Learning Curves 1 - French Cooking 101

by Rigal, Olivia

  CONTENTS

  Foreword

  Legal matter

  Thanks

  Chapter One - Ariane

  Chapter Two - George

  Chapter Three - Peter

  Chapter Four - Mary

  Chapter Five - Ariane

  Chapter Six - George

  Chapter Seven - Peter

  Chapter Eight - Charles

  Chapter Nine - Ariane

  Chapter Ten - Peter

  Chapter Eleven - Mary

  Chapter Twelve - George

  Chapter Thirteen - Ariane

  About the Author

  Review

  Bonus 1

  Cheese Soufflé

  Crème brûlée

  Vinaigrettes

  Preview book 2

  LEARNING CURVES I

  French Cooking 101

  by

  Olivia Rigal

  ©2013 Lady O Publishing LLC

  www.ladyopublishing.com

  This book is a work of fiction.

  Even if some locations depicted do exist

  and some collective events did occur,

  this story is totally fictitious

  The names, the characters, and the events described

  have been imagined by the author.

  Any resemblance with reality would be a coincidence.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  For permission requests, write to the publisher at the address below.

  contact / Lady O Publishing

  www.ladyopublishing.com

  Special thanks to:

  Cassie Cox @

  Red Adept Publishing

  &

  Yoly @

  Cormar Covers

  and to Becca Whitaker

  for Ariane’s cartoon.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Ariane

  ARIANE SLIPPED THE RED LOOP around her neck. The apron covered but couldn’t conceal her ample bust. She made sure none of her wild blond curls escaped her net-covered bun then tied the apron around her waist. She didn’t need a mirror to know the garment showed off her hourglass figure, but she had made her peace with that. After all, to most people, a skinny cook was a suspicious oddity.

  She looked around one more time to make sure everything was in perfect order for the intensive weekend seminar. On six of the eight work stations located on the central island, she had placed the tools needed for the Friday evening introductory session, along with sturdy, off-white cotton aprons embroidered with her school’s logo. The handbooks included easy traditional French recipes they should be able to carry out after the weekend workshop. In the adjacent room, where they would sample their own cooking, she had set the table for seven.

  Only American apprentices had registered for the special French Cooking 101 class, which she had announced on some popular foodie blogs and advertised in a Paris expat magazine. Her English wasn’t bad, and her teaching method was very hands-on. With years of experience, the first of which had been at a vocational school with very difficult kids, she was pretty sure that whatever she couldn’t explain with words, she could demonstrate.

  Ariane secretly hoped that she would get at least one truly talented student, one who would leave her course feeling confident enough about the basics to become creative and really good. But a weekend was not much time, so if they were all capable of preparing a palatable meal by Monday, she would be happy.

  The first two to register were Jena and Thomas, young newlyweds in Paris for their honeymoon. They had been gifted with her seminar as a wedding present from some friends.

  Next were Mary Doyle and her brother, Peter. Ariane had exchanged a few emails with Mary, who had arranged the entire trip. She was in Paris for ten days to celebrate her fortieth birthday with her “kid” brother. Mary had explained that while she could find her way around a kitchen, her brother, the proverbial absent-minded professor, desperately needed to learn how to cook a decent meal for himself.

  The fifth student was George Sweet, an American living in Paris. He was working on a historical novel about François Vatel, the superintendent of the kitchens of the Grand Condé and a famous French icon for all cooks. The man had become legendary after committing suicide over the late delivery of the fish he was to serve to Louis XIV. George had started his novel and realized that to write about life in a kitchen, he needed some basic training.

  Ariane had done a Google search on George. After reading a few of his reviews, she discovered that he was indeed a famous author. He had written quite a few novels based on historical characters and was acclaimed for the thorough research he carried out to acquire knowledge of the periods and activities of his subjects. Ariane didn’t care for historical fiction, but fortunately, none of his books had been translated into French, so she had a perfectly acceptable reason for not having read any of them.

  The last student was Charles—no last name given. She’d spoken to him briefly on the phone earlier in the week for a last-minute registration. He lived within walking distance of her school and had been told about the seminar by her friend, Jean-Michel, who was very active in the LGBT movement. Jean-Michel managed the butcher shop where Ariane purchased her meat on rue Saint Dominique. When she had thanked him for the referral, he hinted that Ariane should let Charles know that he was available to give a special course on the French choice pieces. Ariane was pretty sure he wasn’t talking about cuts of beef.

  Charles had introduced himself as an actor who had just been hired to play the American cousin of the hero of a French soap opera. During his six-month contract, he looked forward to taking full advantage of his stay to try everything Paris had to offer. If Ariane’s gaydar was in working condition, he was not considering sampling the French women.

  ❦

  Ariane pulled up the curtains of her workshop windows to let in the last moments of daylight. Daylight Saving Time made for very late sunsets. She was happy to see that some of her students were already there. She unlocked the glass door and welcomed them in.

  George Sweet came toward Ariane. He looked around forty. Square and sturdy were the two words that came to Ariane’s mind. He gave her a seriously strong handshake while he mumbled something that sounded like “nice to meet you.” Square jaw, square hands, square shoulders—a regular block of granite. He didn’t smile but just walked right in. That will be one icy grouch to thaw, thought Ariane, turning to two people holding hands. She assumed they were Jena and Thomas.

  They made twenty-nine-year-old Ariane feel almost ancient. They couldn’t possibly be a day over twenty. Both were adorably cute in their identical jeans and white T-shirts, about the same height and the same build, Thomas as dark as Jena was blond. They looked blissfully happy. But then, what did they have to be unhappy about? They were young, madly in love, and honeymooning in an exotic city!

  “Congratulations on your marriage,” said Ariane as she hugged Jena and gave her a kiss on each cheek according to the French fashion. She did the same with Thomas and walked with them to their workstation. “I usually separate people who come together to avoid distractions, but French tradition prohibits sitting couples apart for the first year of their marriage, so I have seated you together.”

  “Oh, thank you,” said Jena. “I promise we’ll be good.”

  “Or at least we’ll try,” continued Thomas with a wink.

&
nbsp; They were interrupted by Martine, the teenage daughter of Patrick, the next-door baker with whom Ariane shared a special bond. Martine arrived with the lovely assortment of bread Ariane had ordered.

  “Bonjour, Martine,” said Ariane. “Ça va?”

  “Ça va, tu veux la même chose pour demain et dimanche?”

  “Oui merci,” said Ariane, confirming her identical orders for Saturday and Sunday.

  Before slipping away, Martine whispered in Ariane’s ear, “Beau cul le petit!”

  Martine rushed out without waiting to see the effect of her “nice ass” bomb. Ariane laughed out loud. Without turning around, Martine waved good-bye. From the way her shoulders moved, Ariane could tell she was laughing as well. Ariane wondered when precisely the tomboy she had met just a few years ago had turned into a seventeen-year-old girl who looked at boys’ derrières. She wondered if Patrick knew how grown up his daughter had become.

  Ariane put the bread basket away in the dining room and came back to the workroom. She looked at George Sweet, who was exploring her small universe. He was studying the diplomas and awards Ariane had framed and hung on her walls. Noticing that he started to smile as if he was suitably impressed, she made a mental note to thank Véronique, her friend and marketing mentor. She had instructed Ariane on making the best of all she had and forced her to toot her own horn.

  “Mr. Sweet, you will be working next to Jena,” she told him.

  “Please, call me George,” he answered, looking past Ariane through the window. “I think more of your students are here.”

  Ariane looked out the window too. “That will be Peter and Mary Doyle.” She walked toward the door to greet the new pair.

  They had a definite family resemblance. In addition to warm identical smiles, strong jaws, and a hawk-type nose, they both had piercing blue eyes and a head of black hair—curly for Mary and too short to know for Peter. He had the complexion of someone who lives outdoors. That seemed odd for a university professor. Both were tall and triangular. Peter’s triangle went from muscular shoulders to his narrow waist, and his sister’s triangle grew from a narrow bust to wide hips. Two pieces of a family puzzle.

  She was not beautiful, nor was he drop-dead handsome, but there was something about them. As they walked around the room introducing themselves and shaking hands, Ariane felt it. They both had charisma. They were charming and magnetically attractive. Judging by the way George was looking at Mary, Ariane could see that he obviously shared her opinion—at least about Mary. Ariane had just assigned Mary and Peter to separate work stations when Charles burst in.

  “I’m not late, am I?” he asked in a coquettish way.

  Looking at him, Ariane couldn’t help smiling. Her gaydar was perfectly tuned. He was the poster boy for a gay caricature. Too cute, too groomed, too perfect, and way too dressed up for kitchen work. Through his clothes, she could see he had a perfect body. He had broad shoulders, long limbs, and lean muscles that made for a magnificent-looking male. At the same time, he had such an air of vulnerability about him that the main thing Ariane saw was an obvious need to be accepted and loved. She felt an overwhelming urge to reassure him.

  “No, of course not. You’re not late. Everyone else was early.” Ariane pointed to the large clock adorning one of the walls above the ovens. “It’s just six, so we’ll start. We have two hours to get our dinner ready. For this weekend, you will take your dinner at eight p.m. as French people do. Well, unless you’re in grammar school and eight is your bedtime.”

  ❦

  CHAPTER TWO

  George

  GEORGE TRIED TO LISTEN TO what Ariane was explaining about the composition of a traditional French meal. It was actually interesting and could be useful for his book, but he was distracted.

  He kept looking at Mary, who was sitting next to him. He had no idea what was wrong with him. Well, actually, the truth was…he was having a very bad case of lust at first sight.

  Being, by trade, a studier of human behavior, he was observing himself with some amazement. Objectively, Mary was far from pretty. The big jaw and prominent nose she shared with her brother looked good on him but were too masculine for a woman’s face. Nevertheless, they somehow worked with her large blue eyes and lovely smile. Her large red lips opened on perfectly aligned, white teeth. As far as he was concerned, she was irresistibly attractive. Go figure… It had to be chemical.

  Ariane continued, “…so for a Sunday lunch when the entire family gets together, the meal comprises a starter ‘l’entrée’—that’s what we call a ‘faux ami.’ You know the word ‘l’entrée,’ but it does not have the same meaning in your language. Then a ‘plat principal,’ which is what Americans call ‘entrée’, followed by a salad and cheese, often served at the same time, and then ‘le dessert.’”

  Clearly oblivious to George’s distraction Ariane addressed him directly, bringing him back to earth. “George, to help with your research, I have prepared books about 17th century cooking that I can lend to you for a while. You’ll see that during that period, those who did not starve had amazingly diverse meals.”

  “Thank you, Ariane,” he managed to mumble. He felt like a complete idiot, as though he was back at school and letting his mind wander.

  “Now let’s get cooking,” Ariane said. “We’re going for a light evening meal. We’ll start with a classic vegetable soup, continue with a ‘poisson en papillotte,’ and end with a ‘tarte fine aux pommes.’ Tonight will be our shortest session. We’ll have three teams of two: Jena and Thomas, George and Mary, and Peter and Charles.”

  Mary looked at George and smiled. He felt like the luckiest guy on earth. He was going to say something, but she silenced him by touching his arm and directing him with a movement of her chin to listen to Ariane’s instructions. Just the pressure of her hand on his arm, and he was rock solid like…a regular rolling pin! Boy, concentrating would be difficult.

  Ariane said, “All you need is in the bag in the sink in front of you. The recipes are in your handbook. The first thing you need to do is look at the time you need to cook or bake everything. You need to organize your work and decide what you will start first. The soup takes the most time since you have to peel the vegetables, boil the water, and then cook it. The pie is second, but you’ll want it hot when you serve it. You’ve got to get it ready but wait to throw it in the oven because it’s a fast bake.

  “The ‘papillotte’ is quite quick but only if the oven is already warm. So first, go turn on the oven to two fifty. Yes, right, sorry… Everything is metrics here. But before you do anything else, there is one thing you must do first. Does anyone know what I’m talking about? No? Well it’s a basic hygiene rule. Wash your hands.”

  ❦

  For the first half hour, Ariane supervised each team. She told Mary she was leaving George in her capable hands since it was clear Mary knew what she was doing. George was delighted. Working with Mary, uninterrupted by Ariane, was a pleasure. He had a private tutor and enjoyed every second of their time together.

  “You see,” Mary explained, “the length of the cooking varies according to the size of the vegetable. The more you slice and chop, the quicker it will cook. So your cooking depends on how much time you have and what type of soup you want. If you’re going to purée your vegetables once they’re cooked, then you just chop them into large pieces. If you don’t want something a little more sophisticated, then you need to cut all of the vegetables in pieces that are the same size and put them in the water in the right order to get them all at the proper consistency at the same time.”

  “You seem to know everything about cooking. Why are you taking this class? It’s not advanced enough for you,” asked George.

  “You’re absolutely right,” answered Mary with a wink, “but this is perfect for my brother. He needs basic training. He’s been a recluse—eating frozen food and take out—since his wife passed away a year ago.” Getting closer to George, she whispered, “Look at him now. Two minutes of Ariane’s a
ttention, and he’s a regular peacock on parade.” She chuckled. “She’s just what the doctor ordered to get Peter back in the saddle, so to speak.”

  “How long are you guys in Paris for?”

  “Ten days. We’re leaving Monday night. Why?”

  “Well that’s short, and this is only a weekend seminar. They’ll barely have time to get to know each other.”

  “Oh, snap out of it, George. This is the 21st century, not the Middle Ages. People don’t court for months before they declare their intentions. That is, if that’s what they really did then. I have strong doubts about that. Anyway, today, you see someone you like, and you go for it. Sometimes you get lucky, sometimes you don’t. In that case, you move on and try again ’til you get it right.”

  “Wow, let me process this. I seem to have been living in my history books for too long,” said George, leaning closer to Mary while slicing the last onion. “Let’s say I’m interested in you. I should find a way to let you know—”

  “Like keeping almost constant eye contact at the risk of chopping off your fingers?”

  “That would be one way, I guess.” George cautiously brought his eyes back to his knife.

  “Or then again, you could ‘accidentally’ lean against me when you want to get a closer look at what I’m doing.”

  “Oh, and then it would be your turn? You would need to find a way to let me know you’re interested as well by…” George paused his chopping and looked at Mary, his eyebrows raised.

  “Let me see… I could not move away when you lean against me, or I could start by initiating physical contact when I talk to you.” Mary put one hand on his arm while leaning over to throw the onions in the pot. She brushed his shoulder with her breasts as she moved back.