The Secret French Recipes of Sophie Valroux

by Samantha Vérant

  My gaze leapt to his. “For us?” I said, my voice rising. “Isn’t that what you want?”

  He went silent for a moment, watching me wring my hands and fidget. He took a step forward. I took a step back. He took another step forward, a wild look in his eyes. I didn’t know what was going on, his movements and his expression intense. I took another step back and Remi followed. He took me in his arms and we shared an out-of-this-world kiss, me exploring each ripple of his back, him with his hands in my hair, pulling me closer. When we finally broke apart, we were both panting and wide-eyed. Breathless with lust and the heart palpitations of the beginnings of love, I said, “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “Ah, mais oui, Sophie, I believe I did,” he said, a seductive grin twisting his lips. “And I’d really like to answer your question again.”

  My knees went weak and I fell into his embrace, his muscled arms wrapped around me.

  * * *

  Phillipa and Jane waited for me in the salon. Floating on a cloud of happiness, I meandered into the room in a state of complete euphoria. Phillipa pointed to a bouquet of roses, at least two dozen of them. “Somebody sent you these. Maybe lover boy?”

  “Rémi and I are still moving slow,” I said, and Phillipa rolled her eyes dramatically. Blushing, I snatched the envelope from her hands and ripped it open.

  The flowers are from Miguel. I hope you enjoy the gift I’ve enclosed and that you are still thinking about my offer. O’Shea

  “Where is the box the flowers were delivered in?” I asked.

  Phillipa pointed to the bar. The card fell to the floor as I raced over and pulled out a copy of the Times magazine from the bottom of the box, gasping so hard I started to hiccup. O’Shea was featured on the cover and almost every article in its glossy pages was dedicated to the food world. I flipped to his piece on fearless female chefs, where he not only wrote about what happened at Cendrillon, he destroyed Eric and Trevor Smith in the process.

  I thumbed through the pages.

  Chefs, most of them female, wrote the other articles with headlines like “Misogyny in the Kitchen,” “Michelin Can Take Its Star Back,” and “Why There Is a Lack of Female Chefs.” It was as if the entire cooking world had leapt to my defense.

  “What’s going on?” asked Jane.

  I waved the magazine triumphantly over my head. In between excited hiccups, I said, “My name has been cleared and then some.”

  Phillipa picked up the card off the floor and read it, her lips mouthing the words. “Bloody hell! You better not be thinking of going back to New York,” she said.

  I wrapped my arms around her. “I’m not going. I’m staying here, right here where I belong.”

  Her head twisted to the side and she shot me a wicked smile. “So, since you’re not taking up O’Shea on his offer, don’t you think it might be a good idea to tell him?” asked Phillipa. “Like right now?”

  “Yes,” I said. “It is.”

  I pulled out my phone. “It’s too early to call him. It’s two-thirty in the morning in New York.”

  “Text him,” said Jane.

  “Yes, we need to see it with our own eyes,” said Phillipa. “At least I do.”

  Chef—Thank you for clearing my name. Thank you so much for everything. While I appreciate your offer, I unfortunately can’t accept it. My grand-mère’s health is in decline and I’m taking over her kitchen at Château de Champvert. I finally have the chance to tell my story. I hope you understand. The best of wishes, Sophie. P.S. If you ever find yourself in France, please visit Champvert and we’ll take care of you!

  Within seconds, my phone buzzed with a response from O’Shea.

  Sophie, I understand. And I’m very proud of you. You are going to light the cooking world on fire. And I will take you up on your offer . . .

  Phillipa sandwiched me in a hug.

  “Is it too early to celebrate?” I asked.

  “It’s never too early for champagne,” said Jane. “I’ll pop open a bottle.”

  * * *

  My muscles didn’t want to listen to my mind. For at least five minutes, maybe more, I stood in front of the carved oak door of my grandmother’s quarters tracing the acorns ingrained in the wood. My arm raised, my hand balled up ready to knock. Inside, I could hear her rustling around. Suddenly, the door opened, and I clamped my jaw shut.

  Grand-mère Odette’s hair was coiffed. She wore a beige Chanel pantsuit with matching ballet flats. Her cheeks were tinged rose. Her wheelchair was pushed to the far side of her room. “Sophie, ma chérie, why are you just standing there gawking at me like that?”

  “You’re up?” I said, stating the obvious.

  “Yes, I was feeling better and thought I’d head to the kitchen to see what you were up to.”

  “She should really stay in bed,” said Agnès. “But she won’t listen to me.”

  Grand-mère ignored Agnès and latched her arm onto mine. “Would you please tell that woman that this is my house and I’m not dead yet.”

  I shot Agnès an apologetic look over my shoulder as we made our way down the hall.

  “The château opens in a month and I’d love to hear all about your plans,” she said. “Just make sure you share a joyful tale—I think we’ve had enough pain and sadness around here to last us a lifetime.”

  “I agree,” I said.

  Slowly, we walked into the salon to find Clothilde and Phillipa sitting on the settee, and Jane pacing. Jane whipped around. “The reservation system crashed last night,” she said with a screech. “O’Shea’s article mentioned Grand-mère Odette and the château, along with the name Jean-Jacques Gaston. Who is he?”

  “He was O’Shea’s mentor,” I said.

  “He was also a professor of mine at Le Cordon Bleu,” said Grand-mère. “And he’s a very famous chef now.”

  I’d only skimmed the article, locking onto the bits about me, Eric, and Trevor, and hadn’t read it fully. “Why is this a problem?”

  “Jean-Jacques Gaston wrote about how Grand-mère was one of the most talented chefs he’d ever encountered and that, if she’d learned how to cook from her, her granddaughter—that’s you, Sophie—would be just as magical, too. He even went as far as to see he recommended you for your stage at Cendrillon.”

  I knew that from the emails I’d found. “Jane, slow down, what’s going on?”

  “We’re booked solid from May first of this year to the end of the season. And because the reservation system is blocked, emails demanding requests have been pouring in.” She gave me the once-over. “A member of La Société des Châteaux et Belles Demeures will be visiting with us soon.”

  “Your comeback is the biggest thing out there. Everybody wants a piece of you,” said Phillipa.

  Jane cleared her throat. “I’m afraid it’s more serious than that,” she said. “Since word has gotten out that Sophie is now the chef here and Grand-mère is ill, they want to make sure everything is up to par. It’s an audit.”

  Part of me had to accuse Jane. “Did you have something to do with this?”

  “So we’re moving backward instead of forward now?” she asked, raising her hands in surrender. “I thought we were in the process of getting over our differences. Believe me, I’m not out to sabotage you, Sophie.”

  “Do you blame her?” asked Phillipa. “You’ve been nothing but cruel to her.”

  Jane twisted her head to the side, nostrils flaring. “How dare you take her side. You’re my sister.”

  “Really?” said Phillipa. “Because you don’t act like one. You hoity-toity snob.”

  “Ladies,” yelled Grand-mère. “Ça suffit!” (Enough!) “There is no sense in arguing among yourselves when you’re going to have to work together.” She pointed to the magazine. “I think the audit might have something to do with that.”

  The room fell silent, all o
f us shocked with the force of Grand-mère’s voice. I slumped onto the settee, feeling the color rushing out of my cheeks. I rubbed my temples in disbelief. “This can’t be happening.”

  “Unforunately, it is,” said Jane as she paced, wringing her hands.

  “What if I fail?”

  “Then the château will lose its status . . . and a lot of business,” said Jane, her eyes panicked. “Plus, we pay lofty membership fees, which won’t be reimbursed.”

  “Not only will they be looking at you to take over my reign as Grand Chef, you’ll also become the maîtresse de maison,” said Grand-mère. “You’ll have to know every nook and cranny of the château, its history, its wine, its tenets and values, and share your knowledge with the guests.”

  “What do I do?”

  “Do what we know you can do. Prepare memorable meals and share your heart. And don’t forget everything must be linked to the château, its history, and the terroir,” said my grand-mère.

  “But you’re not feeling well,” I said. “Who is going to teach me everything there is to know about the château? I can’t do this on my own.”

  “I’ll help you,” said Jane.

  I recoiled. “You?”

  “I know we haven’t exactly gotten along,” said Jane, “but this château is my life, and I, for one, won’t let Grand-mère down. We have to rise to the occasion together.”

  I bit down on my bottom lip, concerned about the visitor coming from La Société des Châteaux et Belles Demeures. If they didn’t like the new management, me, or the new Grand Chef, also me, this entity could destroy the château’s reputation. I’d already experienced my name being dragged through the mud; I hoped it wouldn’t happen again. My only hope of succeeding hinged on trusting Jane’s guidance when I didn’t fully trust her.

  29

  hopping into the flames

  Since I’d committed to this new life in Champvert, there was no turning back, no changing my mind, and I had less than two months to learn everything about the château inside and out. I’d ventured out early to enjoy the peace and beauty of the morning. The sun was just rising, and the vineyard sprawled before me, lit with an unearthly light. Bernard ambled up to me. He stood silent, taking in and breathing in the moment with me. The vines sparkled, glistening with buttery yellow drop, the canes coming to life before my eyes.

  “We just pruned the vines so their productive life is lengthened. It’s vital for the upcoming season,” he said. “The magnificent miracle of nature you’re looking at right now is called the weeping of the vines, or teardrops, when the vine’s sap flows upward from the trunk and drips from the cuts of the fruiting canes. It only lasts for one or two days.”

  There had been many moments when I’d felt I’d come back to life in Champvert. And many moments when I’d wished I could hibernate forever.

  “It’s beautiful,” I said wistfully.

  Jane marched up to us like a drill sergeant. She wore khaki pants and a matching jacket, clipboard in one hand, a wicker basket filled with bottles of wine in the other. “How many bottles does the château produce each year?” she asked.

  “I have no clue,” I said.

  “You need to know. You need to know everything.” She handed me a set of printouts from a folder. “Study this. I’ll quiz you tomorrow.”

  One by one, Jane placed seven bottles on an oak barrel. In between the iron rings holding the barrel together, spilled wine stained the oak, the residue coloring the wood an earthy red. The side of the barrel was etched with the château’s logo, a dragonfly, and the name, Château de Champvert. Bernard meticulously opened the bottles one at a time.

  “We have five different kinds of grape varieties for the whites, the terroir friendly to the Loin de l’Oeil, Muscadelle, Sauvignon Blanc, and Mauzac varieties,” said Bernard. “For the reds, the terroir is favorable to Merlot, Cabernet Franc, Cabernet Sauvignon, Braucol, Duras, and Syrah grapes.”

  I knew enough about wine, having worked in a Michelin restaurant, and I knew how to pair wine with food, but I didn’t know about the grapes themselves.

  “We cultivate three whites—one semisweet, one dry, and one sweet—three reds, and one sparkling using la méthode ancestrale, our version of champagne, but because we’re not located in the Champagne region it can’t be considered as such. Semantics. Per French laws, our wines are geographically tied into our terroir.”

  He poured me a glass. “This is the 1984 Gaillac dry white. Hold it up to your nose. What do you smell?”

  “A clean and sweet scent?”

  He nodded. “Now this wine is comprised of forty percent Mauzac, thirty-five percent Loin de l’Oeil, and twenty-five percent Muscadelle grapes. Goûte-le maintenant” (Taste it now), he said. And I did. “Et alors? Dis-moi. What flavors tickle your taste buds?”

  With my palate and mind somewhat clear, I savored the sip. “Apples. A creamy texture, but a dry finish. Wonderful acidity, not too strong. Fresh and clean. Lovely.”

  “You’ll make a fine vintner one day.” Bernard beamed from ear to ear. “This mélange of cépages was your grandfather’s first in 1973. And over the years, it just got better and better. We have bottles from every year since the winemaking began in la cave. Thousands of bottles. Your grandfather was a genius. I learned everything I know about winemaking from him.”

  After tasting all of the cépages, Bernard excused himself, and Jane handed me another set of printouts. “Here are the tasting notes. You did well, but missed a few key elements.”

  “Let me guess,” I said. “I have to study. And you’ll be quizzing me tomorrow.”

  She jutted out a hip. “Sophie, I’ll be quizzing you every day. This visit isn’t a joke. Grand-mère wasn’t kidding that you have to know everything about the château.”

  My hands flew to my eyes, covering them. “I know. And I’m freaking out.”

  “You have to remain cool, calm, and collected. Ready for your next lesson?” she asked, and I nodded. “When you meet them, you’ll have to address each and every guest,” she said. “By name.”

  “How on earth do you do that?”

  “It’s a little trick and part of the château experience,” she said. “People are always impressed when you address them by name. First, the porter sneaks a peek at their luggage tags. He calls me up with a walkie-talkie before they get to the front door. I open it and say welcome to Château de Champvert, introduce myself, and ask them if they have any special requirements and if they are celebrating any special occasions like an anniversary or birthday. When I check them in, I quickly note everything down in the computer. If we have a birthday or an anniversary, we usually comp a bottle of the ancestral-method sparkling wine and dessert.”

  “Okay,” I said. “But how do you remember them after the first introduction?”

  “I focus on unique features,” she said, shrugging. “Sometimes I make up strange little expressions. Like Monsieur LeBlanc with the moustache blanche. He’s the one you’ll have to keep your eye out for.”

  “The auditor?”

  “Yes, and don’t worry, I’ll take special care to point him out to you, as well as all the other VIPs.”

  My mind boiled with information overload. I had to approach this immersion like one of the lame jokes Walter and Robert had told me when they were trying to cheer me up.

  “How do you eat an elephant?” he’d asked, and I’d shrugged. “One bite at a time.”

  “Jane, just to let you know, I’m really serious about this,” I said.

  She placed her hands on my shoulders. “I know you are. And I’m going to do everything in my power to help you through this.”

  “And I’m thankful for your help,” I said. “Really, this château wouldn’t run without you.”

  “Or you,” she said. I swear a smile crossed her lips before she turned serious again. “On to the next lesson?”r />
  We didn’t need words to apologize to one another. Earning respect, as I learned that morning, was a two-way street, and bygones were bygones.

  * * *

  Aside from stealing the occasional kiss, I didn’t see much of Rémi, save for when we visited Grand-mère together with Lola. I was in total immersion, learning about everything the château offered—from the honey production to the confitures right down to the history of the château, which Grand-mère enlightened me on.

  “Napoléon Bonaparte himself bestowed your great-great-grand-père with his title in 1813. Back then the titles were used to distinguish the nobility from the middle class, just after the French Revolution. Your great-grand-père was a magistrate—noblesse de robe—and originally came from Paris where he served in the parlement,” she said.

  “Was the château affected by the war?” I asked.

  “We were all affected by the second world war,” said Grand-mère with a pained breath. “I was just a young girl of three when the Germans took over our home in Bordeaux. Before they arrived in 1940, I remember my parents hiding everything of value,” she said.

  “Under the floorboards,” I said.

  “Exactement,” she said. “Alors, the Germans had no interest in taking over our home, but they did have interest in our wine. They looted the cellar, taking every last bottle. Times were tough. Food was rationed and it was scarce. I remember my father talking to my mother about moving us to America. As you know, he was in the shipping business. Unfortunately, the Germans had taken over the port and there was no way to escape from their strong grip.”

  “Wow,” I said, clasping her hand.

  “It was in 1942 when some of the surrounding areas of Toulouse came under direct German rule. Your grand-père and his parents weren’t forced off the property when the Germans took over the château, but were asked not so politely to move into the clock tower,” she said. “Pierre was around twenty then. He joined the Resistance—a dangerous thing to do with the Germans a breath away, but he wanted to fight for his home and his country. I don’t know the details of what he did, since Pierre didn’t like to discuss this troubling time, as many of us don’t, but I’ll never forget the day when all of France was liberated in 1944. There was a grand celebration at Place du Capitole in Toulouse; I was seven years old. When we married, Pierre told me the Germans left the château in near ruin.”