The Secret French Recipes of Sophie Valroux

by Samantha Vérant

  “Why?” I asked.

  Jane’s cold blue eyes sparked to life. Her lips twisted into a half smile. “Because half of the guests are from New York, and I overheard one of them talking about you.”

  “Wha-what did they say?” I stuttered.

  “That they heard that the sabotaging chef is the granddaughter of the Grand Chef here,” she said, turning on her kitten heel and leaving the kitchen. Over her shoulder, she said, “I’d strongly advise you not to follow me in.”

  I froze. Phillipa clasped my hands into hers, squeezing them.

  “Don’t pay mind to one word she uttered,” said Phillipa. “Nobody knows the truth.”

  “That’s the problem,” I whispered, trying to hold back the tears. “My name is ruined, and if I stay here, I’ll only bring the château down with me. I can’t do that to you guys. I can’t do that to my grand-mère.”

  Before Cendrillon, I’d never been a crier—not even when I burned my hands or cut my fingers—but all I seemed to be doing lately was drowning in an ocean of salty tears. I didn’t shed one tear when my mother died. I didn’t cry when I’d found Eric had cheated on me—multiple times. Something in me had changed, and I wasn’t sure if I liked it. I used to be strong and fierce. Now I was a pathetic weakling.

  “The staff in a kitchen is called a brigade, right?” asked Phillipa, and I let out a grunt. “Okay. After the guests leave, save for Valentine’s Day and private events, we have three months until the château opens to the public and the truth will come out,” she said. “So if the ship goes down, which it won’t, because I’m going to make it my mission to clear your name, we’ll all go down with you. We’re a family here and, if I know your grand-mère, she wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  “I bet Jane thinks differently.”

  “Jane isn’t the heir to this château. You are,” she said. “Fight for it. I saw the way your eyes lit up in the kitchen. I could almost feel the energy, your love for cooking. You taught me how to fillet a fish and I’m sure you can teach me so much more.”

  Phillipa stared at me, waiting for a response. My mind reeled. “You said you wanted to help me clear my name?” I finally said. “How?”

  “I have a few ideas, but I need to sort them out first,” she said, wiggling her eyebrows. She tilted her head. “So, what’s it going to be?”

  I squeezed my eyes shut. “I did have fun tonight.”

  “That’s the spirit,” she said.

  “Why are you being so nice to me?” I asked.

  “Because I know what it’s like to be judged—especially when you’re constantly being compared to your perfect sister,” she said. “But there’s no such thing as perfect. We all make mistakes. We’re human.” She rocked back and forth on the heels of her sneakers. “Look, the granny brigade and Gustave are nice and all that, but we don’t have much in common. You showed up. And I really need a friend, one I can talk to, and one who speaks English. All the French makes my head swim.”

  “Me, too,” I said.

  I wiped my runny nose with the sleeve of my shirt and nodded, putting the toxic emotions invading my system to the side. Phillipa hip-bumped me. “I may have to lean on you, too, one day—especially when it comes to cooking.”

  “Lean away,” I said, thinking I’d been self-dependent for so long that I wasn’t wired to depend on anybody, only myself. After my mother snapped when I was thirteen, I kept everybody at arm’s length, cutting off any friendships I’d had. Maybe it was time for me to change, to let my guard down, to let people in. Maybe I could shed my self-defense mechanisms and actually trust somebody. I wanted to. And I really wanted to trust my instincts and myself. But, still feeling like a train wreck, I also didn’t want to make false promises to Phillipa.

  “Phillipa?” I asked.

  “Yes?”

  “If things don’t work out, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  18

  friends and foes

  Somehow I survived the rest of the weekend, namely by avoiding the guests, steering clear of Jane, and skulking down the stairwell into the kitchen like a rat. Alas, I didn’t see the bride or the groom, any of the floral arrangements, or the reactions when the guests ate my creations. Although I was incognito, I knew I was making my grand-mère proud. And, just for that, my confidence swelled. It wouldn’t be long before the old Sophie was back; I missed her.

  A text alert buzzed and I pulled out my phone, looking at the name. Relief flooded my body: Walter.

  Walter: It’s almost Christmas! We miss you. When are you coming back?

  Me: I’m not sure.

  Walter: If the mountain will not come to Muhammad, then Muhammad must go to the mountain.

  Me: Huh?

  Walter: We’re coming to France. First Paris, then on to you for two days. I hope you have room for visitors.

  Me: You’ll have your choice of rooms. There are 26 of them. When r u thinking?

  Walter: The 23rd and the 24th, if that’s okay.

  Me: It’s more than okay. I’ll have somebody pick you up at the airport. Send me your flight details. Love you.

  Right when I set my phone down, Phillipa knocked on my door and entered my room, carrying a tray of croissants, a variety of the château’s confitures, and, to my delight, coffee. She set the tray down on the dressing table. “All the guests are making their way down to Le Papillon Sauvage for breakfast, and I wanted to bring you something before everything’s eaten up.”

  “Thank you,” I said, slipping out of bed and throwing on my bathrobe and slippers.

  “I overheard one of the guests talking about the daurade,” she said.

  My heart plummeted into my stomach. “Oh no—”

  “Stop looking like an abused puppy,” she said. “I’m pretty sure ‘heaven on a plate’ is the highest of compliments.”

  I couldn’t help but smile. “It is.”

  “To celebrate, I’m thinking that after you eat, we should head over to the Christmas market in Gaillac. Get into the Christmas spirit. Ho-ho-ho and all that. Plus, I need to pick up some things for Clothilde.”

  “Is Jane coming?”

  “No, she’ll need to check the guests out.” Phillipa raised her nose and spoke with a hoity-toity accent. “And she thinks the market is for simpletons. It’s beneath her.”

  It seemed my fate had been decided. “It’s not beneath me. I crave simple. I’d love to go.”

  “Meet me out front in fifteen minutes,” she said. “Is that enough time for you to get ready?”

  I bit into a croissant and nodded.

  “Great. See you in a few.”

  “Wait! What if one of the guests recognizes me?” I said, but Phillipa was already out the door. My heartbeat accelerated. I’d already agreed to accompany her to the market, but guests were still lingering around on the property. How would I make an escape without notice? I really needed to get away from the château, though, even if it was just for an hour or two. I couldn’t stay holed up in my room. Like Clothilde had said, I needed to join the world again. It was then I decided to wear a disguise—big black sunglasses, a hat, and a scarf wrapped over my head. Once again, I skulked down the servant’s stairwell and then I made a dash for it, right out the front door.

  Phillipa burst into laughter when I breathlessly approached her car—a rusty burgundy Citroën with precarious-looking wheels. “Here comes secret chef.”

  “Shhhh,” I said. “I’m not here.”

  “Oh, but you are, and you look ridiculous,” she said, opening the door. “Jump in. Your chariot awaits. On y va.”

  Phillipa was a worse driver than Clothilde. She didn’t keep her eyes on the road at all. We almost ran over the rogue sheep. By the time we reached Gaillac, dainty snowflakes floated in the air, swirling around with grace. Phillipa latched her arm onto mine, and we walked to the center of
town. We traversed a narrow street, finally arriving at the market, where little log cabins had been set up, selling everything from candles and soaps to spices and sausages. Among the old and the young, we ambled through the market, me enjoying all the sights, smells, and sounds of Christmas.

  She giggled. “I feel like we’re on a date.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” I said. “I’ve never been on one. Eric and I just jumped right into a relationship.”

  Her jaw dropped and she nudged me with her hip. “We are not talking about him. He’s dead to you. Got it?”

  “Got it,” I said with a laugh. “What about you, Phillipa?” I asked. “Do you have a love in your life?”

  “It’s hard meeting people like me in a small French town,” she said.

  “People like you?”

  “People that like girls instead of boys,” she said, scrunching her nose. “Don’t worry. You’re not my type. And I hope you’re okay with my confession. Some people aren’t when I tell them.”

  I couldn’t help but laugh.

  Phillipa’s eyes widened with fear. “What’s so funny?”

  “I was a beard for my best friend, Walter. He was terrified to come out to his family. I pretended to be his fiancée for two years to throw off his mother. I lived with him.”

  “No,” she said. “You?”

  “Yep. Me,” I said. “Don’t look so surprised. He and his partner, Robert, finally came out to his mom. Anyway, a lot of stuff went down in New York. I flew here to—”

  “Earn a thousand points of respect from me,” said Phillipa.

  “Well, you’ll meet them. Walter and his partner will be here for Christmas Eve.” My grin stretched across my face until I realized I’d told Walter I’d have somebody pick him up. Asking Rémi or Clothilde was out of the question. “I have a favor to ask you.”

  “Anything.”

  “I don’t know how to drive. Plus, I will probably need to visit with Grand-mère. Would you be willing to get them at the airport?”

  “Of course,” she said. “I’d be happy to.”

  I blew out a sigh of relief. “Thank you so much.”

  “No need to thank me,” she said, her grin wide. “Let’s celebrate our friendship with a vin chaud. My treat. Go peek in on Santa. I’ll be right back.”

  I watched her walk away with a smile stretching across my face, realizing I’d actually made my first real friend in France and maybe my first true female friend ever. She didn’t judge me. She bolstered my confidence. She accepted me for who I was. I accepted her. I closed my eyes, listening to the festivities in the market, feeling rather festive myself. My holiday spirits were up. A little girl’s excited screech pierced my ears. “Papa, papa, le Père Noël! Le Père Noël!”

  “Oui, oui, ma puce!”

  Her father brushed past, bumping into me. “Désolé,” he said. I knew that voice. I turned to face him. An older woman with chocolate brown hair peeking out from her winter bonnet scooped a little girl around two or three years old out of his arms. The mother? But no, this woman was far too old to be of childbearing age.

  “Rémi?” I questioned.

  Rémi’s face blanched and he whispered, “What you just saw, you didn’t see.” A heavy silence filled the air. I blinked the confusion and snowflakes from my eyes. He turned on his heel and walked away, leaving me stunned and hurt by his attitude.

  There was more to Rémi’s story than I’d imagined. I shivered, thinking about the fun we’d had as kids—picking cherries and swimming in the lake. He was so different now, and I wondered what, besides being a father, had happened to him. The only problem was that he was shutting me out in the cold and not letting me in.

  A minute later, Phillipa sauntered up and handed me a paper cup of vin chaud, and the scents of orange, nutmeg, and cinnamon permeated my nostrils. “Are you okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  I wanted to confide in Phillipa, but a nagging feeling in my gut kept me from betraying Rémi. The fact that he had a daughter was his business, not mine. “I’m fine. Just a little cold,” I said, shifting uncomfortably. “What did you need to pick up for Clothilde?”

  “Clothilde? Oh my God. I almost forgot. I need chocolate and nougat for the thirteen desserts.”

  “Thirteen desserts?”

  “It’s a tradition in France representing Jesus Christ and the twelve apostles, always displayed on Christmas Eve and enjoyed until December twenty-seventh, consisting of a combination of dried fruit, fresh fruit, nuts, and sweets. Voilà. A total of thirteen desserts. It’s for the party.”

  “Party?”

  “Another tradition. The Christmas Eve party for the staff and, pretty much, every villager within a twenty-mile radius of the château,” she said. “Clothilde told me you were in charge of planning the menu. She said Grand-mère was counting on you. Didn’t they tell you about it?”

  “No, they didn’t,” I said with a sigh.

  So much for the simple life.

  * * *

  The next few days were beyond awkward. Every time I ran into Rémi, he always looked as if he wanted to say something, or kill me, but clamped his mouth shut and stormed off before doing so. He’d ignore me and go back to doing whatever he was doing, like decorating the twenty-foot-tall Christmas tree in the entry or installing lights in every front-facing window of the château for the party. It seemed every time I turned a corner he was there.

  One afternoon, when I walked into the kitchen to plan the menu, Rémi was unloading crates into the walk-in refrigerator. His eyes locked onto mine. I wrung my hands.

  “Thank you for taking care of the delivery,” I said, not knowing what else to say during an awkward and tense silence. I wasn’t about to bring up his daughter, though it crossed my mind until I thought better of it.

  “Pas de problème,” he said with a shrug. “It’s my job.”

  These were the least loaded sentences we’d exchanged so far. Maybe he’d gotten over whatever it was he needed to get over. Maybe he was going through a shitstorm, too. “So, what have we got?” I asked with a hesitant smile.

  “You’ll figure it out,” he said. “Or, then again, maybe you won’t.” He clomped out the back door. I flipped him le doigt d’honneur—my middle finger—as he left.

  Take a deep breath. Get back to cooking. Get back to yourself. You can’t let your grandmother down. You can’t let yourself down.

  After slamming my roll bag of knives on the counter, I headed into the walk-in to plan the menu and opened the crates. The fish vendor had delivered a sea of heavenly delights. Les gambas, large shrimp, were the size of my hand. Once cooked, they’d be lovely and pink. The oysters were enormous and beautiful, the briny scent conjuring up the sea. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d swum in open water. Six years ago on a Sunday trip to the Hamptons with Eric? Oh God, I didn’t want to think about him.

  Besides the work of shucking more than three hundred of them, oysters were easy. They’d be served raw with a mignonette sauce and lemons, along with crayfish, crab, and shrimp, accompanied by a saffron-infused aioli dipping sauce.

  I lifted the top of another crate, and fifty or so lobsters with spiny backs greeted me—beautiful and big, and the top portion freckled by the sea. I loved working with lobster, the way their color changed from mottled brown and orange to a fiery red when cooked. I’d use the tails for le plat principal, flambéed in cognac and simmered in a spicy tomato—my version of my grandmother’s recipe for langouste à l’armoricaine. The garnish? A sprig of fresh rosemary.

  The other crates were filled with lovely mussels, scallops, whelks, and smoked salmon filets, along with another surprise—escargots. Save for the snails, this meal would be a true seafood extravaganza.

  The more I thought about the meal, the more inspired I became, and hunger set in. With these incredible ingredients laid before
me, it was a dangerous situation, kind of like going to the grocery store when you’re famished and buying everything in sight. I couldn’t help but open an oyster, digging into its side with an oyster knife and popping the top shell off. I loosened the meat and it slid down my throat, all salty and sweet.

  As I licked my lips, inspiration set in. Whatever happed to the château, whatever happened with my grandmother, I was going to tame these ingredients into tasteful submission, giving the guests an unexpected gastronomic experience. Pleased with my plan, I darted to the board, grabbed a piece of chalk, and wrote out the menu.

  CHRISTMAS EVE MENU

  Foie Gras with Caramelized Apples

  Salmon with Lemon, Cucumber, and Dill, served on Small Rounds of Toasted Bread

  Escargots de Bourgogne

  Oysters with a Mignonette Sauce

  Oysters with Pimento Peppers and Apple Cider Vinegar

  Oysters Rockefeller, deglazed with Pernod, served with Spinach, Pimento Peppers, and Lardons

  Sophie’s Spiced Langouste (Spiny Lobster) à l’Armoricaine

  Crayfish, Crab, and Shrimp with a Saffron-Infused Aioli Dipping Sauce

  Moules à la Plancha with Chorizo

  Selection of the Château’s Cheeses

  Three Varieties of Bûche de Noël

  The kitchen staff walked in as I threw the chalk on the counter. Phillipa snuck up behind me. “Oh my God. That menu looks wicked incredible. I’m already drooling.”

  Clothilde nodded her head with approval. “It’s perfect. You’ve made your grandmother proud.”

  “How many bûches do you think we’ll need?” asked Gustave, referring to the celebrated and traditional log cakes served in every French restaurant and household sometime during the holiday season.

  “Twenty?” I answered.