“If you’re hoping to meet our renowned chef de cuisine,” he said, “I fear you’ll be disappointed. Chef Keitel is not in the kitchen tonight.”
“Oh, thank goodness!”
My outburst obviously surprised Monsieur Dornier, but I just couldn’t help myself. I’d met Tommy Keitel exactly once, when Joy had brought him to a Village Blend function a month ago. I’d been caught off guard that evening, learning about their affair in the most in-your-face way possible. (The image of that lecher’s fiftysomething arm around my innocent daughter’s young waist made me want to strangle him with my bare hands.)
But how was I supposed to explain that to Dornier? Sorry for the outburst, monsieur. But I’m thrilled to miss seeing a guy I’d like to choke till he turns the color of pomegranate juice.
Clearing my throat, I decided to keep it simple. “Monsieur, I’m not here to see Chef Keitel. My name is Clare Cosi. I’m the manager of the Village Blend coffeehouse in the West Village, and my daughter is one of your interns. Joy Allegro—”
“Mademoiselle Joy! She is your daughter?” Dornier’s demeanor changed immediately. “She is a sweet and lovely addition to our staff.” He glanced at his watch. “Dinner service is nearly concluded, and I’m sure we can take a peek behind the veil without being too disruptive.”
Behind the veil? Good Lord. This guy’s really into the restaurant-as-theater thing. “Uh, thank you.”
“Please follow me.”
As we walked, I made polite conversation, complimenting the food and service, tactfully leaving out the abysmal coffee.
“Here at Solange, we always strive for excellence,” Dornier replied. “Even in the face of our executive chef’s continued absence.”
The critical tone was hard to miss. I decided to probe a little. “Excuse me, Monsieur Dornier? Are you saying that Chef Keitel has been MIA from the restaurant lately?”
The maître d’ scowled. “I am unhappy to say that he has been.”
“It’s, uh…hard to believe. I mean, the meal was so perfect. I could have sworn Chef Keitel finished my plate himself.”
Now, I knew very well that an executive chef like Keitel would not have had to finish each plate to guarantee excellence. Sure, he might have designed the dishes on the menu, but the value of a top executive chef was his ability to reproduce that same dish day after day and teach his staff to do the same.
Whenever Tommy Keitel was absent, his executive sous-chef would be expected to step up and fill in for him. I didn’t recall Joy ever mentioning the name of the kitchen’s second-in-command, so I asked the maître d’ about it.
Dornier sniffed again. “Our executive sous-chef is Ms. Brigitte Rouille.”
“Oh? Joy’s never mentioned Chef Rouille.”
“Brigitte comes to us from Chantal, where she was the sauté chef. Before that, she was the sous-chef at La Belle Femme near Lincoln Center. Originally, however, Ms. Rouille was lured to New York from her native Quebec with an offer to serve as executive chef at Martinique’s downtown.”
The list of upscale eateries was impressive, but Brigitte Rouille’s work experience ran like a backward résumé. “From executive to sous to sauté chef?” I said. “Ms. Rouille’s career path seems upside down, doesn’t it?”
“Oui,” Dornier replied.
“So why was she hired?”
Dornier fidgeted with his expensive cat glasses. “Chef Keitel has known Brigitte for many years. When her life proved…how shall I say?…challenging…Tommy was magnanimous enough to offer the woman a chance to redeem her career.”
Challenging? What did that mean? I was about to ask, but we’d reached the double doors to the kitchen.
“I’m sure you’ll see, Ms. Cosi, that we run an efficient, professional shop.”
“Professional,” I repeated with a nod.
“Oui. Although our sous-chef has had her ups and downs, Brigitte Rouille is quite capable of handling the kitchen with Chef Keitel away.”
Dornier pushed one of the two swinging padded doors, holding it open so I could move through. “Please enjoy visiting your daughter. I’ll return in a few minutes to escort you out again.”
“Thank you,” I said, and stepped inside.
Even though a huge, stainless steel service counter blocked a clear view of the entire kitchen, amazing aromas immediately enveloped me. I recognized the tang of fresh-cut scallions, the piquant bite of garlic, the brightness of wine reduction.
Unfortunately, the riot of appetizing scents was quickly upstaged by the sounds of an actual riot. I heard a loud crash, as if a plate had been smashed to the floor. Someone screamed. Another plate was broken, and a woman began shouting in a pronounced French accent.
“Do you hear me?! Écoutez-moi! You are an idiot, and