The Secret French Recipes of Sophie Valroux

by Samantha Vérant

  “Most of the information you were just looking at pertaining to the guests has been entered into the computer. Your grandmother likes to keep track of everything—their likes and dislikes, anniversaries, birthdays—”

  “Why?”

  “To her, every guest becomes a member of the family when they stay under her roof,” said Clothilde. “Speaking of guests, there’s work to be done. Did you find her recipe for the daube?”

  I hadn’t. “Just give me a minute,” I said. A minute to take in all of the childhood memories flashing before my eyes. A minute of happiness. A minute to catch my breath.

  12

  the pressure cooker

  I ’d just found the recipe for the daube when a young, elegant blond woman with steely blue eyes walked into the kitchen carrying a basket filled with fresh herbs—the scents of rosemary, thyme, basil, and tarragon infiltrated my nostrils. I wondered how in the world this woman could garden in kitten heels while keeping her nails manicured and her hair perfectly coiffed in a lacquered French twist. She eyed me up and down, locking on to my ripped jeans. “I see the prodigal granddaughter has returned.”

  I was expecting French, not English, to come out of her mouth. I also wasn’t expecting to be insulted. After Rémi, the odd whispers of the waitstaff, and now this woman’s attitude, it seemed nobody aside from Clothilde and my grand-mère was all too thrilled I was back.

  “I’m Sophie.” I was about to say, “Nice to meet you,” when she cut me off.

  “I know exactly who you are. I’m Jane,” she said, her smile faker than a Louis Vuitton bag purchased on Canal Street. “We can’t wait to hear all about your life in New York. You were a Michelin chef, yes?”

  By her smug expression, she knew exactly what had gone down in New York. I shifted on my stool uncomfortably and cleared my throat. “No, I worked at Michelin-starred restaurant,” I said. “A chef de partie.”

  “How exciting,” she said.

  “She learned everything she knows from her grand-mère,” said Clothilde, nodding her head of curls. “We’re very proud of her.”

  A brunette with blue-violet eyes the color of pale hydrangeas trailed in a few minutes after Jane. She carried a large crate filled with mushrooms similar to porcinis. “I went foraging this morning and the cèpes are still in season! There must be hundreds, all of them exquisitely beautiful,” she said with excitement. She placed her bounty of mushrooms on the prep table and looked up, taking notice of me. “Bonjour, Sophie! I’m Phillipa, Jane’s twin.”

  My upper lip twitched with disbelief. Granted, I was happy to have a break from speaking French, but I wasn’t expecting two English twins.

  Complete polar opposites, Jane and Phillipa didn’t share any similar traits. Whereas Jane was tall and elegant with a swan-like neck and had a figure most women would kill for, Phillipa had cropped, shaggy hair, and was as skinny as a French green bean, un haricot vert, perhaps even skinnier than me if that was possible—and went au naturel with her makeup. By means of explanation, Phillipa said, “We’re fraternal twins.”

  “Oh,” I said. “When you hear the word ‘twin,’ you expect—”

  “Two of the same kind, cut from the same mold,” said Phillipa, her cockney accent strong. “Nobody ever believes us when we tell them.”

  “Well, nice to meet you,” I said with a pause. “If you don’t mind me asking, where are you from?”

  “Bibury, England. Ever hear of it?” said Phillipa.

  “Sorry,” I said. “I haven’t.”

  “No worries. Not many people have. It’s lovely, located on a river and, in a way, it reminds me a lot of here. Except we have much better weather in Champvert.”

  “How long have you been working at the château?” I asked, my curiosity piqued.

  “Our parents retired and bought a small home in the next village over, Sauqueuse, about ten years ago. You get a lot more for your money in France than in England. There are quite a few of us rôti de bœuf in the area. Grand-mère Odette says we’re invading the Tarn-et-Garonne. Anyway, a few years ago, I lost my job, so I escaped England for France and I’ve been working for Grand-mère Odette ever since. Jane, too.”

  “You do realize rôti de bœuf is quite an offensive term? It means ‘roast beef,’” said Jane. Unlike Phillipa, Jane’s accent was reminiscent of the Queen of England and peppered with exaggerated snobbery.

  “I know,” said Phillipa with a nonchalant shrug. She locked her gaze onto mine and winked. “And I, for one, find it absolutely hilarious. Sometimes I call your grandmother a frog. She gets a kick out of it. Probably because the word ‘grenouille’ doesn’t roll off my tongue.” She repeated the French word for “frog” five times until she got it right. Phillipa smiled, her blue eyes clear and friendly. “I was so excited when I heard you were here. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you. You’re all your grand-mère talks about when she’s not talking about the château or food.”

  “How long are you staying on at the château?” asked Jane, leaning forward a bit menacingly.

  “I’m not sure,” I said. “At least until Grand-mère gets better.”

  “Your grand-mère is under the impression we need your help. She thinks we can’t manage without her.”

  “I don’t know anything about running a château,” I said.

  “I’m sure you don’t,” said Jane.

  This woman wasn’t making it easy for me to like her. “Are you a chef?” I asked.

  “Me? No, but Phillipa is one, or rather, wants to be.” She lifted her chin so high I could see into her flared nostrils. “I run this place—do a bit of everything.”

  “So, you’re a Jane of all trades?” I asked with a nervous laugh, trying to see if I could lighten up her attitude.

  Jane’s mouth curved into another fake smile as she chortled out an even faker laugh. “Clever.”

  “It was,” said Phillipa, with a clap of her hands. “And now that that’s settled, I’ll fill you in. Clothilde and I are Grand-mère Odette’s sous chefs, and Jane, who thinks she runs the château, will check in the guests. In season, Jane and I live in the clock tower. The granny brigade and Gustave should be arriving around two, but we should get started prepping.” She smiled. “I’m really excited to learn from you, and I, for one, am thrilled you are here.”

  I liked Phillipa and her effervescent personality and chatty optimism, but Jane sat with her arms crossed over her chest with her upper lip curled.

  “Moi aussi,” said Clothilde. “I’ve picked up some English from these two. I don’t understand everything they say, but I get the general gist of it.”

  “Who else is coming in?” I asked. Clothilde had mentioned les dames, whom I could only assume were the granny brigade, but Gustave was a foreign name.

  “The rest of the kitchen staff,” said Jane pointedly—as if I should know who was who and what was what.

  “I just arrived today,” I said.

  “And you don’t know a lick about this place,” said Jane. “In fact, you look a bit jet-lagged. Maybe you should get some rest.”

  “Jane, you don’t even know how to boil water. We need Sophie’s help,” said Phillipa, turning her attention to me. “What do you want us to do?”

  I didn’t even know where to start, but by Phillipa’s eager expresion, the way her eyes widened, I knew she was counting on me to take charge. I couldn’t move. This was too much pressure. I couldn’t be head chef or anything else when I wasn’t myself.

  Clothilde cleared her throat. “The guests arrive in three hours and the daube must mijoter for at least four hours. Dinner is set for seven-thirty, so we have just enough time. Plus, we have the wine tasting, which comes with an apéro, and all of the other dishes to prepare.”

  “Is there a planned meal?” I asked.

  “It’s right over there.” Clothilde pointed to a large chalkboard.


  My eyes scanned the menu and my heart stopped when I saw one of the entrées written in white, the words flashing like a neon light—a roasted potimarron velouté. Any early pinch of optimism I’d felt vanished. I glared at the board, blinking.

  “Ma puce, is something wrong?” asked Clothilde.

  “I don’t know if I can do this,” I said, the back of my neck covered in a thin sheet of perspiration.

  Jane let out a wicked huff.

  “Of course you can,” said Chlothilde, shooting Jane a look. “You’ve learned from the best, your grand-mère.”

  Rémi walked into the kitchen carrying a burlap sack, distracting us. He pulled down a kitchen scale from one of the shelves and, with his back to me, said, “Nearly two kilos,” then, turning on his heel like a trained marine, he stormed out of the kitchen, sack in hand.

  “He’s not very friendly,” I said under my breath, and Jane scowled at me.

  “He’s invaluable,” she said.

  “Are you a couple?” I asked, thinking they’d be perfect for one another—both of them rude, crude, and annoyingly good-looking. Jane’s ice-cold eyes flashed onto mine, but she didn’t answer. “I really hope I don’t have to see him too much,” I said.

  “Impossible,” said Phillipa. “He lives in the stone house just down the road, the one at the far end of the property, and when he’s not there, he’s always here working.”

  “Great,” I said. Just great.

  Phillipa, Clothilde, and I sauntered up to the scale. Every muscle in my body tightened. With Rémi’s attitude toward me, I wouldn’t have been surprised to find a dead rat. I picked one of the black dirt-encrusted beauties up and breathed in its earthy, sensual scent. This gift of gourmet delights, worth its weight in gold, was clearly delivered by the cooking gods.

  “D’Artagnan and Aramis are not only hunting dogs, they’re wildly talented truffle trackers,” said Phillipa.

  Thanks to the Times, I knew dogs had mostly replaced pigs years ago on the quest for truffles because they were easier to train and didn’t chow down on the fungus after they found it. Plus, if you had a pig on a leash, it advertised what the hunter was doing. And truffle territory was highly protected by those who had claimed a territory. I did the math in my head. The two kilos Rémi delivered came with a rough street value of around $7,000.

  Phillipa’s eyes dilated with truffle-drugged excitement. “Maybe we can grate a little bit into the velouté tonight? I’m thinking it would definitely raise the bar.”

  The muscles in my hand holding the black beauty went rigid. Once burned, twice shy, the last thing I wanted was for my grandmother to boot me out of her kitchen because I’d disrespected her recipes. After what went down at Cendrillon, I didn’t want to take any chances. “I don’t think it’s an ingredient in Grand-mère Odette’s recipe,” I said firmly.

  “But Grand-mère Odette says recipes are only guidelines, that being creative in the kitchen is what makes for a great chef,” said Phillipa, not backing down. “She’s inspired me and taught me to bring flavors and aromas together in complex ways, to cook using my senses. And my sense of smell is screaming that we should use the truffle in the velouté.”

  I pursed my lips, remembering Grand-mère Odette telling me the exact same thing years ago. At the time, she said she’d learned the lesson that recipes can’t be duplicated the same way exactly again, that the process, timing, and ingredients needed to be adjusted, from famed chef Jacques Pépin. Not long after this, Grand-mère Odette bought me one of his books, La Technique: An Illustrated Guide to the Fundamental Techniques of Cooking, and, when I was only ten years old, Jacques Pépin became one of my cooking idols. Throughout the years, there would be many more chefs who provided inspiration, namely female chefs making their mark, including my grand-mère and Julia Child.

  “As I recall, Grand-mère Odette added truffles to the velouté last year,” said Clothilde.

  “Then it’s settled,” said Jane, tilting her head to the side. “After all, this isn’t a Michelin restaurant being judged by consistency. Cooking isn’t linear. If we’re making something better, we are going to do so. The truffles are going in. End of discussion.”

  She just had to twist the knife in my back and mention consistency. The scene at Cendrillon flashed in my memories—the soup dripping off the walls, Eric’s smug grin, O’Shea’s anger. Clothilde tapped me on the shoulder, breaking me out of my angry trance. “Are you okay, ma puce?”

  “I’m just a bit out of my element,” I said with a gulp.

  “Long flight. Worrying over your grand-mère’s health. All this.” Clothilde swept out her arms. “Taking over this kitchen from the word go. It’s a lot of stress. We’re so very thankful you’re here to help us man the ship.”

  Jane smirked. Phillipa nudged her side.

  My finger shook like it was made of gelatin when I pointed to the board, to the potimarrons on the counter. The nape of my neck went hot. My breathing turned rapid. I couldn’t be head chef. “No, I can’t do this. I’m sorry. But I can’t.”

  “Some master chef,” said Jane, rolling her eyes. “Go ahead, leave. You couldn’t cut it at Cendrillon and you’re not going to ruin things here.”

  “Jane,” said Phillipa with a gasp. “Not appropriate.”

  My knees were about to go out from under me. They all knew. I’d thought maybe in Champvert I could escape the drama my life had become for a while. But the truth was you could never escape your past no matter how far you ran. Which was exactly what I was going to do.

  I raced out of the kitchen and straight up the servant staircase, heading for my room. Unfortunately, I’d left the door open, and I overheard Jane as I scurried up the steps, her words echoing in the stairwell. “What? Don’t look at me like that. We all read the stories, saw the videos. It’s probably best she stays out of our way. We have a business to run here.”

  “Give her a chance,” said Clothilde. “You don’t even know her. And this is a family business. She’s Grand-mère Odette’s pride and joy.”

  “I know what I read,” said Jane. “And as far as family goes, I’ve been more like a granddaughter to Odette. Sophie abandoned her, never even came back for a visit.”

  “I’m sure there’s more to the story,” said Phillipa. “We haven’t heard her side of it yet.”

  “I agree,” came Clothilde’s voice.

  “We all just saw what we saw. The way she shook and trembled,” said Jane. “She’s mad as a box of frogs—completely barmy.”

  I placed my hand on the wall, trying to find my balance. The panic attack setting in was worse than any of the others. My breath came hard and fast. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move my feet. The last thing I remembered were my knees hitting the concrete, French words and translations swimming in my head.

  Je suis tombée dans les pommes.

  I fell in the apples.

  I fainted.

  II

  winter

  Cooking is the art of adjustment.

  —JACQUES PÉPIN

  13

  the puppet master

  A WEEK HAD passed since I tumbled down the staircase. My ankle throbbed and my body was bruised from head to toe, the welts dark and purple and unforgiving like crushed blackberries rotting on the ground after being stepped on. Housekeeping came into my room, but I’d send them away. They couldn’t change the sheets on my bed when I didn’t want to get out of it. I thought of visiting with Grand-mère, but she’d only be disappointed in me because I’d let her down. Just like in New York, I stayed in my room, avoiding everybody but Clothilde, who brought me meals and updated me on my grandmother’s health, and Phillipa, who tried her best to snap me out of my funk. One morning, she brought a red poinsettia into my room.

  “It’s almost Christmas. We’re going to get into the spirit of the season,” said Phillipa, setting the pla
nt down. “What are you asking le Père Noël for?”

  “A new life,” I said with a grumble. “Nobody wants me here.”

  “I do.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  She tapped the side of her head with her finger twice. “It’s my sixth sense. I have my instincts.”

  “Is it telling you to run for the hills? To get away from impending danger?”

  “You’re funny when you’re depressed.” She snorted out a laugh and then turned serious. “I’m really sorry for what Jane said. I’m sure she didn’t mean it.”

  “What is her issue with me?” I asked, thinking Jane had meant every word she’d uttered with her holier-than-thou accent.

  “She has issues with everybody. Don’t let her get to you,” said Phillipa. “When we were children, I used to call her JJ.”

  “JJ?” I questioned.

  “Judgmental Jane,” she said with a cackle. “And she hated it. Did you faint because you overheard her?”

  “It’s not like she pushed me. I fell,” I responded. “It was an accident. And what she said was true,” I added, pulling the covers over my head.

  “I don’t think so,” said Phillipa. “Your grand-mère told me she taught you everything she knows. And if you can cook like her, you’re one of the best. So, once you’re feeling better, I, for one, can’t wait to see what you can do.”

  “I can ruin things,” I mumbled.

  Phillipa didn’t catch my pathetic comment. She pulled the duvet off my face. “What?”

  “Thank you for the plant,” I said.

  “It’s the little things in life that make us happy,” she said with a shrug.

  Although Phillipa left my room with a smile, thinking she’d cheered me up, the nightmare I left behind in New York still haunted me. I could hear O’Shea in my sleep, threatening to gut me open like a pig. I could see Eric’s twisted grin when he called me a talentless lackey. Sometimes I’d stare out the window and watch les hirondelles (barn swallows) swooping in the gray skies, executing quick and sudden turns, almost as if they were diving right to the ground. I’d wonder if they’d crash, hitting a low point, like I did. They didn’t have doctors for broken dreams or broken hearts and I didn’t know how I’d ever be fixed. My thoughts went back to New York and how I wanted to catch the first plane out of France once Grand-mère was on the mend. If I cleared my name, I could go back.