Provence - To Die For

by Jessica Fletcher

  Guy introduced me to Craig and Jill Thomas, visiting from Sheffield, England.

  “Retired now,” Craig said, “but used to work for the government.”

  “Yes, you were a boring sot,” his wife Jill teased him, poking his arm. “Much better now that you’ve got your head out of those books.”

  “She just likes the fact that I’ve got more time to escort her,” he said, winking at me. “Someone to carry the bundles when she shops. Someone to stagger under the masses of linens, boxes of soaps, and tins of olives we’re bringing back to a family desperate for a whiff of Provence in their deprived homes.” He mimed a man staggering under a pile of packages, trying to juggle them before they fell.

  Jill laughed at her husband’s dramatic performance. “Oh, you,” she said fondly. Still smiling, she asked me, “Where in the States are you from?”

  “Tell them while we go downstairs,” urged Guy, shepherding us toward the elevator. “The class is about to begin. The chef will be upset if we’re late.”

  “But we haven’t signed yet,” Craig said, hurrying back to the desk, then returning a moment later. “Signed for you, too, my dear,” he said to Jill. “Do you think it’s legal?”

  “I doubt they’ll arrest us,” she replied.

  The elevator door opened downstairs, and I felt a shiver of trepidation as we walked through the arch into the damp and dim interior courtyard. The table was set for eight, with several unopened bottles of wine at one end.

  “Creepy-looking place, isn’t it?” Jill whispered to me.

  “I feel the same way.”

  “It looks as if they should have torches burning here and instruments of torture rather than a dinner table.”

  In contrast to the medieval dining room, the kitchen classroom was brightly lit and inviting, but uncomfortably warm. I removed my jacket. Chef Bertrand was busy preparing his ingredients in the front of the room, a white apron covering him from chin to knees. Mme Poutine had already taken a seat on one side of the wooden table in the center of the kitchen. Next to her was a young man in a green sweater over a business shirt. The Thomases and I filled the three empty seats opposite him and Mme Poutine. The last student had not yet arrived.

  I began to relax. No decorating magazine could have created a more appealing space for a cooking class. We sat on high stools around a large butcher-block table. Two of the walls were filled with pale green shelves, displaying an array of kitchen paraphernalia, from antique pottery to copper pans, to baskets of clean towels, to glassware, to dishes in myriad shapes and sizes. Everything was within reach and attractively arranged, like a culinary still-life. Across from me, white tile formed a wainscoting on the wall beneath the many-paned window that overlooked the strange square where we would later share our lunch. On the fourth wall was a massive black iron stove with a hood faced with blue and white tiles. A shelf jutting out from the skirt of the hood held a row of tall, two-handled, wide-necked, white porcelain olive jars with rounded caps, lined up handle to handle so the triangular decorative design that had been painted on each one was exactly centered.

  “You know what is this design?” Guy asked me, seeing the direction of my gaze.

  I shook my head. “It’s not familiar.”

  “It is the hermine, the symbol of Brittany. Anne of Brittany was the queen of France. So this is a symbol of royalty.”

  “They’re so perfectly lined up,” I said.

  “In a kitchen, it is important to be precise,” Guy said.

  “Do you have everything ready?” Bertrand demanded.

  “Oui.” The sous chef jumped from his seat and nervously scanned the table, chewing on the edge of his mustache. He mentally tabulated the items that had been positioned around its surface, his head bobbing up and down as he accounted for each one. “Oui,” he repeated.

  “Then it’s time to start,” Bertrand said.

  Guy leaned over the empty stool, and with his long arm pressed the door closed. He continued talking to me. “We must have complete order in the kitchen, and know where everything is. That’s essential in a restaurant. It ensures that the cooking goes smoothly and the dish comes out the same every time.”

  “Well, the jars are beautiful. In fact, the whole kitchen is charming.”

  Guy smoothed his mustache with a thumb and forefinger. He looked at his watch, glanced at the empty place, and proceeded with the introductions. The young man next to Mme Poutine was René Bonassé, a businessman who had come south for the class. This was his second time observing Chef Bertrand.

  “The banker,” Bertrand said, pointing at the young man with a whisk covered in frothy egg whites that he had been whipping in a copper bowl.

  Bonassé frowned. “Not really.”

  Despite his youth—mid-twenties was my guess—he was very reserved and immaculately groomed. Tall and athletically built, he had the faint scent of starch about him, and the collar and cuffs of the shirt beneath his sweater were blindingly white. His closely cut jet-black hair was a startling contrast to robin’s-egg blue eyes. Serious about cooking, he was making notes on the pages in a folder in front of him. I noticed that the foreigners, myself and the Thomases, were lined up across from the natives, Mme Poutine and M. Bonassé. I wondered who would take the last seat on their side. Would it be another traveler? If so, Mme Poutine would find herself outnumbered by the dreaded tourists.

  Obviously familiar with the routine, she’d removed her jacket and now wore a long white apron over her skirt and blouse. Reading the material in a folder at her place, she absently pulled the gold earrings from her lobes and set them on the table.

  Bertrand, who was still whipping the egg whites by hand, nodded toward the piles of materials before the Thomases and me. “It’s time to put on your aprons; we will start right away.”

  Guy stood at the rear of the table, a cutting board in front of him and an array of knives by his right hand. “Since we are divided today, Chef Bertrand has consented to conduct the class both in English and in French, so everyone will understand what is happening.” As he spoke, he pulled carrots from a large bowl of vegetables and began chopping them. “When you are ready, please open your folders; you will find the menu for the day and the methods for preparing the dishes.”

  “Study them while we complete the initial preparations,” Bertrand added. “I will answer your questions as we go.”

  Craig Thomas pulled an apron over his head, mussing his wavy hair. “Don’t expect me to wear one of these at home,” he joked. “I’ll never be able to face my mates down at the pub.”

  Jill settled her sweater across the back of her chair and waited to tie his apron before drawing her own over her dress. She looped the strings around her waist and tied them in the front. I did the same.

  His apron on, René hunched over the papers and reviewed his notes. Mme Poutine tried to read them over his shoulder. She leaned into his arm to get a better view and whispered something, which made him start. He looked up at her with one eyebrow raised, and she moved away gracefully. I wondered if she’d been successful in her spying.

  I opened my folder and pulled out the pages with the menu and recipes for that day’s class. They had been written in French on one side of the paper and in English on the other. With only the faintest guilt, I scanned the English side. We were to prepare chestnut blini, sautéed wild mushrooms, saddle of rabbit, and charlotte for dessert. I reread the menu with dismay. Saddle of rabbit. Of course, rabbit was a popular dish in France—I knew that—but somehow it never occurred to me that game meats would be the focus of a cooking class.

  I’ve always considered myself to have a relatively sophisticated palate, but admittedly, I tend to avoid more exotic fare. There have been exceptions. I love escargots, especially the way Jean-Michel makes the snails at L’Absinthe. I’ve sampled sushi in Japan, although raw fish is not something I ever order at home. At a famous restaurant in Mexico City I made a point of tasting the classic dish, turkey mole. The sauce is chocolate, but
not the kind you pour on ice cream. And I doubt I’ll ever serve it on Thanksgiving in Cabot Cove. I do draw the line on some foreign foods, however. In Scotland, I managed to spend a delightful time at the table without ever having to eat haggis, the national dish. Just the thought of organ meats combined with suet, onions, and oatmeal, the whole mixture stuffed into a lamb’s stomach, is enough to dull my appetite.

  And now rabbit. I always envisioned that word with bunny in front of it. Disappointed that I couldn’t look forward to lunch with enthusiasm, I promised myself that I would concentrate on the techniques demonstrated and use them at home on something more to my liking.

  “Let’s begin by going over our ingredients on the table,” Chef Bertrand said, his eyes resting on René, who seemed to be writing down every word. “Voici les coings. Here are the ...” He was pointing to a wooden bowl, which held large yellow apple-shaped fruits. “What are they called in English, Guy?”

  “Quince.”

  “We will make them for dessert. You may substitute apple if quince is not available but probably will have to add some starch to thicken the sauce. Quince is very high in pectin, so no thickener is necessary for them.” He picked up a large kitchen knife, and tapped the flat side on a bag. “This is the chestnut flour for the blinis, pancakes, I think you call them. We will make them to be a side dish like a vegetable, along with the champignon des bois, the forest mushrooms.” He rapped on the edge of a tray on which several types of mushrooms were heaped, yellow chanterelles, white shiitakes, tan morels, and brown cèpes. “Over here I have wine, olive oil, mustard, honey.” The jars and bottles made musical clinks with each strike of his knife. Frowning at the door, he said, “Ah, at long last, our final pupil has arrived.”

  Guy opened the door for the sixth student, his tall body blocking my view. All I could see was the arm of a navy ski jacket holding up a large black backpack. There was a mumbled exchange as Guy took the backpack and turned to make the introductions.

  “This is Miss Cartright,” he announced.

  Mallory grinned at me and took her seat, greeting Mme Poutine and M. Bonassé in French, and leaning across the table to shake hands with the Thomases. “Nice to meet you. I’m so sorry I’m late,” she said.

  Recovering from my surprise, I said, “How are you, Mallory?”

  “Fine, thank you.”

  “Changed your mind about Marseilles?”

  “Kind of.”

  “Oh, you know each other. How nice,” Jill said, looking back and forth between us.

  The chef cleared his throat, and Mallory looked abashed.

  “Before this interruption, I was explaining the ingredients we will use today,” he said pointedly.

  “Please continue. My apologies for being late. I got lost....” She trailed off under a scowl from the chef.

  “You see the vegetables in front of Guy?” he went on, ignoring her. “These he prepares for the marinade. We cut up an onion, two shallots, carrots, whatever we have. Show them how we do the garlic.”

  Guy frowned at the peremptory tone, but took a head of garlic and pressed down on it with the heel of his palm.

  “We leave the skin on. It is less bitter that way,” the chef continued, looking at René. “Did you write that down? We wouldn’t want you to miss anything.”

  Bonassé ignored the irony in the chef’s voice, and looked up from his notes, his face composed without expression. “The garlic with the skin is less bitter,” he repeated.

  Bertrand pressed his lips together and continued his lesson. “It doesn’t matter if the skin stays on now; later we will strain all these out of our sauce. We sauté the vegetables first, and then add wine and spices.” He picked up a large sprig of thyme, and gazed at each of us in turn. “We boil it and pour it over the rabbit.”

  “Rabbit! Eeuw!” Mallory’s face flamed as all eyes turned to her. “Oh, I’m sorry. I just wasn’t expecting ...”

  Chef Bertrand growled, “Young lady, if you cannot contain yourself, I will ask you to leave. This is a class for adults, not tardy schoolchildren.”

  Mallory sank down in her chair, her eyes glued to her lap. “Sorry,” she mumbled. I was embarrassed for her, and my heart ached when I saw a tear trail down her cheek. The chef was right to be annoyed, but I was sure he would never have spoken so harshly to the rest of us, no matter how disruptive we were.

  “Chef Bertrand,” I called out, hoping to pull attention away from Mallory. “Please tell us about your knife. Is it your favorite? What is the brand?”

  Bertrand seemed pleased at the question. He smiled down at the knife he still held and raised it so we could see its shape from the side. “This is my own special design. There are only two in the world. I had them made for me twenty years ago. No, they are not something you can buy. See the form of the handle? This is so it fits in my palm comfortably. And this angle keeps my finger from sliding up onto the blade. Notice how the sides taper into the edge. This makes it easier to slide between the bones when you are cutting meat. I will pass it around, but be careful. It is very sharp.” He gripped the top of the blade and gave the knife, handle first, to Craig Thomas.

  “Nasty-looking weapon,” Craig said, hefting the knife up and down to feel its weight. “Here you go, love. Take care.” He put the knife down in front of Jill.

  I took it after her. On the blade, near the molded black handle, was the mark of the maker, and the phrase FABRIQUÉ POUR EMIL BERTRAND—“made for Emil Bertrand”—in curving script. The knife was heavy, naturally turning sharp side down when I let the handle roll in my palm. I gave the knife to Guy, who handed it to Mallory, giving her a wink and a smile. She immediately offered it to René, not taking any time to examine it. Mme Poutine returned the knife to its owner.

  “While Guy and I prepare the marinade, you may start on our dessert,” the chef said. “We need you to peel the quince and cut it into wedges. Do not throw away the skin or the core. We will cook these, too, and make jelly later.”

  Guy placed an empty plate in the center of the table—“for the skins”—and handed each of us a small wooden cutting board.

  The quince was more difficult to peel and cut than I had expected; the fruit is harder than an apple. Guy collected the wedges, poured sugar and water over them, and reached around Bertrand to place the pot on the stove, quickly moving out of the chef’s way. They worked smoothly as a team, years of cooking side by side resulting in a fluid pace, where each knew his steps and the timing of the ballet, although it was clear who the principal dancer was. While the chef sautéed the vegetables, Guy distributed ramekins and butter and brioche bread, and instructed us how to line the dishes with the bread to form the outer crust of the quince charlottes.

  While we followed Guy’s directions, Chef Bertrand completed the marinade, pouring wine over the sautéed vegetables, and dropping different herbs into the boiling mixture. He took a spoon from a stack of them, tasted the sauce, threw the spoon in the sink, and picked up another to scoop up a hunk of butter, which he stirred into the pot. Guy cleaned up after him, and carried a tray of soiled dishes and utensils out of the room.

  “Attention, s’il vous plaît,” Bertrand said. “May I have your attention, please.” We all looked up from our task. He had a bag in front of him and was spooning flour into a bowl he’d placed on a scale. “This is chestnut flour. We use two hundred fifty grams for three eggs,” he said, stirring the eggs into the flour. He wiped off the spoon with his finger and switched to a whisk.

  He looked over at René, who was bent over his paper scribbling rapidly. “Monsieur Bonassé, all I see is the top of your head,” he said. “How do you expect to learn if you spend all your time writing everything down?”

  The young man looked up impassively. “How else am I to learn except by writing it down?”

  “You watch,” Bertrand exploded. “That’s the whole point of taking a class with a master chef. You watch to learn. Otherwise, why bother to be here? You can stay at home in your Paris apart
ment and read cookbooks.”

  “Very well.” The younger man carefully put down his pen and crossed his arms over his notes. “I am watching,” he said coolly.

  “We will cook the blini now,” Bertrand announced. He turned his back to the class as he fussed with a pan on the stove.

  Mme Poutine got up from her seat and stood next to the chef while he cooked our blini. Since I knew she’d taken his class many times, I assumed what she did was permissible for everyone, and I joined the two of them at the stove. I stood behind Bertrand and heard her whisper in rapid-fire French, “René is rating you, I’m sure.”

  “Calm yourself,” he said in a low voice. “You are always imagining things.”

  “Emil, I saw his notes,” she murmured, offended. “It was an evaluation.”

  “Ridiculous!”

  “I am only concerned with what is good for you. You do not appreciate me anymore, now that you have a younger admirer.”

  “Your jealousy does not become you. Save it for your husband,” he said.

  He sensed my presence, turned, and said in English, “Ah, Madame Fletcher, you see how the pan is ready now?” He poured olive oil onto a flat round griddle with a long handle, swirled the pan around, and dropped in a hunk of butter that sizzled.

  Mme Poutine glared at me and walked away.

  “I apologize if I interrupted a personal conversation,” I said.

  “Not at all,” he replied mildly. “I am at your disposal. What would you like to know?”

  I would have liked to know more about their discussion, but asked instead, “What kind of stove is this?”

  “It’s an old wood stove,” he replied, ladling circles of the blini batter onto the hot griddle. “It is just for show, really. In my own kitchen I cook with gas. All my equipment is new.” He pulled the griddle to the side to reveal a series of concentric rings around a small hole through which the flames were visible. Using an iron tong, he hooked one of the rings and removed it, enlarging the opening, and exposing the griddle to more flame as he slid it back on the burner. “This is a kitchen from years ago, very charming, but perhaps a bit artificial. However, a good chef adapts to the circumstances. I can cook on anything.” He used a fork to flip the blinis, which were now browned on one side. “You are a good cook at home?”