I looked up. He was looking at me with a glint in his eyes.
I nodded.
“I wish you lots of luck today.” His voice dripped sarcasm. I didn’t answer. He gave a satisfied grunt and went back to his coffee.
I stared at him. Is he the one who convinced Chloe to make this menu?
“Monsieur Wilmar.”
I turned to look at Tetyana.
What’s she doing?
Everybody had turned silent.
“Ja Fraulein,” Monsieur Wilmar replied, looking at her from across his table, arms crossed.
“Are those yours?” Tetyana pointed at the stuffed boar and deer heads on the wall.
The chef straightened up and cleared his throat. “Indeed. That is my work.”
“Very impressive.”
“Danke.” Monsieur Wilmar uncrossed his arms and looked at his prized possessions, his chest puffed ever so slightly.
“When did you get them?”
“The boar was in 2000 and the deer in 2010. Only one shot each. Clean and fast.”
“Point three-o-eight caliber?”
He raised an eyebrow. “That is correct. You know your ammunition. You hunt as well, I presume, Fraulein?”
“Only with this,” Tetyana said, flipping her right jacket flap open. The handgun, fully polished after all that cleaning the day before, gleamed in the light. Tetyana’s eyes, intense and strong, stared straight at Monsieur Wilmar.
I heard a collective gasp.
What’s she trying to prove? I wanted to shake her but was rooted in my chair.
Monsieur Wilmar’s face turned a light purple. Without a word, he poured himself another cup of coffee, studiously avoiding eye contact with anyone. It took a full minute for everyone else to start eating again, and when they did, all eyes were on their plates.
I gave Tetyana a what-are-you-doing look. She winked in return.
With an angry grunt, Monsieur Wilmar scraped back his chair and got up to leave. In that same moment, Tetyana pulled her chair back and stood up too.
Everyone froze. The only sound in the room was the tick-tock of the grandfather clock in the corner.
“Monsieur Wilmar, Chef Asha needs special ingredients for this afternoon’s menu,” Tetyana said in her most polite voice. “We would greatly appreciate it if someone from your kitchen would assist her today.”
Three tense seconds ticked by before Monsieur Wilmar responded.
“Greta!” he yelled. “Zeig ihnen die speisekammer!”
He threw his napkin on the table and stomped out of the kitchen.
Chapter Forty-five
We took all day. But it was worth it.
I stepped back to look at what we’d created. On the countertop stood a four-foot-tall, multi-level cupcake tower.
I hadn’t had to worry about ingredients, serving platters or cake holders, because Monsieur Wilmar’s kitchen was equipped to serve a king. But I’d also noticed most of his cake pans and serving plates were as good as new.
“He only serves Quetschentaart for dessert,” Greta said when Luc asked about this.
“What’s a kwetshentart?” I asked.
“Open pie made with plums,” Luc explained. “It’s very popular here. The baroness probably grew up with it.”
“I think I saw one,” I said, remembering the fruit pie on the side of the buffet table the day before.
Greta pulled on Luc’s arm and said something. We waited.
“Supposedly,” Luc translated, “Monsieur Wilmar is famous in this region for his pie. That’s all the baroness normally has for dessert.”
I nodded. And he hates me now for having overturned his comfortable dessert tradition, I thought.
I looked with pride at my cake tower.
The multi-tiered silver platters made the tower look formidable, royal even. I’d met Chloe’s requests and more. On the bottom tier were the Dragon Lady’s favorite black forest cakes interspersed with several of Chloe’s requests. In the middle tier, I added half a dozen peach and cream cakes to the mix, and on the top plate, I arranged a dozen pineapple cheesecake bites. It was an exotic combination of cakes that the Dragon Lady always loved.
Everyone had chipped in to build the cake tower, even Greta, who seemed to enjoy hanging out with us. I guessed it gave her a diversion from the everyday and the satisfaction that she was, in effect, in formal charge of the foreign baking team. But that didn’t stop her from giggling as she swirled strawberry icing on a cupcake under Luc’s watchful eye.
Luc proved to be well on his way to mastering the art of cake decorating, coming up with ideas that made Katy gasp and Tetyana roll her eyes. But they worked like a charm. He seemed to have a hidden artist in him, so I let him experiment to his heart’s content.
Everyone had found a job they wanted to do or could tolerate, at least, and we’d created a fully functioning assembly line in the kitchen.
Tetyana took charge of bringing ingredients and pans from the main kitchen and putting dirty pans and bowls into the dishwasher once done. Katy measured the ingredients and helped me bake the cakes. Luc and Win worked on the icing and decorations while Greta inserted herself wherever she could, ending up with flour on her hair and icing sugar on her nose. My team, I thought as I watched everyone bustle around, doing their bit.
I now had access to all the ingredients I needed, including the liquor fridge downstairs, and used the Black Pearl Cognac in my cakes liberally. I remembered the Diplomatic Dragon Lady’s face when she’d tasted my cakes for the first time back in Toronto, a year ago. I wanted her to bite into these cakes and know instantly they were mine. I was sure there’d be no way she wouldn’t agree to help us after that.
A loud rap came on the door.
Before anyone could say “Entrez,” the door opened and in marched Chloe. Following behind her was a rotund man with a cheery face.
My jaw dropped.
Chef Pierre? Oh my god, it’s Chef Pierre! He looked exactly like he did in the magazines. Even in his tuxedo, he looked friendly and kind.
“Are we—?” Chloe stopped in mid-stride as she saw the tower. She stared at it.
“Impressive,” she said. “You created this?”
I nodded, dumbfounded at seeing my idol in real life.
“Extraordinaire,” Chef Pierre said, stepping up to the tower and inspecting it with a keen eye. He then turned and looked at each of us, appraising us. “Might I know who the chef is?”
My mouth had dried up.
Katy nudged me from one side and Tetyana from the other.
“I...er...I....,” was all I could say. The image of the chocolate roll I’d stolen from his café in Brussels sprang to mind and I felt my face burn.
“Ah, Chloe mentioned you,” Chef Pierre said, looking at me and stroking his chin. “Chef Asha, is it not?
He knows my name!
“So you’re the nonconformist baker? The one who threatens to use Black Pearl to make edible fêtes?”
I nodded wordlessly.
“I liked what you did yesterday.”
I straightened up. “Really?” I said, my voice squeaking. I cleared my throat. “Did you like it? I mean, really?”
“Why do you think I’ve come down here?” he said, spreading his hands expansively. “To meet the talented chef who baked yesterday’s cakes.”
“Tha..thank you,” I said.
He dropped his voice. “To be frank, I was getting tired of the plum pies every time I visit the baroness.”
I didn’t know what to say.
“May I try one?”
His hand went to the side plate which contained the leftover cakes that didn’t fit in the tower. His hand hovered over the chocolate cake, then the raspberry cream one. “What a delightful dilemma,” he said to himself. He was just about to pick the pineapple cream cheesecake when I remembered.
“Wait!” I said, finding my voice.
He looked up, startled.
“Katy, please get a dessert plate. Wi
n, a white napkin, please. And utensils.” I opened a drawer to find a pair of silver tongs, like the ones they had in the drawing room for tea.
Chef Pierre looked at me strangely.
“Chef Asha, I do not drive my Maserati to the corner store when I can walk,” he said. “I will use my fingers,” he paused to pick up the chocolate cake, “if that does not offend anyone.”
We all shook our heads. No one looked at Chloe, but from the corner of my eyes, I thought a slight pink tone had come over her face.
“That’s based on one of your own recipes, Chef Pierre,” I said.
He stopped and stared at me. “You’ve baked my recipes?”
“All of them.”
“I didn’t think my work was known across the Atlantic.”
“I had access to your magazines and cookbooks.” I paused. I wasn’t going to tell him where or how. “Baked everything from scratch,” I added.
He nodded thoughtfully and turned his attention back to the cake. I watched as he brought the cake to his mouth and took a bite. I swallowed involuntarily and wiped my sweaty palms on my apron.
Chef Pierre chewed slowly before he swallowed. I looked warily at the yellow crumbs on his cheek and felt a stream of sweat trickle down my back.
He stared at the ceiling silently for the next few seconds, as if ruminating over the taste. I think I stopped breathing.
“Interesting combination,” he said, after what seemed like the longest five seconds of my life. “I’ve never had anything like this before. It is....fascinating. Delightful.”
I let out a breath.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Chloe spoke up. “This conversation is riveting. However, I must take this upstairs now. I’ll summon the footmen.” She whipped her phone out.
“No!” I almost shouted.
Chloe turned to me with a frown.
“No need to bother them. I’ll take the cakes up myself. Save you some trouble.”
“You?” She looked at me.
“Yes.”
“But that is not customary.”
Tetyana spoke up, forgetting she wasn’t supposed to. “But she did all the work.”
“Excellent point,” Chef Pierre said.
“We must follow protocol,” Chloe said, looking at us in surprise.
“But we don’t follow this protocol in America,” I said.
“Well, we do so here, mademoiselle!”
I thought I heard a snicker from Chef Pierre. He was leaning against the counter now with a marzipan cupcake in his hands watching the debate with an amused smile on his face.
“The Diplo—” I caught myself. “Madame Bouchard would be interested to know we have come all the way to create this for her.” I waved my hand grandly at the tower. “Americans like to know who made their meals and how, and you know, have a chat.”
“A chat?” Chloe looked like she’d blow a blood vessel.
“I like les Americains,” Chef Pierre quipped from the side.
“Well.” Chloe seemed lost for words. “This goes against all tradition.”
Chef Pierre cleared his throat. “Madame,” he said, turning to Chloe, “if you would permit me, may I say I have to agree with this young chef. The time for cooks to be relegated to the back of the kitchen is long gone. Would you not agree?”
“With all due respect, monsieur, I do not mean to be disagreeable with an esteemed guest; however,” she paused, “tradition is tradition.”
I felt bad for her. She was only doing her job.
“I understand what you mean, madame,” Chef Pierre said with a charming smile. “Perhaps it’s time to change some of these customs, do you not think?”
“This is highly unusual.” Chloe was spluttering. “You must understand. What will the baroness say?”
“She will be delighted, I am sure,” Chef Pierre said, with another smile.
Silence.
“I will permit this,” Chloe finally said, her face flushed. “But only if you change into fresh aprons and caps.” Her eyes traveled down my wrinkled skirt, which was dusted in flour. “And follow all my instructions fully.”
“I promise,” I said.
Win was already opening the top drawer to dig out fresh aprons.
Chef Pierre turned to me. “I hope to continue our conversation, Chef Asha. I hope this is not the last time we meet.”
I watched him step out of the kitchen with a half-eaten cake in his hands, wanting to pinch myself.
Chapter Forty-six
Just before we left, Tetyana slid up to me and pretended to check the tie on my clean apron. She leaned in and whispered, “Put in a good word for me and my brother with this Dragon Diplomat, will you?”
I nodded. “I’ll do my best.”
Katy and I were both freshly aproned and hatted, and we had on the black dresses Katy had picked up in Luxembourg City. “I told you, you can’t go wrong with the little black dress,” she said, with a smug smile. Chloe seemed relieved to see us change into more formal attire.
We followed her out wheeling the cake tower, with Greta skipping at our heels.
With a pompous grunt, Monsieur Wilmar turned his back to us as we came out of the kitchenette. His team stared at the tower hypnotized, mouths open. Katy and I smiled back and waved goodbye to Greta as we got on the elevator.
The elevator opened on the second floor and Katy and I followed Chloe out to the same foyer I’d visited the day before. This time, Chloe marched through the larger middle doorway, her nose firmly stuck to her phone as she walked.
We followed, looking around us in awe. This corridor was even more lavish than the one I’d seen the day before. It was impossible not to get distracted by the luxury.
The trolley dug into the lush carpet, slowing us down, but Chloe didn’t seem to care much when it did. She stopped to glance back only once to say with a slight huff, “This is why we have footmen in the castle.” We ignored her, retracted the wheels, and kept rolling.
We stepped into a mezzanine and passed an immense flight of stairs that looked exactly like the ones Cinderella might have run down as the clock struck midnight. Still absorbed in her phone, Chloe walked toward the entrance of a palatial ballroom at the end.
We could hear the hum of conversation and the smell of good wine as we got closer. Chloe nodded at the two guards in starched tunics standing stiff and somber next to the ballroom doorway. Their gaze didn’t waver as we rolled the high cake tower right by their noses.
Chloe motioned us toward the service door.
When we got close, unseen hands opened the doors. Two footmen were holding the doors for us. Chloe runs this place like clockwork, I thought. We rolled our cake tower carefully into the room.
I’d thought the drawing room had been magnificent, but I was unprepared for the staggering opulence of the ballroom.
This room was three times the size of the main kitchen downstairs and had a domed ceiling carved in intricate occidental designs. Five elegant crystal chandeliers, each the size of a small car, hung from the high ceiling, blinding me when I looked up. A single piece of medieval tapestry covered an entire wall of the room. It was nothing like I’d seen before.
A massive dining table occupied the breadth of the room, draped with a white cloth embroidered in gold and silver. On this was sparkling china, imprinted with the castle insignia. Engraved golden forks and knives glittered beneath the chandelier lights. In between the dinner settings were extravagant flower arrangements in tall gold-colored vases. Standing behind each chair was a uniformed server in white gloves. They stood like soldiers at attention, expressionless, waiting to pull the chairs out at a moment’s notice.
Chloe pointed at an alcove where she wanted us to roll our cake trolley until it was to be served. We nodded and squeezed ourselves and the trolley into the small space.
Everybody was milling about in the open area at the other end of the ballroom where a trio of musicians played soft chamber music. The men, with glasses of red sherry in their h
ands, looked superb in their black tuxedos. The women floated around in stately gowns, dripping in rubies and sapphires. From where I stood, they looked like a flock of beautiful tropical birds. A handful of foreign dignitaries were scattered among the crowd, mostly men, and mostly in long Arab clothing. I wondered where their womenfolk were.
Katy nudged me. “Can you believe this?” she whispered.
“Amazing,” I whispered back.
“Look at all these famous people. Like we’re in a movie.”
“Our best catering gig ever. And we didn’t even have to sign a contract.”
Katy suppressed a giggle. “Hey!” She pointed discreetly at a man in his thirties ten feet away from us. “Is that Bob Halt over there? And Anne Tuppence too! Oh, my god!”
Bob Halt? Why did that name ring a bell? I recognized a few famous faces here and there, but it was Katy who followed the celebrities.
Just like the day before, a buffet table had been placed next to the side entrance. But tonight, there were no open platters or trays, no sandwiches or finger foods, but a lineup of fancy plates covered in silver domes. This must be the first course, a salad or paté of some sort, I thought. The rest of the dishes were probably being kept warm somewhere nearby by Monsieur Wilmar’s team.
We’d just settled into our alcove when a clock chimed nearby.
Like magic, everyone stopped talking and turned toward the woman in the center. I craned to look. I hadn’t seen her when I’d first walked in and she hadn’t been at the tea party the day before, but I recognized her from the magazine photo. Grande Baroness Agathe. She was sitting on a plush red chair, set on a small platform. She looked like a queen on a throne, with two dachshunds by her feet. The guests gathered in a circle around her.
The grande baroness got up from her throne slowly. Someone held out his hand to help her, but she ignored it.
When she stood, I realized she didn’t come to more than five feet, almost as tall as I was, but she stood regally on that platform, her back straight, her head held high. Her white hair was cropped boyishly but stylishly short. She wore a full-length black gown with a high neck and long sleeves. It looked simple, but I was sure it came from a discerning designer house that catered to the world’s über-wealthy. The glittering stones on her fingers and the diamond necklace left no doubt she was one of the highest of high society—that and her castle.
The Girl Who Made Them Pay Page 24
