The Secret French Recipes of Sophie Valroux - Samantha Verant Page 0,14

didn’t get home until three in the morning. Make it extra strong, Walter,” he said, and then kissed me on the cheek.

We sat down at the counter, watching Walter fumble with the grounds and the French press. It was a good half hour before our daily doses of caffeine were set before us. “Oh, you’re spoiling me, my love,” said Robert. “Times here yet?”

Walter shrugged.

Robert shuffled over to the front door. He grabbed the paper and made his way back over to us, rummaging through it. His eyes darted to Walter’s and he whipped a segment behind his back. My heart plummeted into my stomach. I jumped off my stool. “What’s going on?” I asked. “Is today Wednesday?”

Walter let out a groan. I could feel the color draining from my cheeks. It was Wednesday—the day the Times printed the Food section for the English-speaking world to see. “Hand it over.”

Robert held the paper above my head. I jumped and snatched it from him, ripping the pages. “You really don’t want to read this,” he said. “Not today.” He grabbed the segment back.

“Robert?” I said, crossing my arms over my chest. “If you don’t hand it over, I’ll never speak to you again.”

He was in the process of trying to shred an article when I snagged it from his grip. I sank to the floor, putting the pieces back together like a jigsaw puzzle. On page one, my worst nightmare hit me so hard I felt like I’d been sucker punched in the stomach with a sledgehammer.

The headline: SABOTAGING CHEF DE PARTIE SOPHIE VALROUX COSTS CENDRILLON NY A STAR.

A picture of me smiling with one arm latched onto Eric’s, and the other onto O’Shea’s, accompanied the text. The photographer had taken the picture right after Cendrillon had received its second star.

Today Michelin released its New York red guide and a few of the most notable restaurants in New York City are in a tizzy. Some restaurants, like M.D.M., have gained a star and a few restaurants, such as Blink 214, have become starless. But one restaurant in particular has the culinary world on edge: Cendrillon NY.

Cendrillon NY was expecting its third Michelin star, but instead of gaining one, it lost one. In his press release, Chef Dan O’Shea has pinpointed the reason why, outing the culprit for ill-fated plates, a saboteur by the name of Sophie Valroux, a chef de partie (pictured center).

According to Chef O’Shea, “She [Valroux] seasoned my recipes to her liking. She broke the rules. She was always trying to prove herself, always trying to one-up the men. Sometimes egotistical chefs with a chip on their shoulder get out of hand. I can assure the public and the culinary world that this will never happen again. I’ve given Valroux her walking papers and I’m taking a more active role with all of my restaurants, especially Cendrillon NY. We will get our second star back. And we’ll eventually get that third star, too.”

At the time of printing, we could not reach Ms. Valroux for comment.

What? I scrambled on the floor like a squirrel looking for a hidden nut, finally finding my phone. Eight calls had come in when I was passed out. I’d flipped out over Eric’s text, and too busy finding out a way to block his number, I didn’t check my voice mails. Plus, nobody ever called me.

“Hello, this is Trevor Smith from the Times. We’d like to get your thoughts on what happened at Cendrillon—”

Delete.

“Ms. Valroux, this is Trevor Smith calling from the Times. We’re about to run the piece. Could you please call me back at your earliest convenience?”

Delete.

Nausea gripped me, rocking my core. My face went hot. Drops of perspiration coated my neck and back. I stared straight ahead. Walter rubbed my shoulders. “You okay? You look like you’re going to be sick.”

I could only gurgle out a yes before running to the bathroom and emptying out the contents of my stomach. This was so much worse than anything I’d ever imagined. Eric and O’Shea had eviscerated my entire life. The whole world was going to think that I was a sabotaging chef. A pariah. Walter tapped on the door. “Are you okay, Soph?”

I threw the door open. Walter jumped back. “I’m fine,” I said.

“You don’t look fine,” he said, his smoky blue eyes wide and fearful.

I could only imagine how I looked—angry and crazed.

“I will be fine in a minute.” The people in my neighborhood, the people I said hello to every day