The Secret French Recipes of Sophie Valroux

by Samantha Vérant

  He ran his hands through his hair. “You’d be nothing without me. A complete zero. I’m the one who taught you everything you know. Let’s face it, you’re just a talentless lackey. I’d be surprised if you made it into cooking school on your own.”

  “Of course I did,” I said, mostly trying to convince myself. I’d gone above and beyond to get into the CIA. Nobody had pulled any strings for me because there wasn’t anybody to pull them. I’d done everything on my own. “I worked my ass off, graduated at the top of my class. You were the one who sought me out.”

  “You sure about that?”

  My blood boiled with an all-consuming rage I’d never felt before. I slapped Eric as hard as I could with my free hand.

  I turned to bolt into my building, a cab nearly running me over as I dashed across the street. Once inside the protection of the lobby, I glanced over my shoulder. Eric stood on the sidewalk, a smug grimace twisting his face. When I returned to the loft, Robert and Walter eyed the stack of papers shaking in my arms. “Should we have a bonfire before we head off to work?” asked Walter.

  “Yes,” I said with a whimper, “and I’m never leaving the apartment again.”

  6

  flambéed with a capital F

  For weeks I stayed holed up in my room, which was filled with half-empty containers of meals I couldn’t bring myself to finish. Thankful for the fact that I lived in the city, I could order in anything—Chinese food, tampons, and Chunky Monkey ice cream. I lived in my pajamas, because when I wasn’t scouring the Internet reading about what an abomination I was, I slept. I tried calling O’Shea numerous times, but the second he heard my panicked voice saying, “Chef, Chef, please let me explain,” he hung up. And I gave up. My breakfast, which usually came at one in the afternoon, consisted of some kind of sustenance like a poached egg with a side of vodka and orange juice, which I also ordered in. I wanted to sleep forever, oblivious to everything.

  Walter and Robert would come into my room, trying to cheer me up. Whatever they did—bringing me flowers or chocolates or telling lame jokes—never worked. Walter would sigh. Robert would say, “Let her grieve.”

  “For how long?” Walter would ask.

  I’d answer, “For as long as it takes.”

  “Give her time,” Robert would say. “She’ll snap out of it.”

  No, I thought, not when I’ve snapped. They’d shuffle out of my room, eyeing me with pity. They didn’t get it. They didn’t understand. Everything I’d worked so hard for—my wonderland, my dreams—had evaporated right before my eyes. I couldn’t pick up the pieces of my life when I couldn’t even pick myself up. Self-doubt ran through my veins, making me question everything. Eric had made sure of that. Perhaps I was a talentless lackey. A charity case he’d felt sorry for. Still, if I was such a cretin, a waste of kitchen space, why did he want me to come work for him so bad? The answer hit me hard. Eric wanted to break me because he wanted to win, wanted to make sure I didn’t have a voice. Well, he’d succeeded. He’d won. And I was broken. As I spiraled down a well of broken dreams, thinking nobody would believe my story, I played possum. And I did it well.

  I was alone in the apartment when my first panic attack gripped me in a vise of fear. My heart raced so fiercely I thought it would jump out of my throat. The tips of my fingers tingled. I couldn’t catch my breath, and for a good ten minutes I thought I was having a heart attack. I collapsed on my bed and squeezed my eyes shut, certain I was going to die. As I focused on my breathing, willing my heart to calm down, I remembered that my mother had suffered through episodes like this. She used to breathe into a paper bag, which stopped her from hyperventilating and passing out. Thanks to many deliveries, there were plenty of paper bags strewn all over my floor. Once the attack subsided, I realized I was being pulled into a dark place I desperately needed to get out of.

  This wasn’t me. I had to do something. I wasn’t my mother. I reminded myself I did graduate the CIA at the top of my class.

  I meandered into the kitchen, ready to dig in, ready to convince myself my life and everything I’d worked so hard for was worth something. For a moment, I stood numb, looking at the glittering copper pots and pans Walter had purchased for me, the beautiful stainless steel stove, questioning my skills, which was easy to do with Eric’s and O’Shea’s words pricking at my head like a swarm of angry bees.

  “Talentless.”

  “He didn’t have people pulling strings for him.”

  “I’d be surprised if you made it into cooking school on your own.”

  “You’d be nothing without me.”

  I needed to prove them wrong. Prove to myself that I wasn’t a zero. Prove to myself that I was something, that I was anything. I grabbed my knives, a cutting board, and opened up the refrigerator to see what was on hand. Apparently, Walter and Robert had been ordering in from a food delivery service supplying all the fresh ingredients to make predetermined recipes. I frowned when I noted the boxes were marked for two, feeling left out. Then again, I hadn’t exactly left my room. What I should have been doing was shopping at the market and cooking for them instead of turning into an angry hermit.

  The box I commandeered was packed with chicken, zucchini, ras el hanout sauce, garlic, saffron, capers, raisins, couscous, and Greek yogurt. I didn’t bother looking at the recipe; I was going to make this dish my own. I wanted to turn these ingredients into something truly delectable.

  Wasn’t I the woman who could do every single cut with her eyes closed? Dice, mince, julienne, and chiffonade? I unpacked the box, placing everything on the counter. I surveyed the ingredients—a nemesis of sorts. I used to love cooking and creating. Now it was almost as if I hated it.

  Prove you can do it, Sophie.

  I picked up the zucchini and began to chop. While slicing, I nicked the tip of my thumb. I dropped the knife and sank to the floor, curling up into a pathetic ball. The cut wasn’t deep, but it was the kind that flowed and oozed for forever and a day unless you did something about it. The only thing I’d proven to myself was that I was a failure. I couldn’t even bring myself to get up. My tears fell like a thunderstorm. It angered me that I was now a crier; I hadn’t used to be one. I used to be strong.

  My best friends came home to find me bleeding and crying. Walter lifted me off the floor and ran my finger under cold water while I sniffled and wiped my nose with my free hand. He wrapped my finger in gauze and tried his best to console me, but it was kind of hard to console the inconsolable. “Take a shower. Get out. Stop feeling sorry for yourself. This will all blow over,” Walter said, his eyebrows furrowed. But even he knew the truth. This situation wasn’t going to settle down anytime soon.

  “It’s never going to blow over! Look at me. I can’t do anything right.”

  Walter slammed his hand on the table. Then he gripped my arms and shook me. “Sophie, I love you, but things have to change. I can’t keep living like this. Robert can’t keep on living like this. And neither can you.”

  I’d never seen him angry, not like this. He was always so levelheaded. I bit down on my bottom lip to try to keep from crying. Still, hot tears rolled down my cheeks.

  “Are you kicking me out? I wouldn’t blame you,” I said, my voice coming out in a pathetic whimper. “Just get it over and done with.”

  “I’d never kick the Sophie I love out, but this new you, this obstinate, self-pitying creature you’ve become, needs to change, and quick.”

  “I’m sorry, Walter,” I said. “You know I am. I’m not myself. Eric killed me.”

  “Eric didn’t kill you,” said Walter. “You’re standing right in front of me—alive and well and rather obnoxious. Pull yourself together. If you don’t, you’ll end up like her.”

  I knew he was talking about my mother. Aside from Eric, he was the only person I’d talked with about her death. “That’s a low blow, Walter,” I said, even though it was exactly what I’d b
een thinking.

  Walter embraced me in a tight hug. “Come on, you’re not acting like the Sophie we know and love.”

  “And we do love you,” said Robert, placing his hands on my shoulders. “Do you want to clean yourself up and come to dinner with us? You really should get out of the apartment, breathe in some fresh air.”

  “Maybe tomorrow,” I said.

  “We don’t like leaving you alone,” said Walter.

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “I’m not like her.”

  “I left the number of a therapist on the counter,” said Walter. “Maybe call her, and talk through what you’re feeling. You know, an unbiased ear who will listen to you and offer some advice.” He kissed me on the cheek. “We’ll be back in a few hours. If you need anything, just call.”

  I nodded.

  After the door closed, I clung to my knees. I’d lashed out at my only friends in the worst of ways. To add fuel to my dumpster fire of a life, I couldn’t bring myself to call the one person I needed most, and it wasn’t a therapist: it was my grandmother. She’d just say “I told you so” and make me feel as if I were incapable of making decisions. Perhaps she would comfort me. But I wasn’t ready to be comforted. I wanted to wallow, to be angry with myself and everyone else in the world, including her. It ticked me off she hadn’t called; surely the news had reached every corner in the world, even the remote village of Champvert, France.

  Still, I missed her. I needed her.

  My summers with Grand-mère Odette in France came to an end when I was thirteen, an age when everything mattered—the pimple on your chin, the awkwardness, and, worse, the loneliness. During those years, when my mother was passed out in her bedroom or zoned out from popping pills, my escape was the kitchen. Embarrassed with my life at home, I became a loner, the quiet girl who kept her head down and didn’t talk to anybody. Cooking meant everything to me.

  I was eighteen when I found my mother’s body in the bathtub, blue and bloated, a bottle of pills scattered on the floor. She didn’t leave a note, aside from the word “Sorry” scrawled onto the bathroom mirror with her signature red lipstick—Chanel’s Rouge Allure. There must have been something wrong with me. I hadn’t shed one tear. I just wiped the mirror off with toilet paper, and after I called the paramedics, I called Grand-mère Odette.

  Although we hadn’t spoken since my last trip to Champvert when I was thirteen, my grandmother agreed to fly out and help me with the funeral arrangements. Our conversation was short, clipped. When I met her at the airport, the first words Grand-mère Odette had said to me were, “I’m surprised you called. I didn’t think you wanted me in your life.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Céleste did. She said you didn’t want a thing to do with me. I begged and pleaded for you to come to France.”

  “She told me you didn’t want to see me,” I said. “And that if I was a good daughter, I’d stay home and take care of her.”

  “I see,” said Grand-mère. “Well, she was a sick, sick woman. Évidemment. Now that she’s gone, I want you to come to France for good. To your home. You are the only family I have left. After your mother took off and your grand-père died, I’ve felt quite alone.”

  This was the first time she’d mentioned my grandfather. I didn’t have any memories of him. Nothing. Nada. He was an invisible entity to me.

  Her lips pursed. “If you are wondering,” she said, “he died of a broken heart. When Céleste took off with you, it crushed him. Does family not mean anything to you?”

  My head had dropped with guilt. I had plans. Big plans. Part of me wanted to go back to France, but a bigger part of me wanted to follow my dreams. And we were never the happy, picture-perfect family. Far from it. I was estranged from my mother and barely knew anything about her life in France before I was born. She made sure of that. Aside from visiting my grandmother over those summers, I didn’t really know Grand-mère all that well. She hadn’t made an effort to step in when I’d really needed her. I wondered if I was missing out on something, but I was eighteen and full of piss and vinegar, obstinate and stubborn. “My life is here, in New York,” I said.

  “And such a life it is.”

  “Grand-mère, I’ve just applied to one of the best cooking schools in the country, in the world—the Culinary Institute of America. I’m hoping to get in. With all my heart, all my soul. I haven’t forgotten one thing you taught me.”

  She straighted her posture, her chin lifting high. “France has the best culinary schools. You should attend Le Cordon Bleu.”

  “But I want to go to the CIA,” I said.

  “I see,” she said. “If that’s what you wish for, I’m sure it will happen.”

  As we sorted out my mother’s estate, she never again brought up the subject of me moving to France, although she did drop the occasional hint. “Champvert is so much cleaner than this dirty city of yours.” Or, “Food is healthier in France. Look at those strawberries! They are the size of oranges. It’s not natural. And they aren’t even in season.”

  Neither of us cried over the death of my mother. The only time my mother’s name was brought up was when I asked if we should have a funeral. Grand-mère Odette’s face flushed bright red. She gripped her rosary beads. “What Céleste did was a sin. No funeral,” she’d said. And that was that.

  Two weeks later, Grand-mère Odette returned to France and I picked up my mother’s ashes at the crematorium. As I held the black plastic box in my hands, the tears still wouldn’t fall. I resented—no, hated—my mother. She’d never wanted to be a mom, this I knew. When I was a child, she’d told me to call her Céleste, not Mom, in public. She thought my calling her Mom would “age” her. I think she told people I was a stray cat she’d found on the streets. And she’d laugh her tinkly laugh. I scattered her ashes in Central Park and threw away the box. In a way, I felt relief. I’d taken care of her for so long I finally had the chance to take care of myself.

  My own mother had sabotaged my life. And now Eric had, too.

  Sabotage, of course, ran rampant in the food world. A rival chef once booked dozens of fake reservations and ruined the success of a certain chef’s opening night. Angry chefs have turned up ovens to five hundred while cakes were baking. Adding salt or pepper into dishes has been a favorite.

  While I might have been mad at Eric and had more than a few unresolved feelings for my mother, I was even angrier with myself. Perhaps I’d deserved this fate. A good chef always paid attention to every detail. Cooking is a science, and it’s up to the chef to be continuously aware of every ingredient and every dish, tasting often, and I never tasted the velouté after Eric told me to spice it. I trusted his instincts when I never should have trusted him at all.

  The facts were the facts. Eric did sabotage me; I’d trusted him, his palate, and the fact that he was chef de cuisine. But I should have trusted my gut and I didn’t. I hadn’t paid attention to anything. It was in this moment I realized that, along with Eric, I, Sophie Valroux, had sabotaged myself.

  7

  once burned, twice shy

  Walter and Robert were right. I couldn’t continue like this. I didn’t want to end up like my mother. I thought of my grandmother. I thought of her strength. I thought of how disappointed she would be if she saw me like this. I’d tried calling or texting Monica; the phone just went to voice mail and she never responded. Go figure—at the CIA she was always in constant competition with me. Now I wasn’t a threat. I got it. She didn’t need to keep tabs on me anymore. My weakness disgusted me to the point of vomiting out the contents of my stomach daily. But then, one day, when I was hunched over the porcelain god, I had an awakening. That aha moment. This wasn’t me. Just because my career was in the crapper didn’t mean I needed to ruin everything else, such as my closest friendships—my only friendships.

  It took me a good two hours to clean my room, throwing away the empty bags and conta
iners of rotting Chinese food and sludge-like ice cream. I showered. I put on fresh pajamas. Although I’d cleaned myself up a bit, I was still hesitant to leave the apartment—not with the puffy bags under my eyes, not with the terror of being recognized sparking my mind.

  After ordering in supplies for a killer breakfast, I set my alarm for six a.m., my plan to make amends with Walter and Robert. I may not have been the most loquacious or poetic when it came to apologies, but food was my way of communicating, my way of showing my love. On the menu—œufs cocotte with ham and chives, bacon, and roasted rosemary potatoes with truffle oil, my gourmet version of hash browns. By seven, the coffee was percolating and filling the kitchen with its earthy aroma. As I prepared my makeup meal, Walter pulled up a chair at the counter, eyeing me curiously.

  “You’re up?” he questioned.

  I shot him a closed-mouth, apologetic smile and poured him a cup of joe.

  “You showered? And you’re making breakfast? For me?” he asked, and I shrugged. “There is a God. Is that bacon I smell?”

  “Yep,” I said. “With œufs cocotte. It’s my apology—”

  “Never apologize. Is my Sophie back?” he interrupted. “Because I really want her back.”

  “I’m getting there—one step and one shower at a time. But I’m missing my heart—”

  “You’re not missing your heart.”

  “Without a kitchen I am.”

  “Where are you standing right now?”

  “In a kitchen,” I said with a huff. “And it’s not the same thing. Look, now that you and Robert are free and clear to live your lives, you have no need of me.”

  “Yes, we do,” he said.

  “I’m sure everybody wants a walking nightmare in their lives,” I said, my tone a bit snappish. Perhaps I was trying to test Walter’s friendship. If he didn’t love me, he’d send me away. And I wouldn’t blame him.