The Secret French Recipes of Sophie Valroux

by Samantha Vérant

  A long silence lingered. The chatter of a man’s voice in the background interrupted our conversation. Monica grumbled something and then got back to me. “Babe, I’m so sorry, but I’ve got to bolt. As you can imagine, we’ve got a huge night ahead of us—”

  “I understand,” I said.

  “I’ll call you tomorrow morning when things are calmer, okay? And think about visiting Esteban and me for a few weeks. A few months. Whatever you need. Mi casa, tu casa.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “Ciao, babe. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

  The line went dead. I sat on the couch, a deeper depression sinking in.

  My culinary life was dead.

  My dreams were dead.

  And I wanted Eric dead.

  Before I ended up in jail for killing the bastard, I needed to figure out next steps. I could email one of my food critic contacts at the Times with a fake email account, tipping her off as to what really happened at Cendrillon; I could pretend to accept his offer of working for him, and then poison him with arsenic; and, of course, I could cut off his balls and feed them to stray dogs in the alley. (The last option brought a twisted smile to my face.) I was tempted to send him a few texts, laying into him, and I even typed a few out; it made me feel better.

  You are the biggest prick on the planet.

  I’m putting a curse on you.

  Your restaurant will fail.

  I deleted all but one.

  You destroyed my life.

  Still reeling from the buzz of champagne, after I sent the message, I thought, What life? Although running a restaurant as part of the one percent of women had driven me all these years, I didn’t have a life. I’d been a beard for a gay man. Aside from Walter, Robert, and Monica, I didn’t have any friends. I definitely needed a big change. Maybe I even needed to change? When was the last time I was happy? Truly, madly, and wonderfully happy? When was the last time I laughed? Felt free? The answer hit me like a thunderbolt: those summers in southwestern France cooking with Grand-mère Odette.

  My life in the kitchen began with my grandmother in the village of Champvert in the Tarn-et-Garonne department of southwestern France, the town so small you’d need a magnifying glass to find it on the map. I’d sit on a tall wooden stool, wide-eyed, watching Grand-mère Odette in her navy-blue dress and black ballerina flats, her apron adorned with les coquelicots (wild red poppies), mesmerized by the grace with which she danced around her kitchen, hypnotized by all the wonderful smells—the way the aromas were released from the herbs picked right from her garden as she chopped, becoming stronger as she set them in an olive oiled and buttered pan. She’d dip a spoon in a pot or slice up an onion in two seconds, making it look oh so easy, and for her it was. But my favorite part was when she’d let me taste whatever delight she was cooking up, sweet or savory. I’d close my eyes, lick my lips, and sigh with happiness.

  Sometimes Grand-mère Odette would blindfold me, and it wasn’t long before I could pick out every ingredient by smell. All the other senses came to me, too—sight (the glorious plating), taste (the delight of the unknown), touch (the way a cherry felt in my hand), and hearing (the way garlic sizzled in the pan).

  “You are a chef,” she’d say.

  “One day, I want to be just like you,” I’d say.

  Her pale green eyes, which reminded me of the freshness of spring, would crinkle as she smiled and she’d tousle my hair. “Sophie, quand tu es en France, il faut que tu parles français.” (When you are in France, you must speak French.) Then, she’d mumble something about how that traveling star-chaser of a mother of mine had ruined my education and how, thankfully, I spent the summers with her so she could put the pieces back together, to get me in touch with my roots. After all, I was born in France, so I was French in Grand-mère Odette’s eyes and not an American, and not, heaven forbid, a New Yorker. Much to Grand-mère Odette’s chagrin, the facts were the facts and I was all three.

  Those formative years, all the summers spent with Grand-mère Odette in her kitchen in southwestern France, fueled my dreams of becoming a chef, the love of cooking running like the sweetest of cherry juices through my veins. Thanks to the skills I picked up while soaking in Grand-mère Odette’s every word like the greediest of sponge cakes, I graduated at the top of my class from the Culinary Institute of America.

  The more I thought about Champvert, the lighter my anger became. Unfortunately, it was three a.m. in France, too late to call Grand-mère Odette, and I wasn’t quite sure if she’d be happy to hear from me. We hadn’t spoken all that much in well over six months because I’d been too busy with work, pushing for a promotion I’d never get. She’d call, but I’d brush her off with “I’ll call you tomorrow. Got lots on my plate.” Unfortunately, her hours didn’t match mine, not with the six-hour time difference. In a failed attempt to drown out my misery, I opened up a bottle of wine, poured, and then stared off into space, trying to think of happier times.

  Something overtook me. At first, I thought the ceiling was leaking, my face splattered with a few wet droplets. And then it was like somebody had turned on a faucet. My body rocked, shaking my entire core. I cried for the death of my career. I cried for not being a better granddaughter to Grand-mère Odette, the only person in my world who fueled and supported my dreams. The last time I’d seen Grand-mère in person was when she flew out for my graduation from the CIA five years ago. Although she didn’t like to fly, she’d taken the long journey across the Atlantic. She was so proud of my achievements—the fact that I’d graduated at the top of my class. Yet I’d just set my grandmother to the side, thinking she would always be my pillar of strength. Too obsessed with my culinary career, I kept delaying a trip to Champvert, thinking she’d always be around. But the days were passing by and she wouldn’t always be around.

  By the time I polished off the bottle of wine, guilt and plans for diabolical ways to get back at Eric replaced the memories of France, my mind filled with vengeance. Exhausted and angry, I finally made my way to my room and, after tossing and turning, I passed out stone-cold.

  5

  when bad things happen to good people

  It was a little after seven in the morning when I came to. The wine had left a sour taste in my mouth; there were no feelings of euphoria, no buzz, just the pulsing pressure of a severe headache, nausea, and a mouth full of cotton. I desperately needed coffee. I shuffled my way to the kitchen, passing the living room.

  An ashtray full of half-smoked cigarettes sat on the coffee table, and next to it, the empty bottle of wine. That, in addition to the champagne—I’d definitely gone overboard. The past ten hours flashed in my mind, a hazy blur of distress hitting me in waves. Yesterday wasn’t a nightmare; it was real. I eyed my cell phone and groaned when I picked it up, my eyes focusing on the screen. Why on earth had I texted Eric? Of course he’d responded.

  I didn’t destroy your life. I offered you an opportunity. It’s up to you to take it.

  I threw my phone across the room and punched the cushions on the Roche Bobois couch while trying to muffle my screams. Walter padded into the living room wearing his pajamas—plaid pants and a long-sleeved thermal top. He rubbed away the sleep from his eyes and let out a cough.

  “Sophie, what did the couch do to you?”

  It was his attempt at humor; I didn’t laugh. I grunted and sank onto the couch. “Sorry, did I wake you?”

  “You know me, I’m always up at the crack of dawn.”

  “Did you have fun last night?”

  “We did, but something was missing at our celebration,” he said with a sweet smile. “You.”

  “Sorry,” I said with a feeble shrug. “I wasn’t in the best shape.”

  “Never apologize. I understand.” Walter shuffled over and sat down next to me. He put his arm around my shoulders and pulled me in to his chest. He always smelled like fresh lemons and oranges, which was comf
orting. I wanted to stay curled against him forever and never have to face my stinking life. As he stroked my hair, he said, “I know things appear really terrible right now, but today will be another day.”

  “A worse day.” I bolted upright. “The entire culinary world knows about Cendrillon and me, the supposed sabotaging chef. They just don’t realize the blame is being placed on the wrong person.” I gulped. “You’re an attorney. Can I sue him? Can I sue Eric?”

  “I practice family law, Sophie.”

  “I know. But maybe somebody at your firm practices—what is it? Defamation of character?”

  Walter let out a worried huff. “Let’s look at the facts. Do you have proof that Eric told you to put the spices in the dishes?”

  “No, not exactly.”

  “Is there anybody who would corroborate your story?”

  “Miguel might,” I said, and then thought of his earlier actions. He couldn’t even look at me. No, loyalty was a one-way street in a kitchen like Cendrillon NY; it went to the chef. And, after Eric left, that chef would most likely be Alex. “Then again, probably not.”

  “And would you really want to walk down that road? All the money you’d have to fork out? All the bad publicity? A trial that could last years? It would be Eric and Alex’s word against yours. Even though I know you didn’t do anything, the press would drag your name through the mud. Do you really want to go through all that?”

  I thought about it.

  “Why not? I’m already ruined. I have some money left over from when I sold my mother’s apartment. Plus, thanks to you and to my lack of shopping, and mostly eating at the restaurant, I’ve got two years of pay saved up. I have to do something.” The words gurgled out of my throat. “Anything.”

  Walter raised an eyebrow. “Soph, I’d think about this a little more when things settle down. Little girls plot revenge. Smart women sit back and let karma do its job.”

  “I hope karma is a bloodthirsty bitch,” I mumbled, my jaw clenched.

  “Me, too,” said Walter with a laugh. His joy was short-lived. When he saw me huddled over, breathing hard, he became serious. “Just don’t do anything rash in the heat of the moment. You’ll only be adding fuel to Eric’s fire. Let the dust settle.”

  “I guess you’re right,” I said, my head pounding. “I mean, it’s not like I can do anything now. It’s a he-said, she-said dilemma and O’Shea is listening to that He-Man bastard right now.”

  “Think about the silver lining,” he said.

  “Is there one?”

  “We don’t have to get married.”

  “I would have done that for you,” I said, wiping my nose with the sleeve of my pajamas.

  “I know you would have, and that’s why I love you so much,” he said. “Let’s get the day started with some goodness. Coffee?”

  I nodded, really needing to clear my head. “I’ll make it.”

  “No, take it easy. You look spent. Hey, I may be the world’s worst cook, but I can handle a cup of joe.”

  Robert padded into the living room, his pajamas matching Walter’s. He let out a roar of a yawn. “Oh, thank the lord, coffee! We didn’t get home until three in the morning. Make it extra strong, Walter,” he said, and then kissed me on the cheek.

  We sat down at the counter, watching Walter fumble with the grounds and the French press. It was a good half hour before our daily doses of caffeine were set before us. “Oh, you’re spoiling me, my love,” said Robert. “Times here yet?”

  Walter shrugged.

  Robert shuffled over to the front door. He grabbed the paper and made his way back over to us, rummaging through it. His eyes darted to Walter’s and he whipped a segment behind his back. My heart plummeted into my stomach. I jumped off my stool. “What’s going on?” I asked. “Is today Wednesday?”

  Walter let out a groan. I could feel the color draining from my cheeks. It was Wednesday—the day the Times printed the Food section for the English-speaking world to see. “Hand it over.”

  Robert held the paper above my head. I jumped and snatched it from him, ripping the pages. “You really don’t want to read this,” he said. “Not today.” He grabbed the segment back.

  “Robert?” I said, crossing my arms over my chest. “If you don’t hand it over, I’ll never speak to you again.”

  He was in the process of trying to shred an article when I snagged it from his grip. I sank to the floor, putting the pieces back together like a jigsaw puzzle. On page one, my worst nightmare hit me so hard I felt like I’d been sucker punched in the stomach with a sledgehammer.

  The headline: SABOTAGING CHEF DE PARTIE SOPHIE VALROUX COSTS CENDRILLON NY A STAR.

  A picture of me smiling with one arm latched onto Eric’s, and the other onto O’Shea’s, accompanied the text. The photographer had taken the picture right after Cendrillon had received its second star.

  Today Michelin released its New York red guide and a few of the most notable restaurants in New York City are in a tizzy. Some restaurants, like M.D.M., have gained a star and a few restaurants, such as Blink 214, have become starless. But one restaurant in particular has the culinary world on edge: Cendrillon NY.

  Cendrillon NY was expecting its third Michelin star, but instead of gaining one, it lost one. In his press release, Chef Dan O’Shea has pinpointed the reason why, outing the culprit for ill-fated plates, a saboteur by the name of Sophie Valroux, a chef de partie (pictured center).

  According to Chef O’Shea, “She [Valroux] seasoned my recipes to her liking. She broke the rules. She was always trying to prove herself, always trying to one-up the men. Sometimes egotistical chefs with a chip on their shoulder get out of hand. I can assure the public and the culinary world that this will never happen again. I’ve given Valroux her walking papers and I’m taking a more active role with all of my restaurants, especially Cendrillon NY. We will get our second star back. And we’ll eventually get that third star, too.”

  At the time of printing, we could not reach Ms. Valroux for comment.

  What? I scrambled on the floor like a squirrel looking for a hidden nut, finally finding my phone. Eight calls had come in when I was passed out. I’d flipped out over Eric’s text, and too busy finding out a way to block his number, I didn’t check my voice mails. Plus, nobody ever called me.

  “Hello, this is Trevor Smith from the Times. We’d like to get your thoughts on what happened at Cendrillon—”

  Delete.

  “Ms. Valroux, this is Trevor Smith calling from the Times. We’re about to run the piece. Could you please call me back at your earliest convenience?”

  Delete.

  Nausea gripped me, rocking my core. My face went hot. Drops of perspiration coated my neck and back. I stared straight ahead. Walter rubbed my shoulders. “You okay? You look like you’re going to be sick.”

  I could only gurgle out a yes before running to the bathroom and emptying out the contents of my stomach. This was so much worse than anything I’d ever imagined. Eric and O’Shea had eviscerated my entire life. The whole world was going to think that I was a sabotaging chef. A pariah. Walter tapped on the door. “Are you okay, Soph?”

  I threw the door open. Walter jumped back. “I’m fine,” I said.

  “You don’t look fine,” he said, his smoky blue eyes wide and fearful.

  I could only imagine how I looked—angry and crazed.

  “I will be fine in a minute.” The people in my neighborhood, the people I said hello to every day weren’t going to find out about this. At least the people who didn’t have the Times delivered to their front doors. I raced to the entryway, throwing on a pair of boots and my coat, grabbing my purse.

  “Where are you going?” asked Walter. “You’re wearing pajamas. You can’t leave the apartment like this.”

  “I know,” I said. “But I am. There’s something important I need to do.
”

  Everything in my vision blurred. I raced past Frank, our day doorman. I bolted out the door and looked around frantically. Darting through traffic like a crazed frog, I scrambled up to our local newsstand and purchased every copy of the Times. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a man swaggering down the sidewalk. I’d recognize that walk anywhere. Eric. What was he doing on the Upper East Side? This was not his neighborhood. The devil of a douchebag lived in Hell’s Kitchen. His eyes widened when he saw me. I froze. Before I could get away, he ran toward me and grabbed my arm. I whipped it away.

  “Don’t touch me. Don’t talk to me. Don’t even look at me.”

  “We need to talk,” said Eric with surprise—as if he’d actually believed I’d race back into his arms after what he’d done.

  “What are you doing here? How did you get my address?”

  “We do have records at the restaurant,” he said smugly, his breath reeking of whiskey. It was clear he’d been out all night. He eyed the stack of papers. “Since you didn’t respond to my text, I was going to drop off a note, extending my offer for you to work for me. Your choices are limited, Sophie. Extremely limited.”

  We stood in front of one another, me wanting to claw his eyes out.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” he said. “I did what I did for us.”

  “After you killed my career? I’m never talking to you again,” I spat. He grabbed me by the arm once more, gripping it tightly, pulling me closer. He smelled of cheap perfume and cigarettes. I yelped. “Let go of me, Eric.”

  “Sophie, I need to tell you—”

  “Save your lame-ass words for somebody who wants to listen to them,” I said, whipping my arm from his grip. “You are certifiably insane.”

  “I’m not the crazy one here, Sophie. You are. I’m thinking it must run in your family.”

  His words delivered a punch, rendering me numb.