The Secret French Recipes of Sophie Valroux

by Samantha Vérant

  I took another deep breath, gulping in the air, trying to absorb everything and feeling quite disoriented. With my heightened sensitivity to smell, there were too many aromas to take in at one time. Pine. Apple. Cedar. Smoke from the fireplaces. An onslaught of sensorial experiences. All the odors blended together into one and, although wonderful and fresh, it was dizzying and my nose twitched from overload. My eyes focused on the orchard, the trees still laden with apples. Je vais tomber dans les pommes, I thought, thinking of the French expression “I’m going to fall in the apples,” which meant to faint. I needed to move, get my bearings.

  Before heading inside, I climbed to the top of the hill to get a better vantage point. Surrounded by willows and hundred-year-old olive trees with thick, knotty trunks, the lake sparkled in the distance. To my left, there were sweeping views of the Tarn River. The land appeared to be limitless, rolling with hills and a forest filled with towering pine trees. After walking by the large pool set up with tables and wrought iron sun loungers resting under white canopies, I rounded the bend, noting all of the other buildings—the clock tower, the guesthouse where Clothilde and Bernard lived, the large brick barn, and the winemaking facilities. The greenhouse shimmered in the hazy sunlight like a beautiful mirage in a desert oasis. I didn’t recall it being so substantial. The well-manicured gardens were laden with a maze of bushes carved into fleurs-de-lis—one of the best-known symbols of France. My footsteps crunched on the white gravel as I walked toward the vineyard in the distance. Seeing it devoid of grapes, I realized I’d missed the harvest, that I’d never witnessed it, and that I wanted to take part in it. I looked at my watch and made my way to the front of the house, deep in thought.

  Why had I suppressed the memories of this enchanting world? Because I’d been happy here and didn’t think I deserved happiness? Because my mother was never happy, and I blamed myself for her misery? She’d had me too young—I’d been her cross to bear? Aside from fighting for my now ruined career, my mother’s death—her suicide—was the real reason I’d avoided coming back to France, to the house she’d grown up in. Champvert reminded me of a life I no longer had, a world I’d never truly been a part of. A world where I’d never been loved by my mom. In the past, with nobody to talk to, I’d become my own psychoanalyst, and I’d just locked up my feelings and thrown away the key. The kitchen had been my escape, my salvation, the way I avoided uncomfortable situations.

  But I was here now.

  Rémi’s white truck rumbled down the driveway. He pulled into a parking spot, jumped out of the driver’s seat, and, after letting the two Labradors out, slammed the door shut. I wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt, thinking some people, like me, had very bad days, and shot him a hesitant wave. The dogs ran toward the lake and dove in. Rémi didn’t even look in my direction, just walked away, carrying a large crate.

  “My God,” I muttered. “What is his freaking problem?”

  I swung open the heavy wooden doors of the main entry and stepped onto freshly polished marble floors, immediately noticing the dining room on my right—an immense salon with an ornate silver tin ceiling carved with fleurs-de-lis, the cornices with an elegant ropelike pattern; sparkling chandeliers dripping with crystals; oak herringbone parquet floors; and a massive marble fireplace I could walk into.

  Three men and two women, varying in age from their late twenties to late forties, bustled around, setting up for dinner service. I didn’t recognize any of them, although they certainly knew who I was. Whispers of “Elle est là”—(She’s here)—“l’Américaine, la petite-fille, la New-Yorkaise” echoed softly in my ears. They said quick bonjours, not quite looking me in the eyes, and scrambled back to work. I noted their uniforms—soft charcoal gray slacks or skirts with crisp white shirts. Elegant. Like I’d remembered my grandmother.

  I walked up to one of the tables. Silver dragonflies decorated all of the glasses—champagne, water, and wine, as well as the pewter-rimmed plates. Reminiscent of the Belle Époque, sterling silverware with flowers carved in relief amazed me. It was lovely, every last detail perfection, including the iridescent silver-gray napkins the waitstaff had folded into the shape of seashells. I had to confess, my grandmother had done an amazing job, overlooking no exquisite detail. I just wished she’d told me what she’d been up to all these years. Rubbing my eyes with disbelief, I floated into the kitchen as if pulled by an unseen entity.

  11

  a world of confusion

  Nothing had prepared me for la cuisine, which like the salon had doubled in size. The stainless steel workstations sparkled, as did the prep areas, the line, and the plating station. There were heat lamps, reach-in coolers, two walk-in coolers, and an HVAC system. A grilling station. A broiler. A fryer. Heated holding units. Two four-burner hot plates. Not to mention the two beautiful powder-blue Lacanche ranges with double ovens and warming cupboards—five burners each, a cast-iron simmer plate, plancha, and flame grill.

  This setup, this gleaming kitchen, was worthy of a Michelin-starred restaurant and capable of serving at least two hundred covers. “What in the world?” I said under my breath.

  Clothilde looked up from beating an enormous piece of meat. “Oh, sorry, ma puce, I didn’t see you come in.” She slammed her knife into a carcass and wiped her hands on her apron.

  “I think the deer is already dead,” I said, a lame attempt at humor.

  “Thankfully, Rémi skins them and empties out the organs. I don’t know if I’d be able to stomach that.” She held up the butcher’s cleaver with a wild look in her eyes. “Don’t worry, this one has been aged. Your grand-mère Odette usually prepares the meat.” Clothilde paused. “Are you hungry, ma puce? Would you like something to eat? You look a little peaked.”

  My growling stomach answered for me. She winked and pulled out a stool, ushering me to sit down. I sank into my seat. This was the same stool I’d sat on as a child, the same wicker strands pinching into my legs. When I was a kid, I always had a pattern of dips and crevasses embedded into the back of my thighs.

  “Besides being a little older, you haven’t a changed a bit.” She scurried around and then set a tray of cheeses and a baguette in front of me. “Everybody—and I mean everybody—works for your grandmother. Madame Truffaut makes the bread and croissants, but she bakes them at her home and brings them here. Madame Bouchon makes the yogurt, same scenario, although she makes the compotes here. And Madame Moreau prepares the foie gras, the sausages—”

  As Clothilde explained the workings of les dames, my mind went dizzy as I recalled all the familiar names, trying to remember who was who. I couldn’t place them. Their names and faces blurred together into one. I spread some fresh goat cheese onto a baguette and bit into it. The bread was flaky and buttery, clearly freshly baked this morning, and the cheese was tangy and tart. For an instant, the cheese, the taste, transported me to my childhood, to the kitchen I remembered—the one with the red-and-white-checked curtains—to many days of happiness, to the cheese I was eating right now. I didn’t remember it tasting so good.

  “Oh my God,” I mumbled with this mouthful of excitement, so delicious it was sinful.

  “Ma puce, is something wrong?”

  “No, this is the best meal I’ve had in weeks,” I said. “It’s sublime.”

  “Bah,” she said. “It’s simple. But sometimes simple is the best, non?”

  I couldn’t have agreed with her more. I wanted—no, needed—simple. Lately everything in my world was so complicated; I prayed for simple.

  “Madame Pélissier makes our goat cheese right on her farm—also other fresh cheeses like le Cathare, a goat cheese dusted with ash with the sign of the Occitania cross, as well as a Crottin du Tarn, which is the goat cheese we use for the pizza, and Lingot de Cocagne, which is a sheep’s milk cheese. Do you want to do a little tasting of her cheeses?”

  “Would I? You bet.”

  Clothilde ambled over to
the refrigerator, returning with a platter of lumpy cheese heaven straight from the cooking gods’ kitchen.

  “Et voilà,” she said, placing it down and bringing her fingers to her lips, blowing out a kiss.

  There were veiny cheeses marked with blue and green channels and spots, soft cheeses with natural or washed rinds, and fresh and creamy cheeses, like the goat cheese. The scents hit me, some mild with hints of lavender, some heavily perfumed, some earthy, and some garlicky.

  “Merci beaucoup, Clothilde,” I said, my mouth full and crumbs sprinkling onto the table. “This is amazing.”

  “It’s wonderful to have you back even under such circumstances. It feels like yesterday since you visited with us, but many yesterdays have passed.” Clothilde pinched my cheek. “I remember when we couldn’t keep you out of the kitchen. We’d urge you to go play and then find you hiding in the servant’s staircase, watching us cook and prepare the Sunday lunches. Such a shame you missed the last one of the season,” said Clothilde. “It was two weeks ago.”

  “I’m sorry I missed it. I loved them when I was a kid,” I said, suddenly longing for them.

  On Sundays, we’d have family lunches, inviting practically everybody from the tiny village of fifty or so people. The day started at ten in the morning, not ending until dusk, when the bats and barn swallows swooped in the sky and the moon and stars began to twinkle. Villagers arrived early in the morning with whatever they had—eggs, fresh fruits and vegetables from their gardens, ducks, chickens, rabbits, and homemade sausages. The men would play pétanque, France’s version of bocce ball, on the field. Grand-mère Odette and the women would cook up a storm—whatever was fresh and in season, whatever was brought to the doors. They’d shoo me away with their aprons, urging me to have fun. Sometimes I hid in the stairwell, watching them laugh, chop, and cook, licking my lips as delicious smells enveloped me, hugging me in a spicy embrace. We ate at picnic tables covered with beautiful French linens. I remembered the laughter and joy from those days like it was yesterday, as Clothilde had said. Too bad I was having problems placing anything else. Save for mentioning the Sunday lunches, my grandmother hadn’t told me anything—that she was a Grand Chef or that she was now part of the famed group La Société des Châteaux et Belles Demeures. Or that she ran two restaurants.

  “Can you please tell me what’s been going on at the château? Everything’s changed so much. I feel like I’m on another planet.”

  Clothilde’s laugh twittered like a small bird’s. “I’m afraid it’s your grandmother who will have to answer your questions. Je m’occupe de mes oignons.” I mind my own onions—or translated in English, “I mind my own business.”

  “I hope she’s around to—” I started to say, but cut myself off when Clothilde’s mouth formed into one of the saddest pouts I’d ever seen.

  She fluffed up her curls, ignoring my statement. I wanted to hug her, to apologize, but didn’t know how to do so; it was out of my arsenal of emotions. Apparently, all I knew now was how to take a defense position, and I didn’t do it well.

  “We’ve got a full house booked this weekend, plus a wine tasting and the cooking demonstrations, and we’ll need all the help we can get,” she said. “I’m sure you’ll find the kitchen is very well equipped with everything you need.”

  I wasn’t so sure about that. My last attempts with cooking for Walter and Robert were complete failures. “Who is in charge of the wine tasting?” I asked, worried it would fall under my responsibility, worried I’d pissed her off. I knew enough about wine, the basic tasting notes, but I knew nothing of the wines of Gaillac, and had absolutely zero knowledge of the varieties created at the château.

  “That would be my Bernard,” said Clothilde, and relief washed over me. Her eyes met mine and she pinched my cheeks again—not too hard, but enough to tell me she cared about me and, although I’d offended her, any conversation regarding the state of my grand-mère’s health was over.

  “Do you remember I named my bear after him? Bearnard.”

  Clothilde twittered her birdlike laugh, her red curls bobbing like coiled springs. “Oh my! Oui! The English word for l’ours is ‘bear.’ Between you and me, my husband is a bit of an animal. You should hear him snore! He shakes the entire house.”

  I laughed. And, honestly, it felt good to laugh. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d done so.

  “And the cooking demonstration?” I asked.

  “I’m in charge of those,” she said. “We like the guests to experience everything the château has to offer—wine tastings year-round, picking grapes during the harvest, skeet shooting or hunting—even gardening,” she said. “You’ll get the hang of things around here once you settle in a bit more.”

  I swooned at all this information, feeling dizzy. My grand-mère had created an empire. And I felt like a bystander, an intruder.

  Clothilde walked over to a corner and bounced lightly on one of the old oak planks, the one with the twisted knot. She dropped to her knees and lifted the board, chucking it to the side. “Et voilà,” she said, her breath heavy. “Here are your grandmother’s kitchen notebooks. Her recipe for the daube should be in one of these. I’m just not sure which one.”

  After struggling with their weight, Clothilde handed me around twenty dark brown leather-bound notebooks tied with red leather cords. They were beautiful, like pieces of fine art, splattered with water spots and food stains.

  “Why do you keep them hidden in the floor?”

  “Because of the war—when the Germans occupied northern and western France. Your grand-mère’s family was from Bordeaux, and although she was just a young girl of five years old, she remembers her mother hiding valuables to keep them safe.” Clothilde wrung her hands. “It was a difficult time, one she doesn’t like talking about.”

  “She doesn’t like talking about a lot of things,” I said. “Especially my mother.”

  “As I said, je m’occupe de mes oignons,” she said, forcing a nervous smile. She patted a notebook. “Alors, your grandmother painstakingly wrote all of her recipes down for well over twenty years. And we don’t want anything to happen to them now, do we?”

  “Why are you talking about her as if she’s already gone?” I said, and Clothilde’s face crumpled. My heart dropped into my stomach. I’d made a major faux pas and could only backpedal after being so rude to Clothilde. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for it to come out that way.”

  “I understand. You’re worried about her. I am, too, and I pray every day she’ll pull through. Now that you’re back, you’ve given her something to fight for. More than anything, she wants to spend time with you,” she said, blinking back her tears. “Open the notebooks, ma puce. Like your grandmother said, these notebooks are part of your heritage.”

  With shaky hands, I opened up one of the notebooks and thumbed through the creamy pages filled with my grandmother’s beautiful handwriting to find no recipes, but rather names, dates, and what people ate, what they liked and didn’t like. I let out a gasp when I found my name. Pages upon pages were filled with mostly likes and a few dislikes. I hated tête de veau (boiled cow brain), and who wouldn’t, but loved escargots in a creamy garlic, butter, and parsley sauce. The word “cerise” was underlined four times, along with the words “Ma petite-fille Sophie, elle aime n’importe quoi avec les cerises.” Cherries. I still loved them.

  My visits to Champvert always coincided with cherry season, and Grand-mère Odette always made sure a bowl of plump black cherries sat in front of me. When I wasn’t tasting one of her wonderful creations, I’d stuff one cherry after another into my eager mouth and spit the pits into a bowl, reveling in the juicy and sweet explosions hitting my tongue. As she whisked the batter for her clafoutis, stating how important it was to keep the pits in the cherries or the dessert would lose its nutty flavor, she’d tell me about some of her other recipes, the ingredients rolling off her tongue like a new
exotic language I wanted to learn every word of. Saffron, nutmeg, coriander, paprika, and kumquat—what were these things, I wondered?

  As I thumbed through the pages, I realized how dedicated my grandmother was to me and the other people surrounding her. To take the time to gather such information proved it. She wanted to make sure everybody was happy when they were under her roof and, more specifically, at her table. I placed my head in my hands, rubbing my temples. I traced my name with my finger, trying to burn Grand-mère’s loopy scrawl into my memory. Unlike her, my handwriting looked like chicken scratch. One thing we had in common, though, was the love of cooking.

  The recipes I’d cooked as a child floated in my brain, like making succulent duck and cooking potatoes in duck fat—a standard in southwestern France. From chicken to sausage, pork loin to lamb, duck fat gave savory ingredients a silky feeling on the tongue. Again, the visions I was having transported me back in time, right to when I first tasted Grand-mère’s special duck-fat-drowned French fries. I’d been a goner ever since. After my palate exploded with joy, Rémi and I had run down to the lake, jumping right in, the cold water burbling over our heads in tiny waves.

  “Those were the best French fries ever,” I’d said. “I can’t believe it.”

  “Believe it,” said Rémi, splashing me. Then I dunked him. Those days were long gone.

  Clothilde peeked over my shoulder. “Oh, ma petite puce, you’ll want the notebooks with recipes. These notebooks are old.”

  A rogue paper slid out of the notebook onto the floor. I scrambled off my stool and picked it up. All somebody had written on it was Sophie1993. My first name. The year I was born. I held out the slip and looked at Clothilde with my eyebrows raised in question.