I hope things are well at the chateau, and that Papa is not working too hard. I have thoughts in my head about a chocolate tea cake for him, so moist that he will forgive me for going away and doing something so gauche as to go to pastry school.
Give Maman my love and tell her that I promise to be very properly dressed at all times. Between you and me, however, I bought three sturdy, sensible dresses for classes. I wear aprons, of course, but it only made sense. What I couldn’t decide on, though, was if lighter or darker dresses made more sense. In the end, I decided that the presence of flour made lighter-colored dresses sensible (let us hope I don’t spend an entire class pitting cherries. No one can come out of that unscathed).
Oh, my dearest Cécile, I miss you so. Please beg Maman to let you visit me soon! But only on the weekend, as I’ll have classes during the week.
Bisous!
Mireille
I leaned back in my chair. Anouk—I’d heard about Anouk, Grand-mère’s first bichon frise. I hadn’t heard about Tante Joséphine, however. The tone of the letter made me smile—it reminded me of any number of e-mails to Caterina. I dove into the next letter, also from Mireille.
September 5, 1938
My dearest Cécile,
Forgive me for not writing. Tante Joséphine gave me quite the scolding (I believe Mother complained). I feel terribly, of course, but I shall tell you of my days.
I rise very early to bathe, dress, walk Anouk, and then take the metro to the 15th arrondissement, where the school is. On rushed mornings, I pass off the walking duties to the maid, Marie, which I suspect she enjoys since she offers every morning.
I attend each class—this term it’s “Fundamentals of Laminated Dough,” “Introduction to Chocolate,” and “Understanding Rising Agents.”
You know that I’m no simpleton in the kitchen, dear sister, but while I agree that I have things to learn (hence my enrollment), I’m nowhere near as delicate and scatterbrained as the gentlemen in my classes believe me to be.
Of course you must know how this irritates me.
So once I complete my courses for the day, I go to the markets to pick up whatever supplies I need and then return to Tante Joséphine’s home.
For the afternoon, I prep the doughs and pastries that need to be begun. This requires the use of a portion of the kitchen, which has not further endeared me to the cook, but one must make sacrifices.
After dinner I finish off the pastries that I started before, and then set them to bake. Lately I’ve taken to working on my chocolates and truffles while the pastries are baking.
Tante Joséphine blames me for the fact that her frocks have grown tight. We are working to arrange a donation of sorts to some of the ladies’ organizations. I would be very happy to provide the pastries for a fund-raiser or ladies’ tea, as long as they don’t care what they’re getting.
I am getting better, however. None of my classmates would ever admit so much—they’re too busy trying to hide my tools and salt things when I’m not looking—but my instructors have begun to chastise me less. I am getting stronger and much faster, and my small fingers are good with detailed work.
Anyway, after my evening baking I clean everything up (I do. The cook has no room to complain on that account), package up everything I made, and then fall into bed with an aching back and sore feet. Sometimes I take a bath first, if I’m wearing too much flour or sugar.
Mother will be pleased to know that I’ve located a very accommodating beautician who will cut and set my hair in the late afternoons. She is very kind, and she knows all the best confectioners in her arrondissement (the 3rd), so she’s useful as well.
How is the honey crop coming? I would very much like a jar (or three) of the chateau’s honey. It really is better than anything I can find in the city; poor souls can’t even tell the difference.
You’ll be happy to know I’ve posted letters to Maman and Papa as well. I have not told them how much I’ve been baking off-hours; I believe it would distress them both. Let’s keep that between us, yes?
Bisous!
Mireille
All happiness depends on a leisurely breakfast.
—JOHN GUNTHER
I took a catnap between seven and nine, and then showered and dressed for the day in a breezy cotton skirt and a V-neck tee. As much as I knew I needed a day or seven to catch up on sleep, I also knew that the restaurant’s soft opening day loomed whether I liked it or not.
We’d gone back and forth over the soft opening. Some restaurants simply opened and carried on. But because we were looking to serve a higher-end clientele, we had no room for errors. Instead, we’d have a crowd of friends, family, and invited guests to come and dine with us. From there, we’d learn which dishes took longer to get out of the kitchen, which staff members needed more training, and how well the flow between the front and back of the house worked. The staff received more practice, and therefore would be less likely to make errors that we would otherwise have read about on restaurant review sites.
Nico had winnowed through the waitstaff applications while I’d been gone. Today I got to conduct interviews.
The day would start off, though, with a staff meeting. For the occasion, I baked up a blueberry cake with hearty buckwheat flour, using the blueberries I found in the freezer.
“Morning!” Clementine greeted me as I waited for the cake to bake. “How’d you sleep?”
“Great, until about 4 a.m. I’m on somewhere-over-the-Atlantic time.” I nodded toward the oven. “I’ve got a blueberry buckwheat cake going for breakfast.”
“Smells great,” she said.
“If I’d known everyone was going to be over last night, we could have held the meeting then. Which,” I added, “might have worked if I had the ability to string two sentences together. I’m going to make an espresso. Want one?”
“Sure.”
I reached for the coffee beans. “You’re good with strong espresso, right?”
“Do you make it like your brother?”
“Nico? I suppose about the same.”
“Just as long as I know what I’m getting into.”
I lifted an eyebrow. “Nico made you coffee?”
“About a week ago, while you were gone.”
Interesting. My brother didn’t make coffee for just anyone. I considered asking about it, but a knock sounded at the door before I could say anything. “Speak of the brother. I’ll let him in.”
Sure enough, Nico and Adrian stood on the narrow landing. “We’ve got pastries and coffee in here,” I said. “What are you two contributing?”
“I brought nectarines,” said Adrian, holding up a cloth bag.
“And I’ve got bacon,” said Nico. “Which means I win.”
I rolled my eyes. “Funny. Come on in.”
“Can I borrow your stove?” Nico asked, waving a brown-wrapped package in the air.
“Oh, why not?” I answered breezily. “Clementine! The boys brought nectarines and bacon.”
“Bacon?” Clementine wrinkled her nose. “I’m vegetarian, you know.”
Nico stopped midstride. “Really?”
Clementine winked. “Gotcha.”
I plucked the bacon from Nico’s fingers. I gave him a significant glance, but his eyes never strayed from Clementine’s face.
Adrian caught my expression, though. He grinned at me and clapped Nico on the back before setting to work cutting the nectarines into wedges.
Once all the food was ready, the four of us loaded up plates and took them to the breakfast nook.
I grabbed my tablet device from the living room and opened up the calendar. As we dined on the nectarines, bacon, blueberry cake, and espresso, we mapped out exactly what the next several weeks would bring.
Ordinarily the sous- and pastry chefs wouldn’t have been involved in the process. But that was one of Nico’s talents—involving people in such a way that they felt like they mattered, felt heard.
By working so closely with his sous, Ni
co created a stronger, deeper kitchen. Even chefs needed a backup, and if he worked this closely with his sous, Adrian, he could get sick or injured without bringing the entire restaurant to a halt.
As far as Clementine’s involvement, it helped to break the usual barrier between the dessert offerings and the rest of the kitchen. As a result, the menus were better integrated, the ordering more streamlined.
And it gave Nico a chance to spend more time with her, which I suspected they both enjoyed.
“We’re getting down to the wire for training,” I said, looking down at the tablet calendar. “I’ll be interviewing waitstaff this afternoon.”
“For the love of bacon,” Adrian pleaded, “no actors. Please?”
Clementine shook her head. “Actors don’t like to wait tables anymore. They prefer working as personal trainers.”
Nico’s eyebrow quirked. “Really? When did that happen?”
“When they figured out the hours were more flexible and the pay was better. What?” She held her hands out defensively. “I dated an actor once.”
“You mean you dated a waiter,” Adrian corrected.
“Turned personal trainer.” Clementine shrugged. “It didn’t last. He gave up butter.”
“Good riddance,” I said. “More’s the pity for him—the two of you guys could have built up quite the racket. Anywho, waitstaff. They’re coming. Right now the soft opening is in less than two weeks, invitation only. Be thinking of who you want to invite. Ideally I’d like to see how we handle fifty covers and tweak things from there.”
Nico nodded, picking up a piece of bacon. “Sounds good.”
I watched as his bacon-holding hand lowered past his plate. “Don’t give that to Gigi,” I warned. “It’ll upset her stomach.”
“It’s bacon! Dogs love bacon.”
“There’s fat in bacon, and she’s sensitive. Eat your own bacon, or leave the leftovers with us. Anyway, we’ll make alterations and prepare the press materials. In roughly four weeks, we’ll hold the grand opening.”
I released a breath before continuing. “The first weekend we’ll hold a promotion with a buy one/ get one glass of wine, or half off a bottle.”
“You don’t think that’s chintzy?” Adrian asked.
“Oh, I do, but it works.” I reached for my espresso. “Even the wealthy enjoy having saved money.”
“It’s true,” said Nico. “Dad did it from time to time at D’Alisa, worked like a dream.”
I went back to my notes. “Social media campaigns will include a presence on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram…”
“I must be old,” Nico said. “I remember when people still used Myspace.”
Adrian reached for another slice of cake. “I wouldn’t bring that up.”
“So far, we’re on track,” I said. “Which is good, because I’m going to be out of town the week before the grand opening.”
Nico blinked at me. “Wait, what was that?”
“I’ll be flying to Memphis,” I said with all of the confidence I could muster.
“You just got back.”
“And I’ll come back again,” I pointed a finger in the air for emphasis. “Really. I promise.”
“C’mon.” Adrian held out his hands. “It’s not like she can go after the grand opening. Seriously, dude.”
“Yeah,” Clementine echoed dryly. “Seriously, dude.”
“You don’t need me. And we’re miraculously ahead of schedule. All that’s left on my to-do list at this point is the social media marketing, and I can do that on the road.” I gave a bright smile. “I’ll bring back barbecue sauce.”
“Why a week?” Nico asked.
I reached for another nectarine slice. “It’s eight-hour travel day. I want to maximize my time.”
“You should go to Corky’s Barbecue,” Adrian suggested. “I went to the Nashville one, but I think they’re based out of Memphis. Wet barbecue, rather than dry-rub style. Good barbecue,” he said, drawing out the vowels.
“Sounds good,” I said. “Clementine? Do you feel set for the opening?”
“I do,” she said. “Menu’s set for the opening, ready to teach it to the waitstaff. I’m working on a few new ideas as the seasonal produce shifts.”
“Let’s keep an eye on the weather too,” I said. “If we wind up with a late July heat wave, let’s be ready with plans for chilled soup, a nice light tuna—that’s up for you to decide,” I told Nico, “but there’s wisdom in being weather appropriate.”
Nico nodded. “My fish supplier is reliable; I’ve put in last-minute orders and gotten great product from him.”
“My industrial ice cream maker is back-ordered, but it should arrive about a week before the opening,” Clementine added. “I thought we might consider offering to-go quarts of ice cream for diners who otherwise decline dessert. We can tie a bow around them, keep it fancy, but still sell product.”
“I like it,” I said. “I’ll price out containers. If we put an emphasis on our desserts, there may be wisdom to having a pastry intern. What do you think about that?”
“Help with grunt work? Sure, as long as he doesn’t get underfoot.”
I made a note. “I’ll keep that in mind. Anything else? I’ve got interviewees coming shortly. Everybody good?”
Everyone pushed back their chairs. Clementine and Adrian carried plates back to the kitchen; Nico hung behind.
“I wish you’d asked me about the Memphis trip earlier,” Nico said, keeping his voice low.
“As a brother or as a business partner? It won’t affect the restaurant, promise.”
“I worry about you,” Nico said, after a moment. “I don’t know about this long-distance thing. Has Neil thought about moving to Portland?”
“His job is in Tennessee,” I answered with a sigh.
“Do you want to move to Tennessee? Is that what this trip is about?”
“I…I’m going to Tennessee to meet his parents and his friends,” I said. “We haven’t made…long-term plans.”
“I want you to be happy,” Nico said. “I just…I’m not sure how this is going to work out for you.”
“Me either,” I answered honestly. “When I’m with Neil, it’s good. Good enough to stick around long enough to find out if we have a future.”
“But if he’s in Memphis,” Nico said slowly, “and you’re in Portland, and neither of you is willing to move…what then?”
I slung my arm around my brother’s shoulders, pretending I didn’t ask myself that question on a daily basis. “I’ll let you know when I figure it out. Speaking of getting in each other’s business,” I added, glancing toward the kitchen, “you and Clementine. When are you going to ask her out?”
He glanced toward the kitchen, where it sounded as though Clementine was showing off Gigi’s tricks for Adrian. “I’ll leave you alone about Neil, you leave me alone about Clementine. Deal?”
I held out a hand to shake. “Deal.”
With the meeting concluded, I considered trying to get some office work done before the afternoon of interviewees, but called my mom instead.
“Juliette! Ma petite! Ça va? How was France?”
“Très belle,” I replied before switching back to English. “Are you free for lunch today? Is Dad around?”
“Your father is at the restaurant, but I would love to see you.” She paused. “I haven’t been able to eat very much, or eat and keep it around for long.”
“What if I bring lunch?” I suggested. “And if it gets eaten it gets eaten, and if not you can save it for Dad.”
“That sounds nice. I can’t wait to see you,” she answered.
“I can’t wait to see you either,” I echoed before we said our good-byes and hung up.
I gathered my things and Gigi’s as well—I couldn’t bear to leave her behind just yet. I called in an order of my mom’s favorite Vietnamese takeout and stopped to pick it up on my way over.
Gigi and I navigated the wooden steps to the door together, and I knoc
ked before letting myself in with my key. “Hello?” I called. “I’ve got pho. And spring rolls.”
“Ah, bon, ma petite!” Maman came around the hallway corner and appeared, her face a wreath of smiles.
The smile on my own face froze. She’d lost even more weight, and her eyebrows had drifted away. The dark circles under her eyes made her look as though she hadn’t slept in weeks, and maybe she hadn’t.
All of it made sense; none of it was easy to see. Not with my vibrant, strong mother.
Gigi jumped and gave a bark of delight, which gave us both something else to look at and me a moment to compose myself. Once Gigi had calmed, we exchanged careful hugs and air kisses.
I put the pho into bowls and plated the spring rolls, grabbed silverware, and made for the back deck. Off leash, Gigi raced out the door and set off to find a squirrel while Mom and I made a place at the large wooden table.
Mom sat in the sun, holding her bowl of pho close. “Tell me about your travels,” she said. “How are Cécile and Sandrine? Is Auguste well?”
I nodded and reached for a spring roll. “Sandrine and Auguste are lovely, couldn’t ask for better hosts. Cécile is well, but the Alzheimer’s has taken its toll.”
“I wish I could have seen them. I wish I could have seen the lavender. Does it still hum with bees?”
“It does. And I brought you honey from the most recent crop.”
She clapped her hands together. “I helped with the harvesting when I was young. My hands smelled of honey for days! Sandrine and Suzette and I had so much fun putting the labels onto the jars and tying them with string and a sprig of lavender.” She smiled. “Those were beautiful days. Having cousins my age made it feel as though I had sisters.”
“And all of you grew up there together?”
“We did—my parents, me, and Henri, and my tante Cécile with Sandrine, Suzette, and Eléonore.” She took a spring roll of her own. “What about your father’s family? How is everyone? How is your nonno?”
I filled her in on the Italian leg of the trip, dancing around the topic of Neil until my mother pressed that particular topic. “Your Neil, he joined you for the entire trip?”
Reservations for Two Page 9
