by Gow, Kailin
He guided her down to the streets and turned East on Emeriau then meandered up one street and down another.
“It’s such a beautiful city,” Taryn mused as she looked all around her. Every street was an endless source of inspiration and awe. She was charmed by the architecture of the homes and awed by the heavenly scents that assailed her nostrils from every bistro. “You must really miss it when you go back to the States.”
He nodded as they arrived at the base of the Eiffel Tower. “Few cities can boast of something as spectacular.”
Hundreds of people milled around the tower, mostly tourists eager to get a snapshot or take a tour up, but also a lot of locals, stopping for a bite to eat or a relaxed moment in the late afternoon sun.
“How ‘bout a ride up?”
“Really?” She looked straight up at the tower. “It’s so high. I don’t know if I’ll be able to stomach the ride.”
“I’ll be there to catch you if you fall.”
“Falling isn’t really what I’m concerned about.”
“Okay,” he said with a wry grin. “I’ll be there to pick up after you if you get sick.”
As they approached to get a ticket, Taryn sighed with disappointment. “Look, Errol. The sign says they’ve already sold out for today.”
“Stay right here,” he ordered.
Before she could protest, he walked away and headed straight to the ticket booth. Moment’s later he returned. “Two tickets to the top.”
“But… How’d you…?”
“Being a world famous top chef sometimes has its privileges.”
They boarded the next elevator with several other tourists.
Feeling a little green, Taryn leaned into Errol as the elevator took off.
“You okay?”
“Yeah.” She straightened up and dared a view of the ever shrinking buildings as the elevator rose higher and higher. The horizon was constantly pushed back further offering a view of the l’Arc de Triomphe then the parks and homes beyond it until finally all of Paris and beyond came into view.
The ride itself was easy and smooth, but the shaky stop once again had Taryn leaning into Errol. The moment the doors opened, she jumped out, eager to get away from the crowd and breathe an abundance of fresh air. A group of tourists, waiting to return back down, parted like the Red Sea as she plowed through them and rushed to the banister that surrounded the viewing area.
“Pardonnez-moi,” she said over and over again as she turned to apologize to the crowd.
Most smiled sympathetically, while others openly glared at her. One older woman dared a ‘maudite Americaine.’
“Don’t worry about her,” Errol said as he came to Taryn’s side and put his arm around her.
“Sorry. That last little jump of the elevator nearly did me in.”
“I have to admit, I’m happy you were able to contain yourself.”
She smiled at him. “Well put.”
“Now,” he said with mock exasperation. “Enough talk of your tumultuous belly and let’s take in this view.”
Taryn looked out as far as she could see and let out a dreamy sigh.
“Bet a view from the Empire State Building never looked this good.”
“Don’t knock the Empire. It’s pretty iconic in its own right.”
“I’m just saying…”
“It is beautiful,” she admitted as she turned to face the cool breeze.
“Come on. Let’s see what the other side has to offer.”
A young amorous couple leaned against the banister, their eyes melting over one another. Standing almost nose to nose, it was clear no one around them existed. They were alone in their own romantic little world.
“Let’s leave them alone,” Taryn suggested as she turned to go the other way.
“Newlyweds,” Errol said with an indignant huff. “The place is full of them. Or maybe they just got engaged. If the sucker only knew what he was getting himself into.”
Taryn shot him a nasty glare. “How romantic of you,” she spat.
They came upon a view of Pont Alexandre III and Montmartre in the distance, and Taryn was swept away by the romanticism of it all. How perfectly spectacular, she thought.
“I’m a pragmatic realist,” he argued as he gazed at the famed Chateau.
“You don’t believe in marriage?” She’d heard he was an elusive bachelor but had never really thought he was so dead set against marriage.
“Believe? What’s to believe? You get hitched because some woman wants a damned ring on her finger and all the fluff that goes with a wedding.” He looked pointedly at her. “You wannabe princesses all want that damned wedding. What’s the deal? If half the women out there put as much effort into actually pleasing the guy they claim to love enough to put through this farce as they do into the farce of the wedding itself, maybe the divorce rate wouldn’t be what it is.”
“Wow,” she droned. “What a sad take on something so beautiful.”
He leaned over the banister and looked straight down. “If it’s really that beautiful, why do more than half of them end with fighting and hating?”
She didn’t know what to say. Her view of marriage had always been a little magical, like most girls. She had her own dreams of walking into Kleinfeld’s and picking out the perfect Pnina Tornai dress. She’d envisioned the flowers, the venue, the food. The reception hall would be in white and silver, and she’d often flirted with the notion of a color theme for all the guests. Her bridesmaid would…
Oh my God. Errol was right, she thought with dismal frankness.
“You’re just now waking up to the realization, aren’t you?”
She blushed as she saw him looking intently at her.
“I saw it,” he said as he drew his finger in the air around her face. “That look in your eyes. You’ve had those fairytale dreams, too, haven’t you?”
Shrugging off his accusation, she turned to Paris. “When I was six, maybe, but since then I’ve grown up and I have a more adult view of marriage. Of course, I know there are a lot of divorces out there, but that still doesn’t mean a happy marriage can’t exist.”
“For six months, top. After that you just have a couple who tries to pretend they want to be together. Before long they’re barely able to stand being in the same room together. Then it’s just a matter of having an affair right then and there, thereby stretching the marriage out a little longer, or doing the honorable thing and calling it quits before anyone really gets hurt.”
Dumbfounded, she looked at him.
“Don’t look at me like that, honey. I’m not unhappy knowing all this.”
“But, what do you have to look forward to if not meeting someone you can love and trust and spend the rest of your life with?”
Taking a hold of her elbow, he led her along the walkway and let out a little laugh. “Give yourself a few years and a few relationships, and you’ll see exactly what I mean.”
A denser crowd occupied the west side of the tower and Taryn wondered what the fuss was all about, until she caught sight of the golden rays of the fading sun that lit the sky.
“Sunset over Paris,” Errol said. “There’s nothing like it.”
Taryn tried to get a better view, but there were too many heads in front of her.
“Here.” Errol pulled her back to the elevator. “I have an idea.”
“But the sunset…”
“I know where we can have a perfect, undisturbed view of the sunset, all while enjoying a perfect glass of Pinot Noire.” He turned to the elevator operator. “Le Jules Verne.”
“We won’t have time, Errol.” She grabbed the side of the elevator as it jolted into motion. “In another twenty minutes the sun will be completely over the horizon.”
“In two minutes we’ll be sitting at one of the finest restaurants in all of Paris, and we’ll enjoy the best view Paris has to offer.”
The doors opened and Errol guided her to one of the most famed restaurants in all of Europe. She’d not
paid attention when he’d mentioned Jules Verne, but now she remembered. It was the restaurant all tourists dreamed of eating at, while few could either afford the French menu or acquire a reservation.
In hushed tones Errol spoke to the maitre’d who smiled, checked his list then guided them to a quiet table with a breathtaking view.
“How’s that for a sunset?” Errol said as he pulled back her chair.
Feeling like the princess he’d scorned just moments earlier, she sat down. “I never would have believe I’d be sitting here at Jules Verne. It’s unreal.”
“Wait until you try their langoustines
While Taryn took in the view, Errol ordered a bottle of wine.
“I take it you approve,” he said.
She turned to face him. “Isn’t it a little ironic that you, the self-professed hater of all that is love, marriage and romance, should take me out to dinner in one, if not, the most romantic restaurant in the world. Do you have any idea how many people get engaged here?”
With a cockeyed grin, he picked up the menu and scrutinized it. “Just because people want to foolishly turn this gastronomical heaven into some Parisian tunnel of love…”
“You know, you’re really too cynical for someone your age.”
*****
After dinner they took a private staircase to the second level and strolled at their leisure. The sky had just turned its last shade of deep purple before succumbing to the darkness of night and the City of Lights sparked to life.
“Oh, my God. Errol…” She gently reached out to touch his hand. “Look how beautiful…” She wanted to weep at the beauty of this day, the perfect afternoon, the wondrous dinner and the spectacular night show.
She expected him to groan his disdain of romance again, but instead, he leaned into her and tenderly kissed her brow. They remained silent as they took in all the night had to offer.
When a cooled chill blew by them Errol gave her hand a tug. “How ‘bout a touch of sweetness to finish this off.”
The dessert was the perfect finish to their gastronomical meal. From beginning to end, dinner was everything the Jules Verne reputation promised; the food, elegantly plated and delicious; the view exquisite and unforgettable; the service impeccable.
“What I wouldn’t give to work in such a restaurant,” Taryn said as they later walked along the darkened streets below la Tour Eiffel.
Paris came alive at night. The lights, music and aromas all there to tempt the senses.
“I would have thought your aspirations ran higher,” Errol said. “Like owning a restaurant such as Le Jules Verne.”
She chuckled and leaned playfully into him. “You’re right. I do dream of owning such a restaurant… of turning the restaurant back home into the kind of place people dream of dining at.”
For a brief moment he put his arm around her and pulled her in tight before releasing her. “Do I hear a hint of doubt in that dream?”
Surprised, she looked up at him. “Do you?”
He shrugged. “There was a definite lack of conviction.”
“Hmmm.” She considered her words. Did she really have any doubt she’d succeed in building the reputation of her little family-owned restaurant into something like Le Jules Verne? “I know I have talent,” she finally said. “I know my way around the kitchen. I know how to bring out the flavors in food without overdoing it. I know many of the techniques that make for great haute cuisine. I certainly have the passion to go on learning what I don’t already know.”
“But…?”
She stopped and turned to face him. “After eating something as divinely perfect as what I ate tonight… I don’t know. I guess I just really wonder if I have what it takes to make it that far.”
Taking her hand in his he led her onto the paved path that ran along the Seine. “A little doubt can be good… keeps you on your toes… keeps you hungry and eager to learn… keeps you fighting for perfection. There’s nothing worse than complacency; than sitting on your laurels. Some of the best chefs lose their way because they allow themselves to think they know everything. We never know everything. Cooking is a constantly changing art. Just don’t let that little taste of doubt get the best of you. It can demolish you faster than you can collapse a soufflé.”
Hand in hand they walked along the river. Quaint streetlamps offered a minimal glow on the water, just enough to make for a romantic stroll. Taryn basked in the pleasant silence that enveloped them. Occasionally they crossed paths with other couples; couples who were obviously in love.
Taryn involuntarily squeezed Errol’s hand and wondered.
*****
While the dinner had been all and more than Errol had expected of his greatest competition, a regrettable little voice at the back of his head persisted in reminding him that it was because of her.
Taryn delighted him, more than he cared to admit.
As they strolled along the Seine, he knew they were surrounded by the romance Paris promised. Repeatedly, he told himself to let go of her hand, to shove his hands deep into his pockets and simply walked along the famed river as two friends, as two associates.
But her hand was soft and warm… and that little squeeze. What had caused her to spontaneously squeeze his hand like that?
You’re getting in too deep, his heart warned.
No, the depth of his loin reminded him. Women love to be romanced, to be wooed. He’d seen it in her eyes; despite his anti-marriage monologue, she still had dreams of a white dress and fairytale ending.
How mistaken she was if she thought her time with him would end happily ever after. No, tonight… this evening… it was the perfect prerequisite for a heated night of sexually tantalizing games… nothing more.
Chapter 8
“The idea behind this is I want the outside to be crispy without being crunchy while inside we find a warm… goo,” Errol said.
Leaning into the kitchen counter, Taryn let out an amused chuckle. “Goo? Is that the official term for it?”
Errol looked sidelong at her, his face a mask of professionalism. “As a matter of fact, I had considered giving the term some validity.”
“Errol King’s goo… sounds like it’ll take off. Before long everyone will be making Errol King’s goo with its crispy but not crunchy exterior.”
“You mock me, my dear assistant.”
Though he remained stiff and unsmiling, she knew he was toying with her. She’d come to know the little known comic side he hid from the world. Heaven forbid the world should discover that Chef King had a bonafide sense of humor.
“Not at all,” she said with a haughty air. “I think goo suits the purpose perfectly.”
They’d tried several variations of the recipe Errol wanted to add to his cookbook, but could still not get the consistency he sought. More salt. Less baking powder. More sodium bicarbonate. Less sugar. Hotter oven. Shorter time. Cool before putting into oven. Cool immediately out of the oven.
Finally, Taryn said, “What if we were to brush a little sweetened melted butter over it before popping it into the oven?”
Errol grimaced.
“What?” she said incredulously. “I think that’s a perfectly good suggestion.”
“Sweetened with what?”
She thought for a moment. She knew he would balk at plain white sugar, and brown sugar wouldn’t be much better. No, it would have to be a liquid sweetener. “How ‘bout honey?”
“Too common.”
“Molasses?”
He grimaced. “Too vulgar.”
“Maple syrup?”
“Too hard to come by.”
“Isn’t that the whole idea?” She opened the pantry door and peered inside. Among the various bottles of fancy oils and vinegars, the many jars of rare ingredients, spices and herbs and the few more common every day items, she found a bottle of molasses. “I just found something rather vulgar in your pantry, Errol.”
He cocked a brow as he looked at her. A boyish grin made a quick appearance on hi
s face before dashing off to leave room for a smirk. “Just because I enjoy a little molasses on my buckwheat pancakes every once in a while doesn’t mean it’s a good idea for this recipe.”
“Buckwheat pancakes? You?”
“Just because I’m a culinary genius doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy a little comfort food once in a while.”
Taryn grabbed the bottle of molasses and brought it to their working space. “I think this will work. Are you ready to give it a shot?”
He looked at the bottle then at her. “I honestly don’t think the flavor is going to harmonize well with the…”
“Goo?” she finished for him.
“Right,” he said with a chuckle.
Ignoring his doubt and skepticism, Taryn placed a small saucepan on the stovetop, threw in a generous pat of butter and gently melted it. When it was reduced to a golden liquid, she opened the bottle of molasses. “Just a soupcon,” she said as she poured a small dollop in.
“Why do I have a feeling you’re about to ruin the last batch?”
“Because you’re a cynical old man hiding in the body of…” She caught herself and looked sheepishly at him.
“The body of…?” he said as he rolled his hand in the air, urging her to continue.
With a nonchalant shrug she dipped her pastry brush into the now black butter. “The body of a young guy. That’s all.”
“Hmm.” He watched the workings of her brush. “I’m not really sure that’s the look I was going for.”
“Once it’s cooked, it won’t look that bad.”
“We’ll see.”
With a very Parisian ‘voila,’ Taryn opened the oven, popped in the cookie sheet and shut the door. “In eight minutes you’ll have your crispy goo.”
Facing one another, they leaned against the counter, waiting.
“You know, if this doesn’t work out, I have half a mind to shower you with the remainder of that molasses.”
“In…” In dramatic fashion, Taryn raised her wrist to her face and looked at her watch. “Four minutes, mon cher Errol, I’ll make you eat your words.”
“Of course you will. I’ll have nothing else to eat because you’ll have ruined my last batch.” Grinning, he drummed his fingers on the stovetop.