The Secret French Recipes of Sophie Valroux Read online

  Soon, the waitstaff would arrive to taste tonight’s specials, which would be followed by our family meal. I eyed the board on the wall and licked my lips. The amuse-bouche consisted of a pan-seared foie gras served with caramelized pears; the entrée, a boar carpaccio with eggplant caviar, apples, and ginger; the two plats principaux, a cognac-flambéed seared sea scallop and shrimp plate served with deep-fried goat cheese and garnished with licorice-perfumed fennel leaves, which fell under my responsibility, and the chef’s version of a beef Wellington served with a celeriac mash, baby carrots, and thin French green beans.

  As I lit a match to flambé the scallops, Alex and Eric raced around the kitchen, checking everybody’s stations. Alex always looked as if he was sweating profusely, out of breath. Not to mention the way he’d leer at the waitresses working the front of the house. When Eric left the restaurant, O’Shea couldn’t want this lecherous creep to be the face of Cendrillon, could he?

  My match fizzled out. I lit another one.

  Damn it. I’d paid my dues. I started off as a garde manger, making salads, hors d’oeuvres, canapés, and terrines. Then it was on to entremetier, a commis under the chef de partie in charge of all the vegetables. I worked hard and soon I was a commis to one of the three poissonnières—fish cooks. Not many people can handle seventeen-hour-long shifts, wake up, and do it all over again the next day. And, more to the point, not many women could or even wanted to endure the abuse, especially under a brute like O’Shea. But I’d learned my way around a testosterone-infused kitchen and I held my own. I worked twice as hard as the men, my hands rough and calloused. Rule number one: no crying in the kitchen. I never shed one tear. I did what I had to do and I got it done—no matter the occupational hazards, which also included avoiding Eric and his advances after we broke up.

  Sure, as chef de partie I was lower down on the totem pole than Alex. But speed, precision, and consistency were the most important traits in a kitchen like this and Alex was lagging, mostly due to his severe cocaine addiction.

  I grabbed a handful of tarragon and closed my eyes, inhaling its sweet fragrance. I could almost feel my grandmother next to me, smell the aromas embedded into her poppy-print apron, taste her creamy veloutés. Thanks to her, my skills in the kitchen started developing from the age of seven. I’d learned how to chop, slice, and dice without cutting my fingers, to sauté, fry, and grill, pairing flavors and taming them into submission.

  Just as I’d experienced with my grandmother’s meals, when people ate my creations, I wanted them to think “now this is love”—while engaging all of the five senses. For me, cooking was the way I expressed myself, each dish a balance of flavors and ingredients representing my emotions—sweet, sour, salty, smoky, spicy-hot, and even bitter. My inspiration as a chef was to give people sensorial experiences, to bring them back to times of happiness, to let them relive their youth, or to awaken their minds. Although I was only telling O’Shea’s tale, I hoped one day I’d get the chance to author my own culinary narrative.

  When this third star came in, my grand-mère would be jump-over-the-moon-and-swing-from-the-Michelin-stars proud of me. Pinches of guilt tweaked my heart. I hadn’t spoken with Grand-mère Odette in ages and I’d never properly thanked her for her tutelage. She had inspired my culinary career, and now everything I’d worked so hard for was within my grasp.

  O’Shea’s voice knocked me out of my olfactory-induced trance. He held six bottles of champagne, three in each of his enormous hands. “I think we should celebrate early.”

  The brigade shouted out a whoop, followed by the beating of pots and pans. Somebody popped open a bottle of champagne. In an instant, corks flew across the kitchen. I made a mental note to call my grand-mère.

  As the bottles were passed around, the phone on the wall blinked green. Our hostess Bernadette’s sultry voice interrupted our celebration. “Excuse me, Chef, but you have a call,” she said.

  “Take a message,” said O’Shea. “I’m in a staff meeting.”

  “I think you’ll want to take this,” said Bernadette. “It’s Gabrielle from Michelin.”

  I willed my heart to stop racing and prayed again to the kitchen gods. Please, make me the youngest female chef de cuisine at a Michelin three-star restaurant in New York. Let me become a part of culinary history.

  “Put the call through.” O’Shea’s eyes widened and he held up a finger. “Guys, simmer down. Not a word. I’m putting the call on speaker.” He clicked the line open. “Dan O’Shea here.”

  “Good afternoon, Dan. First, as you know, this is a courtesy call before next year’s New York red guide is released, which is tomorrow—”

  O’Shea’s eyes crinkled into a smile. “Yes, yes, an exciting time.”

  “I’m happy to inform you that two of your restaurants, Cendrillon Las Vegas and Cendrillon London, have received rising stars, and Cendrillon Los Angeles has received its second étoile.”

  O’Shea nodded his big head and shot us the thumbs-up. “And Cendrillon NY?”

  “Dan, I’m afraid I have some not-so-wonderful news to deliver.”

  Eyes darted back and forth. O’Shea grunted. “Yes?”

  “Consistency is very important to us here at Michelin, and I’m afraid Cendrillon NY did not receive its third star,” said Gabrielle. “With that said, I’m devastated to tell you that Cendrillon is not only not gaining a star, I’m afraid it’s losing one.”

  Time stopped for a moment. We couldn’t contain our surprised and disappointed groans. There was nothing worse for a chef than losing a star. It burned the ego, damaged reputations, and destroyed identities.

  “I’m sorry, Dan. I wish I was the bearer of better news,” said Gabrielle.

  “Thank you for your candor,” said O’Shea. He cleared his throat. “I guess I have some things to sort out.”

  “At the very least, congratulations on your other achievements.”

  “Thank you, Gabrielle.”

  O’Shea did not hang up the phone. He ripped it right out of the wall and smashed it to the ground. He sank to the floor and cradled his head in his hands, sobbing.

  I gulped.

  When you see someone strong and powerful shatter, it’s haunting; you see the ghost of a man with his dreams dying. You want him to get up, to put disaster behind him, but he’s crumbling right before your eyes. A deep sadness slowed down my heart. I found myself wanting to say something. But what words would be appropriate? It’s like when you hear somebody has died and all you can come up with is “My thoughts and prayers are with you” or some other contrived shit like that. It’s not that you don’t care; you just don’t know what to say. Most of the brigade rubbed their eyes with disbelief . . . or looked down at their clogs.

  Eric and Alex exchanged a glance, and then nodded. Alex walked up to O’Shea. “Chef,” he said. “We’re a team here.” He paused, wiping the sweat off his brow. “And I’ve been wondering if everyone here has been playing on it.”

  “What are you talking about, Alex?” asked O’Shea, his voice weak.

  “I don’t have proof, but I think Sophie has had it out for you, for all of us. She’s got a chip on her shoulder.”

  My jaw unhinged. My heart raced. My words came out as a barely audible wheeze. “He’s crazy, Chef. I don’t have it out for anybody—”

  “I’ve been thinking the same thing,” said Eric. “I think she spices her dishes after I taste, adding in additional ingredients. Last week a guest, one of our regulars, requested to see me and told me they loved how much cinnamon was added into the potimarron velouté.” He paused. “And we—Alex and me—believe it’s happened more than once. It would explain the inconsistency.”

  “Eric, you told me to spice,” I said, every muscle in my body tense. It took great effort to raise my hand to point a shaky finger with accusation. “You—”

  “She’s always talking about her grand-m�
�re Odette’s soups, how much better they are than yours. Bland. That’s what she said. Your recipes are bland,” said Eric, and then the skinny bastard shrugged. His twisted grin, the one he was trying to hold back, gave him away. His betrayal hit me. He’d set me up. My legs were about to go from under me.

  “Chef,” I said, bracing myself. “Please, give me a chance to explain. Eric—”

  O’Shea smashed his fist on the prep table and I nearly jumped out of my skin. “—would never stoop so low. He didn’t have people pulling strings for him after he graduated from a fancy cooking school. He knows what hard work is because he didn’t pay to play,” said O’Shea. He shook his head as if to clear it and then, with his face turning bright red, he barreled over to my stove. He picked up a spoon, tasted the base for the soup, and spit it out onto the floor. “The proof is right here. Your station. Your velouté. Not my recipe. You think you’re better than me?”

  What O’Shea said didn’t make any sense. Eric was always holding the fact that he’d convinced Chef to hire me over my head. There were no strings. “But—” I began.

  “Don’t say another damn word.”

  I took in a sharp breath, feeling as if razors lacerated my throat. O’Shea picked up the pot and threw it into the sink. Orange potimarron dripped off the walls and onto the floor, splattering everywhere. I was rendered immobile, staring into the face of a man who looked like he wanted to skin me alive. O’Shea’s nostrils flared like a bull about to charge at a red flag. And I was the flag. For every step O’Shea took toward me, I took one back. And then he cornered me.

  O’Shea’s baseball-glove-sized hands were just about to wrap around my neck when two of our roustabouts pulled Chef away and dragged him to the back of the kitchen. O’Shea stood in the doorway, panting. “Get your sabotaging ass out of here before I hang you up by your ankles and gut you open like the dirty, disgusting, and disloyal pig you are.” He turned around on one heel and entered his office, his last words: “Your career in the culinary world is dead. I’ll make sure of it.”

  Breathless. I was breathless.

  All eyes were on me, glaring, heads shaking. I whipped around to face Eric. Alex stood by his side. They both wore smirks on their faces. My hands curled into tight balls. “The two of you planned this? Why? Why would you do this to me?”

  Alex cut me off. “Miguel, you’ve worked under Sophie. Tonight, you’ll take over her station. And who knows what else the future will bring?” he said. Alex’s posture challenged mine, the way he crossed his arms over his chest, the way he planted his feet.

  “Miguel?” I questioned, turning to face him. “You heard Eric tell me to spice. You were standing next to me. Help me out here.”

  Miguel’s posture caved, his shoulders slumping. “Sorry, chica, I need this job.”

  Alex clapped his hands together. “Guys, we have a busy night ahead of us, and now, with this stars debacle, we’ve got our work cut out for us. Everything has to be perfect. Consistent! Miguel, clean up the mess and get on that velouté de potimarron.”

  “Yes, Chef,” he said, head down. He shuffled over to my station and began picking up pots and pans, organizing them on the aluminum shelves. Miguel couldn’t bring himself to meet my panicked gaze.

  I braced my hands on my knees. My eyes darted to each member of our eighteen-person brigade. “Nobody is going to back me up? Nobody?”

  “I’d grab your knives and get the hell out of Dodge before O’Shea comes back,” said Eric.

  “Come on, guys,” I pleaded, wheezing in between each word.

  Not one person spoke up. Instead, they went back to chopping or sautéing or doing whatever the hell they were doing. The clatter of knives slamming against cutting boards. The sizzle of the fryer. The silence of nobody speaking up; it was deafening.

  “I’m going to talk to him,” I said, making my way to O’Shea’s office.

  “You’d risk your life to do that now?” said Eric. “I thought you were a smart girl.”

  “I’ll take my chances.”

  Alex gripped my arm, stopping me in my tracks. “Get your stuff and get out of this kitchen. You are not seeing O’Shea.” He twisted his grip, burning my forearm. “I mean it.”

  When the rest of the brigade crossed their arms over their chests, their eyes shooting daggers, I knew I was doomed. “The truth will come out. I’ll make sure of it,” I said.

  “Whatever you want,” said Eric with a laugh. “Hey, that’s the slogan for that hamburger and pizza joint. Maybe they’ll hire you there.”

  A harsh reality shook me to the bone, to my core. The brigade blamed the loss of the star on me, and along with this thrashing came a lofty pay decrease. Part of me wanted to fight—but not against eighteen guys. I didn’t stand a chance. With no other options aside from certain death, I bolted to my station and grabbed my knives too quickly, cutting my hand in the process. I raced to the changing room, stuffed my street clothes in my bag, and skulked out the back door among the rats. I walked in the pouring rain, each drop burning and pricking into me like needles. Still dressed in my checks and toque, blood streaming down my hand, I muttered and swore under my breath.

  A text alert buzzed. I grabbed my phone out of my sack, hoping things had been set right. Eric and Alex couldn’t get away with this. Somebody must have fessed up. We weren’t ostriches cooking with our heads in the sand. Everybody knew everybody’s business in that kitchen. I clicked open the message, praying with every fiber in my heart, in my soul, only to find myself sucker punched by his words.

  I was kidding about the burger joint. Still, nobody in their right mind will hire you once word gets out. And it will. O’Shea’s on damage control. My offer still stands.

  A taxi whipped by, launching a tidal wave of putrid water over my head, drenching me. I was too angry, too flipped out, to care. My body filled with a palpable rage. I stood on the corner of Sullivan and Prince, raised my arms to the sky, and screamed so hard I thought my lungs would burst. Tears pricked at my eyes, but I refused to let them fall. Lightning crackled in the sky, illuminating the buildings and bringing me back to my senses. An icy clarity washed over me. Eric wanted me back in every sense, and would make sure I had no other options but him. Soaking wet, I forced my legs to move and walked the four miles home to the Upper East Side, oblivious to the downpour, to the cold, trying to figure out a way to set the record straight. Until he cooled off, talking to O’Shea was out of the question, if he’d even give me a chance to explain what I thought went down, what I knew in my bones went down.

  I’d found my heart in the kitchen. The only real relationship I had in my life was with food, and without my dreams I had nothing. Eric knew that. Now my heart was shattered into a billion pieces.

  3

  the jig is up

  Ignacio, my friendly doorman from the Bronx with a gap-toothed smile, frowned when he buzzed me into the lobby. By now, the cut on my hand had stopped bleeding, but my chef’s coat was bloodstained, my toque had flattened on my head like a deflated balloon, and my black Crocs dirtied the polished marble floors, leaving a water trail with each step I took.

  “Good lord, Sophie, you look like you’ve been through a war,” said Ignacio, clucking his tongue, worry speckling his usually cheerful tone. “Is that kitchen life of yours that dangerous?”

  “In more ways than you can imagine,” I said with a long sigh.

  “You hurt?”

  “Only a flesh wound,” I said, feeling as if somebody had torn my heart out of my chest and seared it to a crisp. “Just a little cut.”

  I didn’t want to be rude to Ignacio—he was always so nice—but I wasn’t in the mood for small talk. I just wanted to get up to my apartment, change out of my bloody, wet clothes, and plot my revenge against Eric. I pressed the button to call the elevator. “I guess I should get upstairs and clean myself up,” I said, rocking self-consciously on my heels, water sq
uishing in between my toes. “I’m making a mess in the foyer.”

  “Don’t worry about it. Water dries,” said Ignacio with a sympathetic smile. “Have a nice evening. Tomorrow will be another day.”

  “Thanks,” I said and stepped into the elevator, thinking about the old adage “The early bird gets the worm.” In my case, this conjured up a bottle of mescal, tequila’s smoky big brother. If the manufacturers of this potent libation hadn’t drowned the worm found at the bottom of some bottles, the worm would have metamorphosed into a butterfly. The knot in my stomach tightened, so painful I couldn’t breathe. I shook my head, the scene from Cendrillon flashing into my mind like some kind of hallucinatory nightmare, so dizzying I almost fell down. My prayers to the kitchen gods had gone unanswered, unless it was their intention to turn me into a sacrificial lamb, left gutted and slaughtered. Everything I’d worked so hard for had evaporated in less than five minutes. I slithered out of the elevator and onto the floor, trying to will my heart to stop from breaking.

  Frank Sinatra crooned and the sound of laughter came from inside the apartment. Walter was home and I really needed to talk to him. Unfortunately, he was probably entertaining one of his highbrow clients, preferring home meetings or restaurants where he could get them liquored up outside the confines of his stuffy office. Thankfully, there was only one apartment on each floor, the elevator opening up with a key into a private foyer, so I wasn’t risking exposing myself to anybody unless Walter or his client opened the front door. The laughter inside got louder. I figured I was safe.

  Shivering with cold, I kicked off my clogs, tore off my drenched socks, and changed into my street clothes—jeans, sneakers, and a pale blue cashmere sweater. Then, I pulled out a brush and rebraided my hair so tight my temples throbbed. It wasn’t my best attempt at cleaning up, but I no longer looked like I’d gotten into a knife fight in the back of a dark alley. I balled up my wet and bloody clothes, stuffed them into my bag, and unlocked the door. Two glasses of champagne stood on the coffee table. There was no sign of Walter or his guest.