Compared to what my grandparents had gone through, the audit from La Société des Châteaux et Belles Demeures was a walk in the park. The troubles I’d faced in New York were ancient history. I kissed Grand-mère on the cheek. “Thank you for sharing all of this history with me,” I said. “I’ll fight for the château, for our family’s home, for you.”
“I have no doubt you will,” she said. “You are a Valroux de la Tour de Champvert.”
“That I am,” I said, lifting my head up high. “And I’ve never been prouder.”
That afternoon, I wandered the grounds, breathing in everything I’d learned about the château. I was fighting for the past. I was fighting for the future, one I desperately wanted to win. As I made my way down to the river, I realized I was walking in my grand-mère’s footsteps, and a deeper pride set in.
* * *
I was in the process of studying when Phillipa banged on my door and barged into my room. “You have to come with me now,” she said. She grabbed my arm, lifting me off the window seat. My papers scattered on the floor. “We need you downstairs.”
“Is there a problem?”
“You could say that,” she said.
We raced down the stairs and into the salon, where Clothilde, Bernard, Rémi, Lola, Laetitia, Grand-mère, and Agnès waited, all of them facing the doorway and watching my entrance with stoic expressions. I was about to ask what was going on when Jane entered the room carrying a chocolate cake, the glaze shimmering like silk, decorated with candied purple pansies with happy faces and lit with candles.
“Joyeux anniversaire,” they sang.
I didn’t remember the last time anybody, save for Walter and Robert, had wished me a happy birthday, let alone sang. I didn’t even remember it was my birthday. Before I lost it, Lola scurried up to me and pulled at my skirt. “Tatie Sophie,” she said, pointing. “Gâteau.”
“Oui, Lola, un gâteau au chocolat,” I said, wiping my happy tears away with the sleeve of my dress.
“Blow out the candles and make a wish,” said Phillipa.
I closed my eyes and I blew. This time my wish wasn’t to become a three-starred chef, nor was it to impress La Société des Châteaux et Belles Demeures when they came for the audit. I wished for more days like today, to share happy times with my friends and my family. I sliced the cake, handing Lola’s piece to her first. She plopped down on the floor and dug right in, chocolate covering her face in less than thirty seconds. Phillipa popped open a bottle of the château’s sparkling wine and poured glasses for everybody. We sat down on settees or at one of the smaller tables and after a toast, ate the cake.
“Who is responsible for this masterpiece?” I asked. “Clothilde?”
She shook her head no. “I made it,” said Phillipa, her mouth full. “It took me three days.”
Jane handed me a large white box wrapped with a silver silk bow. “This is from me. I thought it was appropriate, considering.” She tilted her head to the side.
I undid the ribbon and lifted the top off the box, throwing it to the floor and pulling out a chef’s coat with embroidered poppies surrounding the cuffs. It was a modern version of my grandmother’s apron. As I traced the flowers with my finger, I couldn’t hold back my ragged breath.
Jane placed a tender hand on my back. “You hate it that much?”
“No, I love it that much,” I said, standing up, and we swappd les bises. “Thank you.”
“Brilliant,” she said, tears glistening in her eyes. “I’ve had similar ones made for Clothilde and Phillipa, too.”
Grand-mère nodded, her chin lifting with approval. “The coat is absolutely beautiful, Jane. I’m sure Sophie will wear it with honor.”
“I will,” I said.
Once we were finished eating, Rémi pulled me to the side. “Do you have a minute? I’d like to speak with you alone,” he said, leading me into the entry. He stood quietly, fidgeting.
“Yes?” I asked.
Rémi rubbed the nape of his neck and then pulled out a jewelry box from his inside coat pocket. “Joyeux anniversaire, Sophie. Open it.”
I lifted the lid of the box and nearly fainted when I saw what was nestled inside—a white-gold chain with three pavé-diamond-encrusted stars dangling off it.
“You now have your three stars. I know it isn’t the same, but this is me bringing you closer to them.”
A tear crept down my cheek. “Rémi, I don’t know what to say. Thank you.”
“I’m the one who should be thanking you. Since you’ve come back to Champvert, I’ve had visions of what could be. Happiness. Lift your hair,” he said, taking the necklace, and with gentle hands, he clasped it around my neck.
“This is the most thoughtful gift I’ve ever received. How did you know my birthday was today?”
“I have my informants,” he said.
“Grand-mère?” I asked, and he nodded.
I gave him a kiss on the cheek, inhaling his woodsy, masculine scent. “You know what? Maybe I never found my heart in the kitchen. Maybe I found my heart right here in Champvert many years ago,” I said.
“Are you quoting a romance novel?”
“No,” I said.
“Are you saying you might be falling in love with me, too?”
“I am,” I said, looking into his caramel eyes. “We strays need to take care of one another.”
“What are we going to do without the drama?” he asked.
“Live our lives—love, laugh, and eat cake,” I said.
Rémi pulled me in for a kiss—a spine-tingling, toe-curling kiss. When we returned to the salon, his arm was still wrapped around my shoulders. Laetitia grinned. Clothilde and Bernard exchanged confused glances. Grand-mère raised her eyebrows knowingly.
“I guess our relationship is out in the open,” I said.
“As if it was such a big secret?” said Grand-mère with a huff. “I may be old and sick, but I’ve never been blind.”
“What do you mean ‘never’?” I asked.
“Ma chérie, if you’re asking if I saw you and Rémi kiss down by the lake when you were thirteen, then my answer would be yes. I also saw you locking eyes on that snowy day.”
Busted.
30
opening day
In mid-April when the château had its first official event before the season started, the entire world would be waiting to judge me, this time not as a person at the heart of a scandal, but as a Grand Chef and the maîtresse de maison of this château. Of course, I’d always wanted people to recognize me as a culinary talent, just more organically. I felt like a reality star who the press had thrust into the limelight with no rhyme or reason. The public glommed on to the morsel that the château was, for the most part, a woman-run business with a woman-run kitchen. We were getting emails of support every day, which, thankfully, Jane answered. I sat at the edge of the lake, putting my game plan together. Being in nature, in quiet without all the constant chatter, put me at ease. As I watched two male mallard ducks try to chase a female guarding her ten adorable buttery and caramel ducklings, my phone buzzed—a text from O’Shea.
Blackbird is closing down. Aside from Trevor, Eric’s other investors pulled out. Word on the street is his food was inedible, all remakes of my recipes, but loaded with too many spices. He came in begging for his old job. I said no. Thought you’d like to know.
Part of me felt bad for Eric, but he’d already consumed too much of my time. It wasn’t up to me to figure his life out. After texting O’Shea a quick thank-you, I skipped over to the greenhouse with a basket. Phillipa and I had our work cut out for us.
When she saw me smiling like a fool, Phillipa beamed. “You’re in a good mood. How’s it going with you and Rémi?” she asked, bumping her hip into mine.
“A lady doesn’t kiss and tell,” I said, blushing. Although Rémi and I had been arranging secret
midnight trysts when Lola and Grand-mère were fast asleep, we wound up falling asleep, too exhausted from preparing for the soft opening. “We’re still taking things slow and getting to know one another.”
She snorted and raised her hands in resignation and then shot me the okay sign. “Right. Slow.”
“Slow for him. Fast for me. And, on fast, ready to get planning?”
* * *
We opened the door to the greenhouse to find a plethora of strawberries—big, bright, speckled beauties, kissed and almost ripened by the climate. It was as though they had burst like fireworks overnight. “Technically, these shouldn’t be in season yet—not for another month,” I said. “Should we use them?”
“Rules are meant to be broken,” she said, licking her lips. “How many varieties do you think there are?”
“At least three. I spy Gariguettes, which have sweet and acidic tones. Clerys, which are sugary. And Charlottes, which are more woodsy,” I said, handing her one of each.
A few seconds later, we were stuffing one strawberry after the other into our eager months, fighting back groans of complete and utter delight by giggling. As the sweet flavors burst on my tongue, I thought of the photo of my mother dancing in the garden in her underwear. The memories of her now made me happy, not sad. I twirled around, thinking of her and my summers in Champvert. I was free. I opened my eyes to find Phillipa leaping like a strange ballet dancer, kicking up dirt. She fell to the ground, gripping her stomach, laughing and wheezing.
“What in the world are you doing?”
“Whatever you were,” she said. “It looked like fun.”
“If Jane could see us now,” I said, shoving another strawberry into my mouth.
“She might have joined in,” said Phillipa.
“No way,” I said.
“Since you guys started getting along, she’s changed. I think feeling less threatened by you is doing good things for her personality. She’s way less uptight. She’s even let her hair down. I think her tight French twist was pulling at her brain.” Phillipa sat upright. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to this château, you realize that?”
I took her hand, helping her off the ground. “I don’t know about that,” I said.
“I do. Here’s to the future,” she said.
When we exited the greenhouse, a kaleidoscope of butterflies floated over our heads, whirling in the sky. They were beautiful, their wings a creamy butter speckled with black. The top portion of the wings had stripes, similar to tiger markings, and the hind portion was marked with inlaid sapphire-blue crescents and one golden orange spot. One landed on my shoulder and fluttered its wings.
“Those are flambé butterflies. It’s how your grand-mère came up with the name for the other restaurant,” said Phillipa. “I Googled the English name: scarce swallowtails.”
“I prefer flambé,” I said. One of the butterflies hovered over an ocean of green stalks. I pointed. “What’s growing over there?”
“Wild asparagus,” said Phillipa, eyes wide. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
“Do you, by chance, have a knife on you?”
“Always,” she said, pulling it out from her pocket and flicking the cover open. “A Laguiole switchblade.”
“I believe we have our theme for the menu.”
After Phillipa harvested some of the asperge sauvage, throwing them in her basket, we raced back to the château. “Last one to the kitchen is a rotten egg,” I said.
* * *
By the time Phillipa caught up to me, I’d planned the menu in my head. By my expression, she knew it and handed me a piece of chalk.
“French classics. Fusion. The coming of spring!” I exclaimed.
MENU
L’AMUSE-BOUCHE
Strawberry Gazpacho served in Chinese Spoons, garnished with Deep-Fried Goat Cheese and Basil
L’ENTRÉE
Zucchini Cakes with Lemon Prawns and Braised Wild Asparagus, garnished with Edible Flowers
OU
Cream of Wild Asparagus Soup
OU
Roasted Cauliflower and Beets with Capers, served over Spinach in a White Wine Lemon Sauce
LE PLAT PRINCIPAL
Drunk Shrimp, Flambéed in Cognac, served over a Terrine of Tomatoes, Avocado, Strawberries, and Creamy Lemon Risotto
OU
Confit du Canard, served with Roasted Baby Carrots and Sweet Sautéed Radishes
OU
Bœuf en Croute with Foie Gras and Mushrooms, served with Grilled Wild Asparagus and Sweet Sautéed Radishes
LA SALADE ET LE FROMAGE
Strawberries and Wild Asparagus, served over Arugula with a White Wine Vinaigrette
Selection of the Château’s Cheeses
LE DESSERT
Crème Brûlée with a Trio of Strawberries and Cognac
Chalk in hand, I whipped around. “For every meal, we’re cooking from the heart. I want to feel love, taste it, and experience it in every dish. Are you with me? Love,” I said. “That’s our story.”
“Yes, Chef,” said Phillipa. “On love, I have something for you. It’s a belated birthday present. I meant to give it you before. Hold on, I’ll be right back.”
Phillipa headed into the servant’s stairwell and returned a few seconds later, carrying her dirty old backpack. “Sorry, I didn’t wrap it.”
“You’re giving me your backpack?”
“This old thing? Heavens no,” she said, grimacing. “I’m giving you what’s inside it.”
Phillipa unzipped the pack and reached in. She held out a leather-bound notebook with a red ribbon, similar to my grandmother’s. “I thought you’d like to keep up with tradition.”
I just stared at the notebook for a minute, realizing whatever story I told, even if I didn’t follow every single one of her recipes, or if I changed them, was also my grandmother’s tale. The tears threatened to explode.
“Don’t get all weepy and emotional on me,” she said. “You know rule number one—”
“Yeah, yeah, no crying in the kitchen,” I said. “I’ve been breaking that rule all the time.”
The flambé butterflies floated by the window, reminding me I was in charge of my fate. This time, I wasn’t going to go down in flames. Also, sometimes, it really felt good to cry, especially when I’d held all of my emotions deep inside for most of my life.
* * *
Finally, judgment weekend arrived. Although I’d prepared myself for the occasion, my nerves were wound so tight it took a good fifteen minutes to pull myself out of bed. It was as if all my muscles had locked up. It was seven thirty a.m. and I hadn’t slept much, if at all. Before heading to the kitchen, I scrambled up the stairs to visit Grand-mère. She smiled a feeble smile when I entered her room.
“Grand-mère, are you feeling okay?”
“I’m fine, ma chérie, just tired,” she said. “Don’t worry about me. You’ve got plenty of work to do.” She straightened up a bit. “Before you leave, I wanted to ask you what you will be wearing to the Sunday lunch. All the VIPs will be here, including our special visitor, and you’ll be representing the château. Do you have anything appropriate?”
“What would be appropriate?” I asked, wondering why nobody—not even Jane—had mentioned this before.
“This is France. This is a château,” she said, making a popping sound with her lips. “Chanel. It never goes out of style.”
“Grand-mère, I don’t own one stitch of Chanel.”
“Alors, it’s a good thing I do,” she said. “Go into my dressing room and choose something. My suits are arranged by size. The ones when I was petite like you are located on the right.” She waved me away. “Vas-y, take a look.”
I entered her large closet, a room in itself, and thumbed through my grandmoth
er’s clothes, quickly realizing she must have at least forty Chanel suits and over one hundred pairs of shoes and white blouses. So many couture choices, so little time. I ended up claiming a celery green and ivory tweed skirt suit with ivory grosgrain ribbons and black piping trim, with black buttons. When I carried it out in the light to show my grandmother, the tweed sparkled with a touch of iridescence. “Is this one okay?” I asked. For me, it was magic.
“Ah, oui, ma chérie, that was one of my favorites,” she said, clapping her hands together with delight. “Pierre bought it for me in Paris because he thought it would bring out the color of my eyes. It did. You’ll look lovely in it. A true vision. Your eyes will sparkle, too.”
I kissed her on the cheek. “Merci, Grand-mère.”
I exited her room, holding the fabric to my nose; it smelled of her—a mix of lavender and Chanel No. 5.
* * *
We were starting preparations early today—not overlooking any exquisite detail. As I headed downstairs, I heard Jane’s voice echoing in the servant’s stairwell. “The flowers just arrived. Ladies! Now.” I passed by Jane and she took me by the arm. “Come,” she said. “I’d like your opinion on my arrangements.”
Was confident Jane as nervous as I was? Was her bossy demeanor all a front? I really liked this new Jane. Once the veneer was cracked, she was charming, likable. My, how things had changed.
The Secret French Recipes of Sophie Valroux Page 26