything. After the second star came a year later, his ego exploded like an overcooked soufflé. Women went nuts for Eric. One evening, I overheard one say to her friend, “I’d have sex with that sexy chef in front of my husband.” Cendrillon meant “Cinderella” in French, and Eric’s foot fit right into the proverbial glass slipper. Such a shame serial cheating also came in his size.

  Although Eric’s many, and I mean many, betrayals hurt me to the core, my culinary aspirations were more important to me than the state of my heart. Only one percent of restaurants had women navigating the helm of a Michelin-starred establishment and it was my lifelong dream to become one of them. With Eric leaving Cendrillon to strike out on his own, I stood a chance to take over his position of chef de cuisine, build up my name in the culinary world, and eventually create my own empire just like the female chefs I’d idolized over the years.

  “I’ve worked here for five years. And I believe I’ve held my own,” I said with a beleaguered sigh. “Look, Eric, we work well together in the kitchen. But we never, ever worked well as a couple. Speaking of work—I’m trying to get things done.”

  After Eric placed his hand over his heart and pouted with mock hurt, he dipped a spoon into the soup I was preparing: roasted potimarron—a chestnut-flavored squash—velouté, one of the restaurant’s signature fall dishes served with orange-and-ginger-infused lobster. He spit out his mouthful, wiped his lips with a kitchen towel, and said, “The base is absolute shit. Did you even season it?”

  “Of course,” I said, taken aback. “I followed Chef’s recipe to the letter, like I always do.”

  He shoved the spoon toward my mouth. “Taste it,” he said and I did, mostly because I didn’t have a choice.

  “It’s fine,” I said. “Just the way it’s supposed to be.”

  “Fine? Are you questioning me? I’m still the chef de cuisine here, not you,” he said, pointing his finger in front of my face. “We don’t do fine here. We serve the best, and your velouté is completely bland. Did your taste buds take off on a vacation?”

  Although I didn’t trust Eric as a man, I did trust his palate. I smacked my lips together and grabbed a clean spoon. “I gues
s you’re right,” I said, adding more cinnamon, cumin, and paprika into the base. After a quick stir, I held out a healthy-sized mouthful of the velouté. “Better?”

  He tasted the velouté. The way he licked his lips made me cringe.

  “Thatta girl, Sophie. It’s perfection,” said Eric. “Finish up the velouté and get on tonight’s entrée for the tasting.”

  “Yes, Chef.”

  Eric nodded perfunctorily and stormed toward Alex, the sous chef. They whispered in the corner by the walk-in, up to their usual colluding. Probably talking smack about me but I didn’t care. Soon, Eric would be out of my life, out of this kitchen, and my lifelong dream would be within reach.

  Miguel’s eyebrows shot up. “Your history with him has been dead for years. Why doesn’t he pick up the hint? What’s his problem?”

  “He’s an egomaniac. And there are far too many problems to list.” I forced a smile. “Let’s focus on tonight. Can you grab a few more lobsters from the tank while I head into dry storage?”

  2

  never trust a skinny chef

  Cendrillon specialized in seafood, so we had four fish stations: one for poaching, one for roasting, one for sautéing, and one for sauce. I was the chef de partie for the latter two, which also included making our restaurant’s signature soups.

  O’Shea planned his menu seasonally—depending on what was available at market. It was fall, my favorite time of the year, bursting with all the savory ingredients I craved like a culinary hedonist, the ingredients that turned my light on. All those varieties of beautiful squashes and root vegetables—the explosion of colors, the ochre yellows, lush greens, vivid reds, and a kaleidoscope of oranges—were just a few of the ingredients that fueled my cooking fantasies. In the summer, on those hot cooking days and nights in New York with rivulets of thick sweat coating my forehead, I’d fantasize about what we’d create in the fall, closing my eyes and cooking in my head.