The Secret French Recipes of Sophie Valroux

by Samantha Vérant

  We opened the door and walked from a chilly December afternoon into the almost tropical humidity of the greenhouse. My eyes widened at this jungle of freshness, the earth on the ground. The back wall, around thirty feet high, burst with terra-cotta pots filled with every herb imaginable—basil, thyme, coriander, parsley, oregano, dill, rosemary, and lavender. There were tomatoes of almost every variety beaming with colors of red, dark purple, yellow, and green. Lemon trees. Avocados. Lettuces, like roquette and feuille de chêne. Zucchinis and eggplants. Fennel, celeriac, artichokes, and cucumbers. Leeks, asparagus, cabbages, and shallots, oh my.

  I exhaled a happy breath. This explosion of color, this climate-controlled greenhouse, was every chef’s idea of heaven. I ran my hands over the leaves of a cœur de bœuf tomato plant and brought my fingers to my nose, breathing in the grassy and fragrant aroma, an unmistakable scent no other plant shared. All of the smells from my summers in France surrounded me under one roof. As the recipes Grand-mère taught me when I was a child ran through my head, my heart pumped with happiness, a new vitality. I picked a Black Krim, which was actually colored a dark reddish purple with greenish brown shoulders, and bit into it. Sweet with just a hint of tartness. Exactly how I summed up my feelings.

  I darted around the greenhouse, climbing up ladders to clip fresh herbs on the best of culinary missions. After picking some endive and arugula, I turned to Phillipa. “This place is absolutely incredible,” I said, and added a handful of edible flowers to my now full basket.

  “I know, right?” said Phillipa. “Do you have everything you need?”

  I looked to my left, then my right. “I believe I do.”

  Clothilde was slicing potatoes with a mandoline when we returned to the kitchen. She dabbed the sweat off her brow with a kitchen towel. “Oh, Sophie, you’re here! Wonderful! I’m preparing your dinner,” she said.

  “Don’t worry about me,” I said. “I can do it.”

  “Ma petite puce, you have enough on your plate,” she said with a no-nonsense stance. “How is your grand-mère?”

  “She’s doing better. We’re hoping she’ll be home before Christmas,” I said.

  “That’s the best news I’ve heard all day.” Clothilde wandered over to a corner, returning with my grandmother’s poppy-print apron. “I think she’d want you to wear this.”

  As I held the fabric up to my nose, my grand-mère’s scent of cinnamon and nutmeg mixed in with aromas of lavender and Chanel No. 5 washed over me. I almost lost it. Every scent of my happy childhood hit me in waves, nearly pulling me under. But this scent—her scent—offered comfort, as if she were right here in the room wrapping me in one of her hugs.

  “Have you planned the menu?” asked Clothilde. “After all, it’s your kitchen.”

  “I have a few ideas—there’s so much beautiful produce in season.” I clenched my teeth. I was being thrown into the fire feetfirst. “But this isn’t my kitchen.”

  Again, my grandmother’s words rang in my ears. I shut my eyes, trying to keep panic from taking over.

  After I die, the château will be yours.

  “Look at the apron you’re wearing—it’s the one reserved for the head chef.”

  I glanced at the apron, holding out the edges. This kitchen, although changed from what I’d remembered, felt like home. My heart beat with excitement. People were counting on me, and I was going to do everything in my power not to screw anything up. By Clothilde’s expectant expression, I knew my grandmother had set up my immersion into the kitchen, and I wasn’t going to fail her. Along with fresh produce, a spark of happiness ignited my heart. Wanting to stoke the fire, I couldn’t wait to get cooking. This was exactly what I needed.

  The first course would be an amuse-bouche, a little taste setting up the flavors to come, a way to whet the palate. The entrée was always the second course. Unlike in the States, where we referred to this dish as the main plate, in France it was more of a small dish, more substantial than an amuse-bouche. I’d heard of many Americans ordering an “entrée” in France, only to be disappointed with the small size of the portion. What they really had intended on ordering was un plat, or un plat principal—the main course. All of this, bien sûr, would be followed by a cheese course or a salad (depending on the menu) and capped off by an exquisite dessert. After much thought and almost wearing out the floor from my frenetic pacing, I came up with a doable menu and stepped up to the board.

  MENU

  L’AMUSE-BOUCHE

  Pan-Seared Scallops wrapped in Jambon Sec and Prunes with a Balsamic Glaze

  L’ENTRÉE

  Pan-Seared Foie Gras with a Spiced Citrus Purée, served with Candied Orange Peel and Fresh Greens

  OU

  Velouté of Butternut Squash with Truffle Oil

  LE PLAT PRINCIPAL

  Bœuf Bourguignon à la Maison served with a Terrine of Sarladaise Potatoes

  OU

  Canard à l’Orange served with a Terrine of Sarladaise Potatoes along with Braised Fennel, garnished with Pomegrante Seeds and Grilled Nuts

  OU

  Filet of Daurade (Sea Bream) served over a Sweet Potato Purée and Braised Cabbage

  LA SALADE ET LE FROMAGE

  Arugula and Endive Salad served with Rosemary-Encrusted Goat Cheese Toasts, garnished with Pomegranate and Clementine, along with a Citrus-Infused Dressing

  LE DESSERT

  Poached Pears in Spiced Red Wine with Vanilla Ice Cream

  When I finished marking up the menu, I wiped the chalk off my hands and looked to Clothilde for her approval. “Do we have everything? Do you foresee any problems?” I asked. “Should I change anything?”

  Clothilde stood silent for a moment, her lips pinched together. My nerves were about to go haywire until she smiled. “It’s a beautiful menu, one your grandmother would be proud of,” she said, scribbling notes. “Time to type them up and print them out on the beautiful linen paper for the guests and Bernard so he can plan the wine pairings.”

  I blew out a sigh of relief.

  Jane swaggered into the kitchen with her perfect French twist and twisted smile. She eyed the board. “Lovely menu,” she said. “Clothilde, I’m assuming you planned it.”

  “No, it’s all Sophie’s doing,” she said.

  Jane’s eyes met mine. “I see. Well, I hope you can pull it off.” She glanced at my sneakers. “We don’t need a repeat of the runaway chef.”

  I bit down on my tongue as she turned on her kitten heel and left. I knew she was trying to throw me off my game; I just didn’t know why.

  All I needed to do was push back any panic, breathe, and focus. So, it took the death of my career and Grand-mère Odette’s stroke to get me here, but there was an unforeseen benefit. As I surveyed the kitchen—this perfect kitchen—with the excitement I felt rushing through my veins, I knew the scars left from Cendrillon would eventually heal. My cooking mojo: it was coming back to life. I could only hope the same for grand-mère.

  17

  poached pears and a poached chef

  On Friday afternoon, the granny brigade and Gustave arrived early, and after a round of les bises and chatting about days gone by from the last time they saw me at the age of thirteen, the kitchen buzzed with activity. I was almost feeling back to my old self. The distraction that came with cooking—really cooking—was exactly what I’d needed to move my mind to a better place.

  This was by far the strangest kitchen staff on the planet, or at least in this corner of France. Gustave, an older man in his sixties with a scruffy beard and wild red-tinged eyes, sipped on a bottle of pastis, a potent anise-flavored liquor, as he poached the pears for the dessert. Most people mixed pastis with water in a glass, but, clearly, Gustave cut straight to the punch. The gray-haired granny brigade, comprising les Dames Truffaut, Bouchon, Pélissier, and Moreau, were all dressed similarly to
Clothilde, although their shoes were not covered with ladybugs, and they chatted away like chickens as they deveined livers for the foie gras and prepared the entrées, occasionally dropping a few. They all sat on stools. Add in the English twin and me, the American, and we were one motley crew.

  “Phillipa?” I asked when we finished prepping. “Where do I find the fish?”

  “They’re in the walk-in on ice.” My head darted in every direction. I didn’t know this kitchen that well. When my face pinched with confusion, Phillipa broke into a grin and said, “Come on, I’ll show you around.”

  * * *

  After a quick refresher tour, we lugged out the crate filled with the daurade, and hoisted it on the prep table. I pulled one out, surveying it. Known as gilt-head bream in the United States, this fish was found in the Mediterranean Sea and the eastern region of the Atlantic Ocean. Needless to say, I knew this fish well. I’d often prepared the dark, silver beauty at Cendrillon. I let out a loud sigh, trying to suppress the nightmare. I unrolled my knife case, the steel blades glistening in the sunlight. My hands shook as I grabbed one of the custom knives my grand-mère had given me when I’d graduated from the CIA. If anything, I was cooking for grand-mère tonight. I had something to prove, not only to her but also to myself.

  Phillipa tapped my shoulder. “You okay?”

  I’m fine, just zoning out.” I brushed my hands on my apron and snapped to attention. By Phillipa’s eager expression, she needed some guidance. “Have you ever filleted a fish?” I asked.

  “No,” she said. “But I’d love to learn. I’m usually just prepping vegetables and the like. After all, I didn’t go to a cookery school. I started out on the waitstaff and I’m ready and willing to learn whatever you’re willing to teach me. Your grand-mère doesn’t like people looking over her shoulder. She’s like a dog guarding a prized bone with her kitchen secrets. Aside from Clothilde, we’re lucky if she lets us glance at her kitchen notebooks.”

  “Filleting a fish isn’t exactly a kitchen secret,” I said, nodding perfunctorily. I handed Phillipa a knife and a set of kitchen gloves. “First, lay the fish on the table, holding it by the tail. Using your knife, scrape, starting at the tail and moving toward the head. Good. Now we run the slippery sucker under water,” I said, and we did. “Okay, it’s time to empty out the organs. Make a cut, slicing into the belly of the fish like this. Ready for the fun part?”

  “Ready as I’ll ever be,” she said, grimacing.

  * * *

  Phillipa’s faith in me had bolstered my confidence, and we set to work.

  When we finished filleting, Clothilde handed me one of my grandmother’s kitchen notebooks, the pages with the recipes for the bœuf bourguignon and canard à l’orange bookmarked with a red ribbon.

  “I’m not the young girl I used to be,” she said. “I could use a little help gathering the ingredients for the canard à l’orange.”

  While I searched for Clothilde’s ingredients, I found a few bottles of juniper eau-de-vie in the dry storage area, nestled among hundreds of glass jam jars filled with Grand-mère Odette’s homemade compotes—fig, cherry, apple, strawberry, apricot, raspberry, pear, and peach. When he saw me gripping the eau-de-vie, Gustave’s eyes lit up and he raced over, scooping the bottle from my grip. I gave him a look.

  “Pffff. C’était moi qui l’ai fait.” (It was me who made it.) He unscrewed the cap, chugged a sip, and then knocked his chest with his fist. Gustave held out the bottle. “Essaye-le.” (Try it.)

  “Juste un petit goût” (Just a little taste), I said. The moment I took my little drop of a sip, the alcohol burned my throat. So potent, this was the kind of alcohol that could put hair on your chest. I hacked out a cough and my hands flew to my throat. Fire water.

  “Ah, oui, c’est bon,” he said.

  I coughed. “Did my grandmother hide the bottles from you?”

  “Bien sûr,” said Gustave. “But what was lost is now found.” He walked away, bottle in hand.

  An hour later, Clothilde walked up just as I was finishing the sauce for the fish. I held out a spoon. “Taste this.”

  “Impeccable,” she said. “You have your grand-mère’s talent. Maybe even better. You’ve done her proud.”

  I let out the breath I’d been holding in. “How are the potato terrines and canard à l’orange coming along?”

  “Absolutely fine! Everything is prepped for the duck and it will mijoter for two hours, so I have about an hour before cook time. I just need to sauté the potatoes for the side dish in duck fat and parsley, season them, and place them in their individual baking dishes. Perhaps while I finish up you could check in on the rest of the staff?”

  Hesitantly, I walked up to Gustave.

  As if reading my mind, he said, “Dessert is almost complete. The pears are chilling in the frigo and then I’m going to take a nap,” he said. “But before I do, come, I made one for you to taste, like I always do for your grand-mère Odette.”

  He placed the dish in front of me and I almost fell down from the shock. Gustave had created a work of art and I hadn’t even realized he’d worked so quickly; I thought he’d only peeled the pears. He’d plated one of the desserts in a beautiful glass bowl, complete with what he said was the homemade vanilla bean ice cream he’d made the previous night, and garnished the pear with the sauce, a cinnamon stick, sprigs of thyme, vanilla bean pods, and pomegranate seeds.

  “The sauce?” I asked, dipping in my spoon.

  “Vanilla bean seeds, red wine, sugar, and nutmeg,” he said. “If there’s anything I know, it’s how to make sauces with wine.”

  I dipped my spoon in and tasted it. Oh my God, heaven on my tongue. I eyed him warily.

  “You really do know sauces. It’s simply delicious,” I said. “But I taste a few more ingredients? Orange? Star anise? A dash or two of pastis, maybe?”

  “Your palate is just like your grandmother’s. I can never get anything past her either.” He laughed and added a whole star anise to the garnish. “Do you like it?”

  “What’s not to like? It’s perfectly delicious and beautifully brilliant.”

  Gustave let out a hearty laugh and slapped me on the back. “It is, isn’t it?”

  Who would have thought the town drunk would be a maestro in the kitchen? By the end of the evening, we’d have poached pears and a poached chef.

  * * *

  When I wasn’t dropping utensils or tripping over my two feet, the rest of the evening went by without a hitch. Somehow everything worked. There were no uniforms—no toques, no ugly checkered pants. And, oddly, there was only one man. It was an alternative cooking universe to what I’d grown accustomed to, and I enjoyed every moment, every second.

  Sébastien, one of the servers and, apparently, also the caller, alerted us when the guests were seated in the main dining room for dinner service. He yelled out orders, tucking sheets of paper in the rack. My heart nearly stopped when he said, “We have a full house and it seems most of the guests are ordering the daurade tonight—twenty-seven out of forty plates.”

  “We just need to focus,” I said, mostly to myself. “It’s go time.”

  Phillipa and I plated the amuse-bouche and set out the entrées. An hour later, it was time for le plat principal. I wiped the sweat off my brow. “The sweet potato purée is ready. I wanted to show you how to prepare the daurade. First, into two pans, melt a little butter and add a dash of olive oil so the butter doesn’t burn. Add some minced garlic into one of them; it’s for the cabbage. Sauté for two minutes.” I paused. “Am I moving too fast for you?”

  “No,” she said.

  “Rub the fish with lemon and parsley. Season with herbes de Provence and a bit of ground pepper.” I slid four daurade filets into one pan. “Cooking fish can be tricky. You don’t want it to cook for too short a time, or for too long. These filets aren’t very thick, so I’m thinking about tw
o to three minutes each side until the fish is opaque and golden.” I added butter and a dash of olive oil into another heated pan. Then I flipped the filets. “Onto the braised cabbage. Add the cabbage to the other pan with the garlic. Let it wilt and stir. Add in more. Wilt. Add a dash of balsamic, season with a pinch of fleur de sel, three or four twists of pepper, and some grated nutmeg. It’s time to plate.” Phillipa shot me the thumbs-up. I pulled out a four-inch circle tool and placed it on a plate. “First we add the cabbage, press it down, then a ladleful of the sweet potato purée, also pressed. Finally, we place a filet on it. Set the dish under the heat lamps.” I turned to Phillipa. “Your turn. Five minutes. Go.”

  I showed her how to garnish, placing the edible flowers and herbs with kitchen tweezers. Admittedly, the plate was a piece of art, so beautiful Monet and his water lilies would have been jealous—just as wonderful and colorful as I’d imagined it would be.

  “Thank you for having confidence in me, Chef,” said Phillipa.

  This was the first time anybody had called me chef, and it felt great. More than great. But I wasn’t about to take all of the credit when this was a team effort.

  “You’re a chef, too. Now hit the counter and yell, ‘Service!’”

  “Service!”

  The smile spreading across her face, the pride lighting her eyes, told me I’d won over her cooking heart, and I also felt mine sparking back to life. For me, being back in the kitchen and cooking was liking being zapped with a defibrillator, delivering a dose of electricity right into my soul.

  After all the main courses had been delivered, Jane sashayed into the kitchen. “The guests would like to meet the chef,” she said. I grinned until she continued, “although it’s not a good idea and I made an excuse for you.”