The Secret French Recipes of Sophie Valroux - Samantha Verant Page 0,10
the kind of grace only Frenchwomen know how to pull off.
We’d moved from France to New York when I was six months old. I didn’t recall much of those early years, too young to remember, obviously. But I do remember the days when I was older, like in this picture. My mother had just gotten a bit part in a movie, playing the role of the clichéd sexy French maid. A method actress, she was scrubbing down the kitchen when she sat me down and asked, “Do you know what dreams are, ma petite?”
“A big ice cream sundae,” was my answer.
She shook her long black hair and giggled. “My darling girl, dreams are much bigger than that. I’m going to be a star.”
I was entranced, wondering if I could swing from the stars or carry moonbeams home in a jar, the tune my mother hummed. My eyes widened like saucers. “A star? Like one in the sky?”
“No, not like a star in the sky, something bigger and brighter. I’m going to be famous one day. Mark my words.” She winked. “Ma petite, we come from noble blood. Your great-great-grand-père was a comte and now your grand-mère has the world at her feet. It’s my turn to shine.”
“Ma grand-mère?” I’d asked. “Where is she?”
“Oh, don’t you worry your little mind over her. You wouldn’t like her. She abandoned us. Just as if we were stray cats prowling on the streets.” She held up her manicured fingernails and made a clawing motion. “She’s like that witch, the mean one, in the movie you love so much, the Wicked Witch of the West.”
“The Wizard of Oz?”
“Yes, that’s the one.” She looked out the window, humming.
At five years old, I didn’t think much about this grandmother I’d never met. Thanks to my mother comparing her to the Wicked Witch of the West, I’d envisioned her as old and decrepit with a green face and skeleton-like hands. I didn’t want to come face-to-face with her. My dreams were comprised of sweet treats and swinging on the swings. I was seven years old when I finally met her. To my delight, she didn’t have a green face or long decrepit fingers with curled nails.
I tried to remember my mother’s smile, the days when she was happy, the memories hard to come by. I slammed the photo onto the coffee table facedown.
This photo was a lie. Her dreams never came to fruition and my life was filled with broken promises. When my mother was up, she lit up the room. But when she was down, spiraling into depression, the days and nights were hard. I always thought it was my fault, something I did. But I knew now that wasn’t the case. My mother was never happy. She was good at being a faker, at pretending, especially when she smiled her closed-lip smile. I could see her eyes were dead.
I wanted to shake off the memories of her that were invading my mind. I got up, made my way to my room, stuffed the photo into its drawer, and jumped into the shower, needing to be proactive, not reactive. I ran the water cold to offset the fire searing my chest.
Clean, but not exactly refreshed, I threw on a pair of flannel pajamas, turned the gas fireplace in the living room to a blaze, and picked up the phone to call Monica, my closest friend from the CIA. A dynamo in the kitchen, she was elevating Mexican cuisine to new gastronomic levels. She had opened her restaurant, El Colibrí, two short years ago. At first people thought she was nuts—then they tasted her dishes. Billing her cuisine as “not your mother’s tacos,” she’d introduced gourmet Mexican food to Los Angeles, and you didn’t eat her creations—like the lobster tail served with the pomegranate mango salsa, served on a blue corn tortillas—with your hands, especially with her secret version of a chimichurri sauce. A hint: truffle oil along with olive oil. The girl genius was an alchemist in the kitchen, creating elixirs and blending ingredients like a mad culinary scientist.
“Hola, babe,” she said. “It’s a bit nuts here. I only have a few minutes.”
“Are you looking for a sous chef?” I asked.
She went silent for a moment. “Jesus Christ. I’m so sorry, Sophie. I just heard the news.”
My throat constricted. “Already?”
“What can I say? News travels fast in the culinary circles. Everybody knows everybody’s business.”
“Eric was behind it.” Once again, I repeated my sad, pathetic story.