The Secret French Recipes of Sophie Valroux

by Samantha Vérant

  “Grand-mère, I’m not sure if I want the château,” I said. “I’m not even sure I’m a chef anymore. I’m nothing. I didn’t even get into cooking school on my own.”

  “Perhaps I meddled ensuring your enrollment,” she said. “But everything you did after that, you did on your own. You did graduate at the top of your class, non?”

  I did. I worked harder than anybody. I threw myself into my culinary education. I should have been happy my grandmother cared about me enough to go out on a limb for me.

  “You are like me. Cooking for you is love, and it’s all I’ve ever wanted for you. Love. Right now, you have to think about what I’ve done for you. It’s all about love.”

  “Me? I’m like you?”

  “Yes, and you are my everything. And if helping ensure your dream of going to that school was wrong, I’ll die today. But when I die, I want to see my life, our family’s life, grow and prosper. Your mother broke my heart when she left—” she started but couldn’t continue.

  I gripped her hand. “I think—no, I know—that I need to understand why she did what she did. I don’t want to end up like her. I have so many questions. Can you promise me we’ll talk about her when you’re ready?”

  “Oui, ma chérie, but let me get a bit of my strength back,” she said with a wheeze. “Please send Rémi in now. I’m quite tired and I’d like to speak with him before I fall asleep. And you, my dear, have the wedding weekend to plan. I’ve told Clothilde you will be in charge of planning the menu and all other menus to come.”

  Drowning in my self-imposed drama, I’d completely forgotten about the wedding weekend.

  “I don’t know, Grand-mère. You’re putting me under a lot of pressure.”

  “It’s good for you,” she said. “Be strong, like the woman I know you are.”

  “Why do you think I’m strong? I’m nothing lately. I’m weak—the weakest link.”

  “Are you not my granddaughter?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s how I know.”

  “But my mother—”

  “You are not your mother. And we will not be talking about her now. Please send Rémi in.”

  * * *

  On the ride home, I sat in numb silence, staring straight ahead. Rémi, per his usual surliness, didn’t say a word either, and I wondered what he and my grandmother had spoken about. Upon our arrival, the château’s iron gates loomed above, foreboding in the gray winter sky. The truck rumbled down the driveway, and when it came to a stop, I scanned the façade of the château. I wasn’t prepared for taking over all of this and didn’t know if I’d ever be. Paralyzed with shock and knowledge, I couldn’t move. Rémi opened the passenger door with a look of impatience.

  “Get out,” he said. “We’re here.”

  “Why do you hate me so much?” I asked, narrowing my eyes into a glare.

  “I don’t hate you.”

  “Could have fooled me.”

  “I just don’t like you,” he said.

  “Ditto,” I said, seething with anger.

  Rémi stormed off toward his home on the far side of the property, leaving me to hobble to the front door. The sky darkened, changing from light gray to black, and the rain came down hard. The wind whipped through the pine trees in howling whooshes. The sudden change in the weather camouflaged the tears streaming down my cheeks.

  I stared at the forbidding château, its turrets and slate roof, thinking how crazy this was. Most people of sound mind would be thrilled to inherit all of this. The thought of running away crossed my mind, but where would I go? To New York to an even bigger nightmare where I was a pariah? I didn’t want to go to my room. I didn’t want to head into the kitchen. I just wanted to be alone. The rain let up and I wandered the grounds to the river, the color a bluish gray, the water boiling and bubbling like my raging emotions. A fallen branch nicked my bad ankle. I grimaced and sank to the ground in pain—and not just physical. This water, the way it flowed and splashed against the rocks, reminded me of my mother and the fact that she was gone. Every time I thought of my mother lately, the thought of ending it all—just like she did—crossed my mind.

  A Eurasian magpie—une pie bavarde—landed on a tree, followed by a few more, their black, blue, and white feathers glistening in the rain, their tails pointing accusingly down at me, their crow-like faces and pointed beaks menacing. They squawked from the trees loudly—a chac-chac-chac—as if I was encroaching on their territory. They were one of the most intelligent birds, and I knew from my childhood summers they could become quite aggressive, especially when protecting their nests. Perhaps grand-mère was like a pie bavarde. She did say she was only trying to protect me from afar. Yet the French word bavarde meant “talkative” and, although she was being more forthright, she always evaded the subject of my mother.

  The wind howled and screeched. I could do it, end it all right here. I leaned forward and touched the ice-cold water. The birds, maybe sensing the danger looming in my mind, snapped me back into reality with a chorus of chac-chac-chacs. I shook my thoughts off and ran back to the château, the wet grass slurping under my feet.

  I wasn’t my mother. I was still alive.

  Back in my room, I sought out the few things of my mother’s that I’d kept, stuffed into the big blue suitcase. Tucked in between sparkling evening gowns, designer dresses, and her white mink coat that I probably should have stored, considering it reeked with a musty scent, I spotted her jewelry box. It was where I’d found the engagement ring I wore around my neck. It was filled to the brim with imitation diamond necklaces and bracelets. I recalled the words she used to say: “If you want to be a star, you have to look, act, and dress like a star—diamonds, rubies, sapphires, and emeralds included.”

  But she was a fake, just like her jewelry. No, I wasn’t like her. If anything, it had been my goal in life to be nothing like her. After the thoughts I’d had at the river, I knew something in me needed to change, and quick. I’d found my heart in the kitchen; it was high time for it to start beating again before I lost everything.

  16

  fight or flight

  It was just after noon when I meandered into the kitchen, glassy-eyed and limping on my bad ankle. Jane and Phillipa were eating baguettes slathered with ham and butter. I joined them. Jane stiffened when I sat down next to her. She didn’t say hello or even glance in my direction.

  “Hungry?” asked Phillipa, and I nodded. “Dig in. We have some wine, too. Don’t know which one, but it’s good.”

  “It’s the château’s 1994 dry white,” said Jane. “Really, Phillipa, you should start educating yourself if you want to be a chef.”

  “Oh, I am a chef, my darling sister,” said Phillipa, pouring me a glass and handing it over. “Sophie, this is one of the perks of working here.”

  I held up the glass to the light, swirling its golden contents around. The tears—les larmes—stuck to the side of the glass like honey. I took a sip, and a chorus of hallelujahs infiltrated my taste buds. “Wow. Delicious. So smooth.”

  Jane let out a snooty huff. Her mouth formed a tight line and the words she wanted to say but didn’t rolled in my head. “Oh, you’re such a connoisseur of wine.”

  “I’m so excited for this weekend,” said Phillipa, mumbling in between bites of her sandwich. “And I’m also glad to see you’re feeling better. Clothilde tells us you’re joining in on the madness?”

  “My grand-mère didn’t exactly give me a choice,” I said. “I’m doing this for her.”

  “You always have a choice,” said Jane. “Unless you are a programmed robot without a mind of your own.”

  The New Yorker in me wanted to tell her to go screw herself, or at least give her a hip slam so she fell off of her stool. But I refrained and made a sandwich. I couldn’t let this snotty twit get to me. I’d dealt with worse types. Like Eric.

  “Does this me
an you’re staying on in Champvert?” asked Jane.

  “The jury is still out debating that question,” I said with a shrug. “But I’m here for now. Might as well make myself useful.”

  “Brilliant,” said Jane, rolling her eyes. “Just brilliant.” She jumped off her stool, smoothed out her skirt, and sashayed away.

  “What is her freaking problem?” I mumbled.

  “It’s just Jane being Jane,” said Phillipa.

  “Maybe she should try on a new persona, because I want to slap the snot right out of her,” I said, immediately regretting the words that had tumbled from my mouth. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. She’s your twin sister.”

  “My evil twin sister.” She laughed. “And, really, no worries. There have been days when I’ve thought the same thing. She didn’t used to be such a snob. I think your grand-mère might have given her too much power and, ever since then, she’s been on a power trip.” Phillipa let out a sad sigh. “I miss the old Jane. She was sweet and nice, warm and bubbly.”

  I couldn’t imagine this fictional Jane. Not even for a second. “Does life at the château change people?”

  “Only if you’re Jane. I’m still me, the wacky girl from a small village in England,” said Phillipa.

  “Do you ever miss your life in Bibury?” I asked, wondering if I missed New York. At first, the silence of the countryside comforted me. Now, it just made me feel alone and disconnected. I missed the busy streets, the fast-paced life, the way people said exactly what was on their minds instead of throwing in digs, like Jane, or dancing around a subject, like my grand-mère, that made them uncomfortable.

  “I did at first,” she said. “When I first moved here, I felt completely out of my element. I think moving to a foreign country has stages. You have the honeymoon stage, where everything is perfect, followed by culture shock, isolation, acceptance, and, finally, integration.”

  I picked at my fingernails, massacring my cuticles. Phillipa grabbed my hands. “You shouldn’t do that.”

  “I know, I know. It’s a nasty habit,” I said, tucking my hands under my thighs. “Do you think it’s possible to skip the honeymoon stage? Because I’m only feeling culture shock and isolation right now.”

  “Sophie, you came back under very hard circumstances.”

  A huge part of me wanted to like it here. But I was being pulled in so many directions I felt as if I’d fall apart—like a dog’s chew toy. “Does it get easier?”

  “I think it took me about five or six months to get into the swing of things. My true happiness—that bingo moment—came when your grand-mère hired me. I started on the waitstaff, and then she tested me to see if I had any talent in the kitchen because the château was getting busier and busier.”

  “Of course she tested you,” I said. And I was being tested as well, only if I failed it would kill her. I wasn’t going to be responsible for that. I already had enough guilt. “What did she make you do?”

  “She asked me to make something French. I made crêpes, although we Brits call them pancakes. Et voilà. That’s my story. But I’m tired of talking about me. I’m boring.” She leaned forward and whispered, “Look, now that we’re alone I wanted to ask you about what happened. Because I have a feeling.”

  “A feeling about what?”

  “You. It’s my instincts.” She tapped her forehead with her index finger twice. “There are two sides to every story and I haven’t heard yours,” Phillipa said, her eyebrows lifting. “Care to share what really happened in New York?”

  I nodded, head down. Perhaps confiding in Phillipa would make me feel better. Plus, I liked her. I shared my sorry tale and Phillipa’s eyes filled with tears. “I knew it,” she said. “I knew something was up.” She paused. “This Eric sounds like he has narcissistic personality disorder. What he did and said to you? How he brought you down to bring himself up? It’s a real sickness. And, seriously, if you’re such an appalling chef, why did he want you to work for him?”

  “I’ve been wondering the same thing,” I said with a shrug. “I don’t know.”

  “Oh, I know why. He needed you because you’re better than him—more talented.”

  “I’m not so sure about that. I’ve lost my way in the kitchen.”

  “Then it’s time to find your way back,” she said with force. “I don’t know him from Adam, but I want to kill Eric for what he did to you.”

  “Me, too,” I said, but then thought of what Walter had said. “But, instead of going postal, I’m going to sit back and let karma do her job.”

  “I hope karma is a raging lunatic and a ball-busting bitch.”

  “I said almost the exact same thing to a friend of mine.”

  Our eyes locked and we burst out laughing. For the first time in weeks, I laughed so hard I almost fell down. Phillipa clasped my arm before I did. In between gasps and wheezes, I managed to say, “Thank you, Phillipa. I needed this pep talk.”

  “Good,” said Phillipa. “What have you got planned?”

  “I don’t even know where to begin.” Every cooking failure I’d had flashed before my eyes. I wanted to tell Phillipa everything—all my deepest, darkest secrets. I also didn’t want to scare her away. She held my one chance at friendship here. I’d said enough. I didn’t want to lose her with my wavering insecurities.

  “Well, thankfully we’ve got three days to figure it out. Two five-course meals—one on Friday night, which will be a fish. And the other on Saturday, which will be typical meals of the region—probably duck and beef, along with an apéro for both evenings.”

  “Who is in charge of what around here?” I asked. I had no clue. “I kind of skipped out before . . .”

  “I don’t blame you. I would have gone running for the hills, too.”

  “You would have?”

  “Holy merde, yes,” she said, and the tension wrapping my entire body unwound.

  “Tell me what to do.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, you. You know your way around here. I don’t know where to turn.” I raised my hands with resignation. “I know nothing. I’m at your disposal.”

  “After planning the courses, the three plats principaux and side dishes will fall to you, me, and Clothilde. I’m not too skilled when it comes to seafood. And it wasn’t until your grandmother went to the hospital that I took on the main courses, but Clothilde has needed my help.” She paused to catch her breath. “The granny brigade is in charge of entrées and the apéro. Gustave, once he’s finished with lunch service at Le Papillon Sauvage, is our king of desserts. His creations are simply to die for.”

  “Okay, great,” I said. I could do this. It was a no-brainer. “Sounds easy enough and organized.”

  “So, now that you have the four-one-one, do you know where you’d like to start?”

  There I was relying on Phillipa and she still needed my guidance. For the first time in ages, I felt useful—not useless. I needed to get my head in the right place. She helped me to whisk away my problems and focus on the task at hand.

  “I haven’t worked with duck for a while, but I can handle a bœuf bourguignon, and fish is my specialty,” I said, thinking fish used to be my specialty. Doubt still weighed on my mind. But I wanted to do this. I needed to do this. Get yourself together, Sophie. Make your grandmother proud. Make yourself proud.

  “What will we have in regards to seafood?” I asked, my voice a bit shaky.

  “The poissonnier is delivering some of his beautiful daurades and scallops.”

  I let out a sigh of relief. “Perfect. If there’s anything I can handle, it’s sea bream, lovely and light,” I said, nodding my head. I needed to do this. “It’s winter. Fennel is in season, yes?” I asked, thinking about what would plate well with the duck, and she nodded.

  “Pomegranate? And hazelnuts?”

  “Of course,” said Phillipa,
rubbing her hands together. “I can’t wait to see what you’ve got up your sleeve.”

  That would make two of us. What was I going to do with the daurade? Something simple like daurade with almonds and a romesco sauce? Did the kitchen even have almonds? The more I thought about this recipe, the more boring it sounded. Roasted daurade with lemon and herbs? Again, typical. I had an opportunity to create something special, something out of this world, on my own terms. I wanted to get creative and do something colorful, playing with the colors of winter and whatever was in season. My imagination raced with all of the possibilities—a slideshow in my mind presenting delicious temptations. A crate of oranges caught my eye. I licked my lips—a light sweet potato purée infused with orange. Braised cabbage. Seared daurade filets. Saffron. The colors, ingredients, and plating came together in my mind. “Do we have edible flowers?”

  “I take it you haven’t ventured into the greenhouse?”

  I hadn’t.

  Phillipa took my arm, helping me off the stool. “Grab a basket on the way out and let’s head over there for some divine inspiration.” She glanced at my ankle. “Can you walk?”

  “You know what? I’ve got one good leg,” I said. Fight or flight.

  Although winter was upon us, the grounds remained vibrant and green in some parts, golden in others. A large garden with a sea of waxy oranges, greens, and beiges surrounded the greenhouse. I shuddered as I eyed the round potimarrons, wondering if I’d ever be able to put Cendrillon behind me, and when. I blinked, focusing on the other winter squashes, like butternut, acorn, and spaghetti.

  “Jane handles most of the gardening,” said Phillipa.

  “I can’t imagine her getting her hands dirty.”

  “She may be a pain in the butt, but she’s got a green thumb. She’s even our head beekeeper. Toward the back of the property are the ruches,” said Phillipa, pointing. “See those wooden boxes? They’re a bit quiet now, but in the summer and spring, they buzz with bees, the noise so loud it’s deafening.”