The Secret French Recipes of Sophie Valroux

by Samantha Vérant

  I reached into my purse and pulled out my phone to text Walter—something I’d forgotten to do. The second I switched my cell phone off airplane mode, more than twenty alerts came in, beeping incessantly.

  Walter: Did you get in okay? How is your grandmother?

  Walter: I haven’t heard from you. Text me!

  Walter: Where are you? I’m getting worried.

  I quickly texted Walter back: I’m so sorry I haven’t gotten in touch with you. I’m here. Grand-mère is still in the hospital, but doing better. Me? I feel like I’m on another planet. Lots to fill you in on. I’ll call you later. Xox

  Walter: Great news! Robert has moved in with us! We have to store a few things in your room until we figure out where to put them. Let us know when you’re coming home and we’ll sort things out before then.

  Home. I couldn’t move back to New York without a job and become a freeloading roommate to a couple starting their lives together. Home? I felt as if I didn’t have one anymore, that I was just an unwelcome visitor.

  At the very least, my bedroom—a large suite comprised of a salon with a fireplace, a children’s nursery, a bedroom, and a bathroom—was familiar and, after everything I’d seen and experienced so far, I needed a dash of familiarity. I regarded the same faded damask wallpaper; the same queen-sized wooden bed with the same green jacquard comforter; the faded, milky Aubusson carpet with floral patterns.

  A couple of weeks after my failure in the kitchen, Clothilde barged into my room without knocking. “Ma puce,” she said, “you’ve gotten your rest. It’s time for you to join the world again.”

  I rolled over and pushed my face into my pillow, muffling my voice. “You’re all doing fine without me in the picture.”

  “We all know of the troubles you had in New York. It’s time for you to get over it.” Clothilde rolled me over to face her. “Now get up and get on with your life.”

  “I don’t think I will ever get over it.”

  She placed a loving hand on my shoulder. “Maybe your difficulty is our gain. You are here now and your grandmother—all of us—are depending on you.” She held me in her gaze, a look that said “no messing around.”

  “How is she?” I asked with a sniffle.

  “I’m glad you asked. She’s doing better than you are right now,” she said. “But like her, you have the fire of the Valroux de la Tour de Champverts running through your veins.”

  I wasn’t so sure about that. All I knew was that I’d gone down in flames—not once, but twice.

  “Such a long, ridiculous last name,” I said. “No wonder my mother shortened it when we moved to New York.”

  “Your grand-mère says the same thing, which is the reason she insists most people call her Grand-mère Odette.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “But in France, the longer the name, the more it proves just how noble you are.”

  “I’m not noble,” I said. “I’m a coward. I didn’t stay to fight for my honor. I ran away.”

  “You didn’t run away. You came back to Champvert to serve a greater purpose. You’re here for your grandmother, for your family. That’s a big difference. I’d get used to the idea, and quick. You’re home now and you are surrounded by people who support and love you.” She clucked her tongue. “Stop playing the victim like a petulant child and get out of bed. This is Champvert, not New York. Tomorrow, I expect for you to be up and dressed by nine a.m. I’m taking you to see your grand-mère. Or did you forget you came here for her?”

  With that, she spun on her heel and left, leaving me in my thoughts and feeling guilty.

  My teddy bear sat on a chair. Large, fuzzy, and brown like caramelized sugar, Bearnard was my “here” bear. Grand-mère Odette wouldn’t let me take him back to New York, no matter how much I begged and pleaded. I picked up Bearnard and hugged him to my chest, smelling a very faint hint of lavender, the scent of my childhood.

  * * *

  I was nine years old when I harvested the lavender with my grandmother. She’d explained that she’d purchased her plants in Provence, on a route where a sea of purple flowers bloom in mid-June. She’d told me of the beauty, how she wanted to bring it back to Champvert so she could add it to her special homemade mix of herbes de Provence, and promised to take me to the Routes de la Lavande so I could see and experience the magic myself. I’d asked if we could go the following day, and she’d smiled and said, “Pourquoi pas.” We packed a picnic lunch of homemade baguettes with ham, butter, and Emmental cheese along with a large container of cherries in the early morning and drove the six hours in her Mercedes, passing fields of happy sunflowers along the way.

  “This was the last trip I took with your grand-père before he left us for the angels,” she said. “We’ll stay in the same château.” She patted my hand. “Roll down your window, breathe in the air, ma chérie. We’re almost there.”

  The car rounded a corner and the landscape was just as she’d described it, the air strongly perfumed. Fields upon fields of lavender plants, sometimes offset with sunflowers or poppies, burst over the rolling terrain, the colors and scents so vibrant they took my breath away. Grand-mère stopped the car on the side of the road in front of a small shack selling goods like oils, bouquets, and Provençal textiles. I stood in awe, excited like the many bees buzzing through the flowers. It was here Grand-mère had purchased my teddy bear and her poppy apron.

  Smiling wistfully at the memory, I inhaled Bearnard, letting the soothing effects of lavender calm my nerves down. With the bear tucked under my arm, regardless of everything, I thought of my grandmother and how I had to pull myself together for her, which Clothilde had reminded me of when she called me petulant.

  But Clothilde was right. And I’d promised her I’d snap out of this funk; I was going to keep my word, no matter how uncomfortable I felt.

  * * *

  As I dressed the following day, I looked out my window, surveying the land, the buildings, and the beautiful gardens, feeling out of place. Perhaps it was time for me to try to fit in. I threw on a navy-blue midi dress with long sleeves that tied at the waist, and never wrinkled—the one I’d worn for Walter’s mother’s lunches—and my one and only pair of black ballerina flats. With no guests wandering around the château, I wanted to explore before Clothilde took me to see my grandmother, and I found myself in the hallway standing in front of an elevator, blinking back my astonishment. I pressed the call button and the doors opened. The interior of the compartment was elegant and sleek and modern, the kind you’d find in an upscale hotel in New York or Paris, with burgundy leather walls adorned with Chesterfield buttons, a modern stainless steel chandelier, and LED lights. Music played. Bach.

  I knew my grandmother came from money, but I didn’t know she had this kind of money.

  In France, the ground floor is the rez-de-chaussée. Instead of heading to the kitchen, I made my way to the third floor—which was actually the fourth, a fact that still didn’t quite register in my American mind—one floor up from mine, and also where my grandmother’s suite was located. I exited the lift and ambled down the hall. A member of the housekeeping staff—dressed in a pale gray dress with a crisp white shirt and carrying a bucket of cleaning supplies—rushed by and whispered a quick, “Bonjour, madame.” She swung a heavy wooden door open and I couldn’t help but peek into the room.

  “Holy merde,” was all I could utter.

  There was an Italian-style bathroom, including a shower and large Jacuzzi tub made of beautiful white French marble with thin gray veins. Billowy white curtains surrounded a beautiful, ornate wrought iron bed, and on the mattress made up with white French linens were white flower petals. The floors in this room were inlaid marble, red and black. The windows opened to the Juliet balcony. There was so much open space I could have done a cartwheel if I wasn’t such a klutz.

  My grand-mère’s suite was locked, but I opened up a few more doors to find that every
room in the château was just as grand and beautiful. I explored each floor, finally making my way down to the rez-de-chaussée, where complete shock set in. The entire space had been renovated into a hammam spa and decorated with intricate blue, green, and ivory Moroccan tiles. I don’t know what surprised me most—the two small pools or the bubbling Jacuzzi or the rooms overflowing with orchids and set up with massage tables. When I wasn’t rubbing my eyes with disbelief, I was trying to catch my breath. My grand-mère had created an empire, but how vast was it?

  With my curiosity piqued, before I headed to the kitchen to look through grand-mère’s notebooks, I meandered into my grandmother’s office. The room was as opulent and refined as the rest of the château. Dark paneled walls. Beautiful paintings. A large Louis XIV desk with a red leather top and gilded accents on the wood, complete with a matching chair. On the desk sat her computer—an iMac with a twenty-seven-inch screen.

  On the wall above the desk hung a diploma from Le Cordon Bleu. I gasped and looked closer at the date: 1994. Wow. My grand-mère had attended France’s premier culinary school a year after I was born? Why hadn’t she told me about this? This piece of information made me realize I didn’t know anything about her life—not really. I knew she loved to cook. I knew she loved me. But that was about it. I wanted to know more.

  I fired up her computer. There were three log-in accounts—one for Jane, one for my grand-mère, and one for a guest. I opted for my grand-mère’s account, trying Sophie1993, the code I’d found when it slipped from the kitchen notebooks, not sure what I was doing or exactly what I was looking for. In the corner of the screen, a dozen email alerts came in, my eyes darting to flashing blue squares. My legs were about to go out from under me when I saw his address pop up: kitchengod1990@gmail.com. Eric had emailed my grand-mère? What? And why? I’d forgotten she’d met him when I’d graduated from the CIA. Afterward, we’d eaten dinner at Cendrillon NY, as I’d wanted to show her the restaurant where I’d be working. I knew going through somebody’s email was wrong, but so was corresponding with the devil.

  Shaking with confusion, I sat down, opened up her mail, and read through the thread.

  From: KitchenGod

  To: Château de Champvert

  Subject: Your Granddaughter

  Date: 1 octobre 2019

  Dear Madame Valroux de la Tour de Champvert—

  I don’t know if you remember me, but I met you in New York when Sophie graduated from the Culinary Institute of America. As you know, we lived together for two years and then we broke up, due to my arrogant ways. I’m opening a new restaurant called Blackbird in a few months and I’d like her to come work for me. She’s one of the best chefs de partie in the city. But she won’t listen to me. If you have any advice on how to convince her, I’d really appreciate it. Sophie and I make a great team.

  Many thanks,

  Eric

  From: Château de Champvert

  To: KitchenGod

  Subject: Re: Your Granddaughter

  Date: 7 octobre 2019

  My granddaughter, like all the women in our family, is a very independent woman—fierce, strong, and stubborn. If you are serious about wanting to convince her heart to work with you, she’d need to depend on you.

  Bonne chance.

  From: KitchenGod

  To: Château de Champvert

  Subject: Re: Your Granddaughter

  Date: 30 novembre 2019

  Dear Madame Valroux de la Tour de Champvert—

  I took your advice, but Sophie won’t have anything to do with me. Is she in France? I need to speak with her.

  Many thanks,

  Eric

  Reeling with mixed emotions, I searched through her account, finding a folder called “Letters for Sophie” with emails addressed to the Culinary Institute of America—letters of recommendation for my admittance from famous chefs, including Jean-Jacques Gaston, O’Shea’s mentor. He’d also ensured I got the stage at Cendrillon.

  Strings. There they were. My grand-mère was a puppet master and I felt like a little marionette. I also felt terrible. My grandmother had helped me achieve my dreams from afar, even though she wanted me back in France. And I was an ingrate. Putting the confusion I had about her correspondance with Eric to the side, I felt dizzy with guilt and placed my head in my hands.

  A huff came from the doorway, and I flinched when I looked up.

  “You’re not supposed to be in here,” said Jane. She placed her hands on her hips, her eyes locking onto mine. The veins in her neck pulsed and throbbed.

  “I needed to use the computer,” I said, quitting out of Grand-mère’s email and logging out.

  “You have the password?” she asked.

  “I logged on as a guest.”

  Jane postured herself like a peacock defending its territory. “Next time, use one of the computers in the business center. I have work to do,” she said, eyeing me warily. “Clothilde is waiting for you in the kitchen.”

  “Then I guess I should go,” I said.

  “I guess you should.”

  14

  poker face

  Although my head still pounded with the information I’d just learned, I set off for the kitchen for my date with Clothilde. Until I spoke with my grand-mère, I needed to keep my wits about me and put my best game face on. Clothilde had been nothing but nice to me. I couldn’t begrudge her. She was rummaging through cabinets, mumbling to herself.

  “Bonjour,” I said, forcing the best smile I could muster. “What are you looking for?”

  “Cumin,” she said, her tone frazzled. She threw her hands in the air. “I wanted to make Bernard a tajine tonight and I don’t have any at our home. And you can’t make a tajine without cumin, ginger, and turmeric. It’s the trifecta of ingredients—like a mirepoix.”

  “Moroccan?”

  “No, Algerian. Bernard and I were, as they call us, pieds-noirs. We lived there during the French rule in the late fifties.” She sighed. “We’d just married and we were so young then. He was in the military, tu vois?” She flipped her red curls with her hand. “We moved back to France after the war ended in 1962. Times were tough, but Bernard, hélas, still loves his tajines.”

  I did, too. A tajine was a spice-infused Maghreb dish named after the earthenware pot in which it is cooked. I hadn’t had one since I was twelve. Grand-mère had introduced me to a few international recipes, wanting to expand my cultural horizons.

  I shuffled around the kitchen, found the cumin, and handed it over.

  “Oh, thank you, ma puce,” she said, her smile bright. “Did you look outside? It’s snowing!”

  I glanced at the window. Giant powdered-sugar flakes of snow tumbled from the sky, sticking to the ground, the trees weighed down with frosty cream. In a few hours, the whole world had changed and everything was covered in white—like a clean slate. It was the most beautiful scene I’d ever witnessed, like a fairy tale or a snow globe, but unlike a snow globe, my life had been shaken up and nothing had settled. I wanted a clean slate.

  “Ma puce,” said Clothilde, “put on a coat or you’ll catch a cold.” She glanced at my feet. “And you might want to wear a pair of boots. There are some in the closet about your size. Can you manage with your ankle?”

  I’d forgotten about my ankle. Oddly, it didn’t hurt too much unless I twisted it to the right. I headed to the closet in the hall, kicked off my flats, and pulled on some rubber wellies. After grabbing my coat, I asked, “Are we off to see grand-mère so soon?”

  “No, not quite yet. Bernard is meeting us at Le Papillon Sauvage for breakfast.”

  “Oh, Bernard, I’m dying to see him. How is he?”

  Clothilde closed her eyes, a wistful smile carving on her lips. “Wonderful, as always. Even after fifty years of marriage it still feels like yesterday,” she said. “On y va?”

  I nodded. “Yes, let’s
go.”

  “Follow me,” she said, turning toward the back door.

  I followed her outside, nearly slipping on the rocky steps. “The other restaurant in the barn? Can you tell me about it?”

  “There’s not much to it. Le Papillon Sauvage serves simple country food at a fixed price,” said Clothilde. “Last year, the restaurant received an award from Michelin.” She cackled. “Eh ben, I’ve never understood what tires have to do with food.”

  My heart skipped a few beats. “Did you say ‘Michelin’?”

  Before she could answer, I jumped through the snow and raced to the barn. The sign was plastered right on the front door. Le Papillon Sauvage had received a Bib Gourmand. Not quite the same as gaining Michelin stars, this honor was reserved for restaurants serving exceptional meals at moderate prices. According to the framed menu hanging in the window, one could eat here for the price of twenty-nine euros, including wine from the château’s vineyards.

  With my heart galloping like a herd of wild and unruly horses, I opened the front door and walked into the space, taking everything in, one breathless gulp at a time. Rustic and charming, the restaurant screamed country French. Porcelain roosters and chickens adorned the long, wooden community-style tables with bench seating. Wrought iron lighting fixtures. Aged wine barrels and other antiquities like an old oak washing tub in the corner. Copper pots hanging from a rack. An open and well-equipped kitchen. A wood-burning oven. Antique transfer plates in various shades of blue hanging on the brick walls along with lithograph prints of butterflies.