“There were warning signs?” I asked.
“Debilitating headaches, a bit of numbness in my arms, a bit of dizziness,” she said as if it was no big deal. “I really should have gotten myself to the doctor sooner, but we’ve been terribly busy at the château. I figured my problems came from stress, that the feelings would pass.”
No wonder we had lost touch. We were both consumed with work.
“You have to take care of yourself,” said Clothilde, and I agreed.
“Ah bon, I know,” said Grand-mère Odette before returning her attention to me. “You are the spitting image of your mother, my darling. Les chiens ne font pas des chats.”
“Dogs don’t make cats” was a French expression that was similar in meaning to “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.” It always made me smile. Through the window curtains, sunlight poured into the room, illuminating my grand-mère’s weakened state, although she appeared brighter, almost glowing. I leaned forward, clasping my hand around hers.
“That’s an interesting piece of jewelry,” said Grand-mère, eyeing the ring hanging off my necklace. “Quite beautiful.”
“It was my mother’s,” I said, shifting uncomfortably. I cleared my throat. “I brought some of her things with me. Maybe when you’re better, we can go through them together?”
“I see,” said my grandmother pointedly. She then changed the subject, clearly not wanting to talk about my mom. “When did you arrive?”
“Today. For you.”
“That fancy New York restaurant of yours gave you time off?” Her eyes widened a bit, but she didn’t seem all that surprised.
“You could say that,” I mumbled. “It’s kind of a forever time off.”
“What did you say? I didn’t quite hear you.”
“Oh, it’s nothing.” I forced another smile. “I’m happy the doctor says you’re on the mend.”
“How long are you here for?” she asked.
“For as long as I’m needed.”
“Well, that would be for eternity. When you’re not by my side, my heart crumbles.” She smiled and struggled to sit up, but couldn’t. “And, now that you’re here, you can get me out of this damn hospital. On y va.” (Let’s go.) “Right now.”
I was pleased to see my grandmother’s spirit was strong, but her leaving the hospital wasn’t going to happen. I’d never seen my strong, bullheaded grandmother look so fragile. “The doctor said she has to monitor you a little longer,” I said, and Clothilde nodded her head with enthusiastic agreement.
“Bah, je suis pleine de vitalité. Regardez-moi,” said Grand-mère Odette.
I was looking at her and she wasn’t exactly full of vitality—in fact, far from it. Her hands shook like a blender on the verge of exploding. Her speech was slurred—not to mention the mistake she’d made when she mistook me for my mother. My dead mother.
“I’m sure you’ll be home soon,” I said. “But right now it’s important for you to get better. Doctor’s orders.”
“Mais, we have a houseful of guests arriving tonight. There’s much to do—”
“Don’t worry, Odette,” said Clothilde, rushing over to grab her hand. “Sophie, the rest of the staff, and I will take care of everything, won’t we, dear? You’ll help manage the kitchen.”
My eyes went wide. I sucked in my breath, willing the impending panic attack to settle down. I wasn’t sure if I’d ever be able to walk into a kitchen again. And now I was supposed to manage a kitchen I wasn’t familiar with?
“Without me, I’m sure the château needs management,” said my grand-mère. “I’ve been doing my best while being cooped up in this horrible room, but I can only do so much. Sophie, I’m counting on you. Can I?”
There were so many questions I wanted to ask, but, a bit shell-shocked, I didn’t want to sound accusatory, and panic sparked Grand-mère Odette’s eyes.
“How many people does the restaurant seat?” I asked.
“Forty,” answered my grandmother. “Can you handle forty covers?”
“Er, yes, definitely,” I said, feeling the need to give her reassurance.
“Bon.” Grand-mère Odette pulled out a notebook and flipped through it before locking me in her gaze. “For tonight’s special, I was planning on making a daube de biche for the guests. Do you know how to make a daube? Or do you just make fancy seafood dishes with strange foams?” I didn’t answer right away, so Grand-mère Odette patted my hand and continued with a heavy sigh. “You are my granddaughter and I have faith in you, my dear. It’s almost eleven. The two of you better be going, as the guests are set to check in at four. Dinner is set for seven thirty p.m. sharp.”
“But I just got here. I want to spend time with you,” I said. I meant it, but I also wanted to procrastinate getting back to the château. How was I going to make a daube de biche when I couldn’t even get œufs cocotte and roasted potatoes right? I wasn’t ready for this.
“Ma chérie, I’m quite tired and won’t be much of a conversationalist. You’ll just be watching me sleep,” she said. “Plus, it is paramount things are handled with the business—the entire village counts on us. And since I’m stuck in this awful hospital bed, it’s you who must take over while I’m incapacitated.”
“Okay, but this is all so surreal. I’m coming to visit you tomorrow.”
“Hors de question” (Out of the question), she said, lifting her chin with defiance. “There’s too much to do for our guests. I’ll be back at the château before you know it.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “Clothilde, show her where my kitchen notebooks are. She’s going to need them.”
“But you don’t let anyone touch your notebooks—except for me,” Clothilde said, her fingers fluttering to her neck. “Are you sure?”
“My recipes are a part of Sophie’s heritage,” Grand-mère said before her eyelids fluttered closed.
My heart stopped beating for a moment. In that instant, I thought she’d died. I placed my ear over her mouth and my hand on her heart. “Please, you can’t leave me now,” I whispered.
A soft hand stroked my back. “Ma puce, she just needs her rest,” came Clothilde’s soft voice. “Ne t’inquiète pas.” (Don’t worry.) “Elle ira bien.” (She’ll be fine.)
I wasn’t so sure about that. Save for the guilt pecking at my heart, I wasn’t sure about anything.
10
the grand chef
As we settled in Clothilde’s dented old orange Deux Chevaux, I tried to keep my wits about me and swallow back the worry pounding in my throat for grand-mère’s health. Clothilde straightened her posture and stuck her key in the ignition, and, after a loud roar, the car rumbled to life, jolting us backward. My eyes widened with fear, and not just because of the rickety state of this tin can of death.
Clothilde spluttered out a laugh and gripped the stick shift. “Don’t worry, she’ll get us back to the château in one piece.” She switched the gear into first, then second. “These cars have traveled deserts, crossing over sands. They’ve gone through wars. Safest drive in the world, although not very comfortable. Still, they are collector’s items—if they are in good shape. I love my Jasmine.”
“You named your car?”
“Of course I did. She’s a beauty.”
A spring in the seat pinched my butt as we bounced along the road. It hurt. I’d definitely have a bruise with my pale skin. I grimaced.
“Are you okay, ma puce?”
“I’m fine. I just can’t believe I haven’t been back for so long,” I said, placing my hands under my butt. “What’s been going on at the château?”
“Oh, ma puce, it’s been very busy. A lot has changed since your last visit thirteen years ago.”
“Can you tell me about the restaurant?” I asked.
“You’ll see. And there’s not just one, but two.”
I couldn’t believe th
e place I’d found online was, in fact, my grandmother’s château. “I wanted to come back, but—”
Clothilde patted my hand. “I know, ma puce. You had your own life to create and you were never far from your grand-mère’s heart. She knows you were busy.”
I bit down on my bottom lip, feeling guiltier than ever. My world was in shambles. I had nothing. I’d worked so hard, and for what? Death was knocking at my grand-mère’s door and I’d been too busy for family, too driven to make a name for myself. Without her, I wouldn’t even have a name. Without her, I wouldn’t have followed my dreams. But what were my dreams now?
“And what’s this about the entire village depending on the château?”
“All our livelihoods depend on it. We all work with or for Grand-mère Odette,” she said. “After your grand-père Pierre passed away just after you were born, Bernard and I sold our farm to her and we’ve been living in the guesthouse right on the property. You may remember visiting us there?”
“Vaguely,” I said, which was a lie. I didn’t remember. I did recall the guilt trip my grand-mère tried pulling on me in New York after my mother had died. Perhaps I was selfish for following my dreams when my grandmother needed me in her life, but I figured she’d be fine without me. And look where I was now. My big plans, my big goals, had backfired.
Clothilde cleared her throat. “At any rate, Bernard still manages the vineyard. And I help out your grand-mère however I can.”
Her husband’s full name had me chuckling softly to myself for a brief moment—Bernard Girard. Perhaps even his parents found it funny when they named him. Way back in France in the time of Napoléon Bonaparte, it was necessary to have names approved so the outcome wouldn’t have a negative impact on the child’s life. Even in recent times, first names like Fraise, which meant “strawberry,” were declined, the judges ruling that the girl could be picked on with the expression of “ramène ta fraise”—a slang phrase roughly translated to mean “get your ass over here.” No, the government prohibited names like Nutella or Manhattan, too. But, even though it rhymed, Bernard Girard had made the grade.
Clothilde gripped the steering wheel. “Plus, with you and your mother, rest her soul, in New York, we didn’t like Odette living on that big property all alone.”
I stared out the window feeling like the monster the Times article had made me out to be. Not to mention the interview on Eater where Eric had slandered me, gutted my reputation with his digs. Part of me wanted to go back to New York to fight for my life—but not when Grand-mère was fighting for hers.
As if sensing my discomfort, Clothilde shifted gears and gripped my hand. “You had your own life to lead. Don’t worry about us old folks—les vieux.”
“I don’t understand how so much could change without me knowing about it. Why didn’t Grand-mère Odette tell me about any of this?”
“It’s all out there, right on the Internet.”
“I’m not really into all that. I don’t even have a Facebook account,” I said.
“I’m thinking you should get out of that New York kitchen of yours. Even I have a Facebook account. So does the château.”
“Oh?” I said with a loud yawn.
Clothilde shot me a glance, worry pinching her mouth into a concerned frown. “Why don’t you get some rest, dear? You look absolutely exhausted, a bit green in the face. I think it’s better if you see the château to get a fuller understanding. And we have quite a bit of work to do before the guests arrive.”
“But I have so many questions,” I said.
“You’ll get your answers, ma puce. For now, just rest. We really need all hands on deck today, including yours.”
“Okay. . .” I said, struggling to keep my eyes open, the motion of the car soon rocking me to sleep.
* * *
Forty-five minutes later, Clothilde’s orange Deux Chevaux bumped off the highway and shook and rumbled onto a winding country road, waking me up. The brakes screeched. Short and squat, Clothilde could barely see over the steering wheel and we had a close call with a fluffy white sheep standing on the side of the road. His loud bah startled me, as if he was pissed off we had the nerve to interrupt his leisurely stroll. Watching him walk into the bushes, I noticed the backside of his flank was tattooed with an Occitan cross, a symbol of the region—the coat of arms for the Midi-Pyrénées—along with what I assumed were his owner’s initials. A bell jingled around his neck.
“He’s always getting away, that one,” said Clothilde with a sigh. “I don’t know how he escapes his pasture. I’ll have to talk to Monsieur Martin. Again.”
At that point, I’d have offered to drive, but as a New Yorker who took taxis and the subway, I didn’t have a driver’s license and I didn’t know my way behind the wheel. Instead, I rolled down the window to take in the crisp November air—not warm, but not quite cold yet. We passed by vineyards with perfectly spaced vines, the trunks knotty and twisted, the branches hanging onto wires. The leaves on the trees glimmered in a kaleidoscope of colors—bright oranges, yellows, reds, and greens. I’d never visited Champvert in the fall, and the natural beauty—the bubbling Tarn River and foliage—astounded me. Winter would arrive soon. I closed my eyes, imagining all this beauty lightly dusted in snow. For an instant, I felt different, like somebody had miraculously lifted a thousand pounds off my shoulders. I was out of the pollution of the city, breathing in fresh gulps of air, and nature’s bounty surrounded me, filling me with a sense of calm I didn’t realize I needed. No honking taxis, no busy sidewalks with people pushing and growling for you to get out of the way, and, more important, no Eric. I shuddered at the thought of him.
Maybe I was selfish. It took a family emergency to bring me back here, to a place I loved. And would I be here if I hadn’t been canned? Of course, I would have. Wouldn’t I? Even on her hospital bed, even in her fragile condition, Grand-mère Odette let me see more of myself in her than I had ever seen in my mother. I’d always felt that way.
We passed through the town of Champvert. There was a small church with a steeple reaching into the cornflower-blue sky, the stone hôtel de ville (city hall), one bar that also served as newsstand and tabac, and a small grocer that sold vegetables from wooden stands exploding in fall colors. By the looks of it, squashes of all sizes were in season—pumpkins, butternut, and, sunlight bouncing on their orange waxy skin, potimarron.
I grumbled, apparently out loud.
“Is something wrong, ma puce?” asked Clothilde.
“No,” I said. “I’m fine. Feeling better—just a bit woozy.”
“Understandable, after your long travel day,” she said. “I’ve never traveled more than six hundred kilometers from Champvert.”
Hopefully she hadn’t been driving then.
Clothilde swerved the car and the sudden movement had me holding on to to my seat. We bounced down a familiar lane with evenly spaced plane trees, the leaves and branches forming a canopy above us, the trunks tall like soldiers standing at attention awaiting our arrival. Clothilde slammed on the brakes hard, stopping. Once the dust settled, the tall, bronzed gates of the château towered over us, oxidized a bluish green over time, the scrolled dragonfly symbol of the château smack-dab in the center. Etched into one of the tall stone posts was the name of this magnificent home—CHTEAU DE CHAMPVERT—with the date XVIII SIÈCLE under it. Clothilde pulled out a remote, pressed a button, and the gates opened.
“As I said earlier, a lot has changed since you last visited,” she said. “A lot.”
“I can see that,” I said. A brass sign plastered onto the other column caught my eye. I wanted to get a closer look. “Do you mind if I hop out and walk for a bit? I feel like I’ve been cooped up and some fresh air will do me good.”
She smiled and nodded her head, her curls bouncing. “D’accord, ma puce. I’ll meet you at the house. Just come on in. I’ll be in the kitchen. We have about forty-f
ive minutes before we need to get started with the preparations for tonight’s dinner service.”
In my confusion, I’d almost forgotten about the guests set to arrive. My mouth went dry.
“I’ll be there in a few,” I said.
I kissed her on the cheek and hopped out of the car. Clothilde’s Deux Chevaux rumbled into the parking area, one with clearly marked places for at least twenty or thirty cars. For a moment, I stretched my arms and legs, taking in my surroundings and breathing in the crisp air. Then I walked over to the plaque, traced the brass fleur-de-lis and the words inscribed, La Société des Châteaux et Belles Demeures, with my fingertips. Over it rested a smaller plaque with my grandmother’s full name in raised letters, ODETTE VALROUX DE LA TOUR DE CHAMPVERT, and under that, the words Grand Chef.
Grand Chef? What in the world? I didn’t know if I should be proud of her or disappointed she hadn’t shared the news of receiving this honor with me. My heart raced, giving me a burst of energy. I ran down the driveway, my sneakers crunching on the gravel. Breathless, I stood in front of the family seat, feeling ridiculous for calling a massive residence like this my grandmother’s home.
Four stories high, the château itself must have been at least twenty-four thousand square feet, maybe more. An imposing double staircase, one side of which had been converted to a wheelchair ramp, led up to the first floor and main entrance, above the garden-level ground floor. Constructed out of pink-hued bricks and stone with a slate roof and turrets reaching into the blue sky, the château also boasted seven Juliet balconies, three on the left, three on the right, and one in the center.
As a kid, I hadn’t realized just how impressive the château was. Perhaps the dust of time covered my childhood memories with hazy recollections. I remembered the château being enormous, but a bit run-down and under constant construction. Now, as an adult, I was floored. Every detail seemed larger-than-life—even the sky, the horizon stretching out for miles and miles.
The Secret French Recipes of Sophie Valroux Page 8