The Secret French Recipes of Sophie Valroux

by Samantha Vérant

  “And what do you like about New York?”

  “I love Walter and Robert, but I’d have to find a new place to live. I love the buildings and architecture, but I don’t like the pollution or the noise, O’Shea’s temper, the long hours. The sexual harassment in the kitchen is annoying, but I can deal with it.”

  “Do you realize everything you’ve said about New York is kind of negative?”

  Phillipa was right. I’d been so wrapped up in my career and all the drama, I’d lost sight of the things truly making me happy.

  “Yeah, I guess you’re right,” I said.

  “Then what’s stopping you from grabbing on to the reins here?”

  “My pride, I guess,” I said. “Everything is being given to me. I didn’t work for it.”

  “I suggest you get over your pride and get to work,” she said. “Prove to yourself you deserve it, because I think you do. You need to believe in yourself.”

  If anything, cooking would help me sort out my thoughts, my scrambled emotions. And if there ever was a time for experimentation, to let my cooking flag fly, it was now, and right when I needed it most. “Let’s get crazy, wild, and inventive this weekend.”

  Phillipa raised her hands with joy. “Yes! I believe I’ve convinced you to stay on in Champvert.” She looked at me expectantly, her hands on her skinny hips.

  “You were pretty convincing,” I said, and she let out a whoop. I bit down on my lip, hating to lie to her. Truth be told, I didn’t know what I was going to do. One thing was for sure, I wasn’t abandoning the ship just yet. “Let’s take it one meal at a time.”

  She made a goofy face, nose and lips scrunched. “Slow, right. Gotcha. That’s gonna work.”

  “I need all hands on deck in the kitchen tonight to ensure success,” I said, brushing her comment off. “Is there anybody we can call in?”

  “Sébastien,” she said. “And I’m on it.” Phillipa raced to the phone.

  Jane walked into the kitchen carrying a basket of herbs—mostly mint, fresh and peppery. She set her basket down and placed her hands on her hips. She glanced at the board. “Where’s the menu? It’s almost two, and I’ll need to print them up.”

  “Tonight’s meal wouldn’t be complete without chocolate,” I said. At the moment, my feelings were hot and cold, sweet, spicy, bitter, and sour. I wanted to balance flavors, taming them into tasteful submission, and give the guests an unexpected gastronomic experience.

  Whatever happed at the château, whatever happened with my grandmother, whatever my decision, I was going to tell my story while I had the chance. Pleased with what I’d come up with, I darted to the board, grabbed a piece of chalk, and wrote it down.

  MENU

  L’AMUSE-BOUCHE

  Chocolate Parmesan Tapioca with a Pan-Seared Scallop

  L’ENTRÉE

  Salad with Chèvre Chaud, Honey, and Mint Dressing

  OU

  Roasted Butternut Squash and Cacao Soup

  OU

  Oysters with a Mignonette Sauce

  LE PLAT PRINCIPAL

  Armagnac-and-Chocolate-Infused Daube de Bœuf à la Gascogne

  OU

  Sweet Potato Curry with Mussels

  OU

  Chocolate Pasta with a Gorgonzola Cheese Sauce

  LA SALADE ET LE FROMAGE

  Moules à la Plancha with Chorizo served over a bed of Arugula

  Selection of the Château’s Cheeses

  LE DESSERT

  Mousse au Chocolat spiced with Pimento Chili Peppers and Chocolate Flakes, garnished with Mint

  I spun around on one heel, excited to get prepping. Unbeknownst to me, the rest of the kitchen staff had arrived, their jaws agape as they stared at the menu. As usual, Phillipa was the first to speak up. “That menu looks wicked incredible.”

  “I don’t know about adding hot peppers to the mousse au chocolat,” said Jane, and the granny brigade nodded in agreement.

  I was so sick of her know-it-all attitude. I knew a thing or two and I was going to stand by my decision. “The combination has Aztec roots. To honor the fertility goddess they drank xocolāt, a chocolate concoction spiced with chili pepper and vanilla. It’s delicious and unexpected.”

  Jane rolled her eyes. “You’re the chef.”

  “I am,” I said, wanting to challenge her. “And this is the menu.”

  “I think the hot peppers sound interesting,” said Gustave. “But the recipe is missing something.”

  “Alcohol?” I asked knowingly, and he nodded. “Add in a bit of cognac.”

  “Can I do something interesting with the chocolate shards? And what about a little bit of pear?”

  “Bien sûr. Desserts are your specialty.” I chalked his additions onto the board and then wiped my hands on my apron. “The menu is set.”

  I turned to Sébastien. “I heard you’d like to move from the waitstaff to the kitchen. Is this true?”

  “Yes, madame,” he said, his eyelashes lowered. “I’ve been cooking my entire life.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Eighteen.”

  “The same age I was when I started cooking school,” I said. He had a cherubic face, slender hands, and sensitive eyes, and I couldn’t help but think how the brigade at Cendrillon would have chewed him up and spit him right out. I’d have to toughen him up. “But schools aren’t the real learning arenas, right, Phillipa?”

  “Amen!” she said. She put her hands together toward the sky.

  Choking back my laughter, I turned to Sébastien. “Have you ever used a plancha?”

  “I’m half Spanish. Mon nom de famille is Rodriguez,” he said with fierce pride. “I can cook using a plancha blindfolded. And please, call me Séb. All my friends do.”

  I liked his attitude. “Ready to prep, Séb?” I asked.

  “Yes, Chef!”

  As he darted off to his station, Rémi snuck up from behind me and whispered, “I understand your concept for the meal.”

  “You do? Am I that transparent?”

  “Don’t get me wrong, she loves to cook and cooks with love, but Grand-mère doesn’t cook with her emotions. The sugar, the chocolate, and the pears. All sweet. Maybe your feelings for me? Or am I being presumptuous?”

  “You’re not.” I turned to face him. “Go on.”

  “Sour, bitter, and hot. It’s the worry you’re feeling for Grand-mère.”

  “And her ingredients?”

  “Vinegar, arugula, hot peppers—a few more.”

  “I guess you have me all figured out,” I said.

  His hand ran up my back, quickly. “No, not at all. But I want to.”

  “Rémi, like the recipes I’m making tonight, it’s all about creating the perfect balance.”

  His mouth came close to my ear. “Which is what we’re going to have if you stay in Champvert.” I froze. “Sophie, you’ve gone quiet.”

  “I’m thinking,” I said.

  As I looked into his eyes, New York, the stars, and making my mark as the comeback chef faded from my desires. I had everything I needed in Champvert, including the possibility of falling in love.

  * * *

  Right before service, Jane tapped me on the shoulder. “The guests want to meet the chef.”

  “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

  Jane lifted a well-shaped eyebrow. “It’s a tradition at the château, and it’s now or never. And that’s the truth.”

  The truth.

  The truth was, I loved every moment in this kitchen. And I loved to be able to talk to somebody openly about extremely personal issues and to have them share their problems with me. I loved every second my heart beat. I loved the feeling of falling in love. Because, with my heart closed off to everything but the kitchen, I’d never really
felt it before. My confidence was back.

  “Let’s go,” I said.

  One careful footstep at a time, I followed Jane to the dining room, which gleamed in silvers and whites. Jane grabbed my hand and we stood in the doorway, me willing my heart to stop racing and surveying the room. Wildflowers and fresh herbs from the château’s gardens surrounded the white roses on the tables. Jane had outdone herself, celebrating the changing season.

  Perhaps I’d misjudged her as much as she’d misjudged me.

  “I’d like to present our wonderful chef at Les Libellules here at Château de Champvert,” Jane exclaimed, ushering me in. In that moment, with her words not speckled with sarcasm, I knew I’d gained at least one ounce of Jane’s respect, and after seeing what she’d accomplished, she had at least two ounces of mine.

  The sound of applause thundered in my ears. I brought my hands to my wildly beating heart, not knowing what to say. I closed my eyes, thinking of my grand-mère. “My grand-mère taught me that meals are supposed to be cooked with love, each ingredient celebrating this exquisite emotion. Tonight, we are celebrating love, are we not? And it’s my greatest hope you’ll love what we’ve prepared for you. Toujours l’amour. Encore l’amour,” I said. “Merci.”

  Forks and spoons clanged on glasses.

  * * *

  The next four hours were frenetic and fast-paced. Séb, now a chef and our caller, remained calm and cool as he belted out the orders and managed his station. The air in the kitchen was so electric, even the granny brigade and Gustave stuck around to see how the service went. During dessert, Jane returned to the kitchen.

  “I think it would be a good idea if you came into the dining room again,” she said.

  My heart raced. “Is there a problem?”

  “Quite the opposite,” she said.

  “Everybody, follow me,” I said. “We’re a team here.”

  “Yes, Chef.”

  Before entering the room, I snuck a quick peek and watched the guests’ faces as they cracked the chocolate dragonfly and dipped their spoons in the spiced chocolate mousse with cognac-drunk pears. The sounds of pleasure filled the room. Séb, Phillipa, the granny brigade, Clothilde, and Gustave followed me in and we stood in front of the fireplace. “Ladies and gentlemen,” I said. “I’d like to introduce you to all of the people responsible for creating tonight’s meal—my family.”

  If I thought the applause I’d heard earlier was loud, this time the sound reverberated in my chest, so powerful it felt like an earthquake.

  “Best meal I’ve ever had in my life.”

  “You cook with your heart.”

  “I feel love in every delicious bite.”

  “Worthy of not one Michelin star, but three.”

  I lowered my head and placed my hand on my beating heart, thanking my lucky stars and Grand-mère, whose presence I could feel embracing me. If I took O’Shea up on his offer, my dream of becoming one of the one percent of female chefs running a Michelin-starred restaurant would come to fruition in the blink of an eye, but I’d be back to telling O’Shea’s story and following his rules. Grand-mère had said I could reach for the stars here.

  Did I dare become a rule breaker?

  Yes.

  Forget about Eric. Forget about New York and Cendrillon. I felt more alive and at home in Champvert. This girl was finally going to rise from the ashes like a culinary phoenix. For the love of cooking, I had the chance to create and the chance to reclaim a passion I’d lost somewhere along the way. I had a chance to tell my story. I was happier in Champvert than I’d been in a long while. Not only did I have a kitchen, I had a chance at love.

  It was in that moment I truly understood how far people go to achieve success and just how far they go to protect the ones they love. I forgave my mother, I forgave my grandmother, and, most important, I forgave myself. I had closure. In a way, my grandmother had given me my life back, and I was going to claim it. After the applause died down, I raced to Grand-mère’s room and tapped on the door. Agnès opened it.

  “Is she awake?” I asked.

  “Yes, why? Is something wrong?”

  “No, Agnès, everything is all right. More than right.” I twirled her around and scurried over to my grand-mère.

  “I’ve made my decision. I’m not going back to New York. I’m staying in Champvert. For good,” I said, taking her hands.

  Grand-mère tried her best to smile. “Oh, I was so hoping to hear those words. I couldn’t imagine what the vultures would do if you sold the estate. They’d probably turn the grounds into one of those horrendous theme parks.” Her green eyes went clear as she took my hand. “You’ve given a dying woman her greatest wish.”

  “For me to take over the château?”

  “Non, ma chérie, my only wish was to see my granddaughter take charge of her happiness. It’s the only thing I’ve ever wanted for you.”

  III

  spring

  At home I serve the kind of food I know the story behind.

  —MICHAEL POLLAN

  28

  famous for being infamous

  Spring, the season of renewal and new beginnings, had sprung in all her glory one month early. Everything was coming back to life and thriving—including me. In the morning, I sprinted over to Rémi’s home, eyeing the bushes for les sangliers. I couldn’t wait to tell him of my decision. Breathless, I knocked on the door, and Laetitia, after a second or two, opened it, smiling a wide, toothy grin. “Sophie, it’s wonderful to see you, but are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. I just ran over from the château,” I said, panting and placing my hands on my knees. “Is Rémi here?”

  “Yes,” she said. “He’s upstairs getting Lola ready for the day. Come in, have a seat on the couch. I was just making coffee. Would you like one?”

  I nodded, although with my heart racing like it was, maybe it wasn’t a good idea. Laetitia headed over to the Nespresso and plunked a capsule into the machine. In less than sixty seconds, both of us had coffee in hand.

  “I’m sorry you didn’t know I was Lola’s grand-mère,” she said. “I’m sure it was quite the shock.”

  “In a way, it was,” I said.

  “Don’t get me wrong, I miss my daughter every day, but I always knew the truth. She didn’t love him. He didn’t love her. But they did the right thing by Lola.”

  I gulped. “What was Anaïs like?”

  “Stubborn. Full of life. A bit of a party girl. I could never keep track of her,” she said, smiling with remembrance. “She was like me, back in my wild days in the eighties.”

  “And your husband?”

  “Let’s just say Anaïs was a lot like me, but her father didn’t do the right thing.”

  “Oh,” I said.

  “Yes, but I don’t hold him any ill will. We were young and foolish and sometimes things just aren’t meant to be,” she said. “Am I making you uncomfortable?”

  “No,” I said. “You’re refreshing. You’re speaking your mind, telling personal things to a stranger.”

  “But you’re not exactly a stranger to me. Rémi has told me much about you.”

  I couldn’t help but think of my own father. “Was Anaïs’s father’s name Jean-Marc Bourret?”

  Laetitia laughed. “No, his name was Armand. Rémi told me you were searching for your father.” She paused. “If you do approach him, make sure you’re prepared, because he might not want to have a thing to do with you. Sadly, that was what happened when Anaïs confronted hers.”

  I shuddered. I don’t know what bothered me more. Her warning or the fact that Rémi had told her all about me. Then again, I couldn’t really blame Rémi. Who else was he going to confide in?

  Lola scurried down the stairs on her knees—one at a time. Her eyes lit up when she saw me. “Tatie Sophie!” She ran up and flung her strawberry-scented body o
nto mine like a miniature linebacker, but one wearing a pink tutu and tights. “Chocolat chaud?”

  Laetitia scooped her up. “No, my darling, not now,” she said. “But maybe Tatie Sophie will make you one when we return from ballet class.” She winked at me. “I’m taking the tiny dancer. You and Rémi will talk. Voilà. I’m off.”

  Before I could blink, Laetitia and Lola left, and Rémi sauntered downstairs, his eyes widening in surprise when he saw me. “What are you doing here?”

  “Who, me?” I asked.

  “Yes, you,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest.

  “Well, I-I-I wanted to tell you that I’m sticking around,” I said, stuttering. “For g-good.”

  His eyebrows raised curiously or accusingly. I couldn’t tell. “What about your stars?” he asked.

  “I’m tired of chasing them. Maybe they’ll come to me?” I said. “Plus, like you said, we have plenty of stars here, the sky fuller and clearer than in New York. We’ll lie on our backs and look up at them tonight.”

  My last statement brought a smile to Rémi’s formerly stoic expression. He tilted his head to the side. “You’re not going back to New York?”

  “I’m not.”

  “Does your decision have anything to do with me?”

  “Maybe,” I said.

  “Maybe?” he asked.

  I straightened my posture and took a deep breath. I could open myself up to him instead of pushing him away. I was ready to take the risk, to put everything, put my heart, on the line. My shoulders trembled. “Fine. It has a lot to do with you. I want to give us a chance. I know what I want now. Can you forgive me?”

  “For what? Being scared? Being human?” His voice came out so strong I thought he was going to lay into me for being such an indecisive twit when I had everything I wanted right in my grasp.

  “Yes,” I said, lowering my head. I rocked back and forth on my heels. “So, is there still a chance?”

  “For what?” he asked, and my heart catapulted into my stomach.