The Secret French Recipes of Sophie Valroux - Samantha Verant Page 0,43
I flinched when I looked up.
“You’re not supposed to be in here,” said Jane. She placed her hands on her hips, her eyes locking onto mine. The veins in her neck pulsed and throbbed.
“I needed to use the computer,” I said, quitting out of Grand-mère’s email and logging out.
“You have the password?” she asked.
“I logged on as a guest.”
Jane postured herself like a peacock defending its territory. “Next time, use one of the computers in the business center. I have work to do,” she said, eyeing me warily. “Clothilde is waiting for you in the kitchen.”
“Then I guess I should go,” I said.
“I guess you should.”
14
poker face
Although my head still pounded with the information I’d just learned, I set off for the kitchen for my date with Clothilde. Until I spoke with my grand-mère, I needed to keep my wits about me and put my best game face on. Clothilde had been nothing but nice to me. I couldn’t begrudge her. She was rummaging through cabinets, mumbling to herself.
“Bonjour,” I said, forcing the best smile I could muster. “What are you looking for?”
“Cumin,” she said, her tone frazzled. She threw her hands in the air. “I wanted to make Bernard a tajine tonight and I don’t have any at our home. And you can’t make a tajine without cumin, ginger, and turmeric. It’s the trifecta of ingredients—like a mirepoix.”
“Moroccan?”
“No, Algerian. Bernard and I were, as they call us, pieds-noirs. We lived there during the French rule in the late fifties.” She sighed. “We’d just married and we were so young then. He was in the military, tu vois?” She flipped her red curls with her hand. “We moved back to France after the war ended in 1962. Times were tough, but Bernard, hélas, still loves his tajines.”
I did, too. A tajine was a spice-infused Maghreb dish named after the earthenware pot in which it is cooked. I hadn’t had one since I was twelve. Grand-mère had introduced me to a few international recipes, wanting to expand my cultural horizons.
I shuffled around the kitchen, found the cumin, and handed it over.
“Oh, thank you, ma puce,” she said, her smile bright. “Did you look outside? It’s snowing!”
I glanced at the window. Giant powdered-sugar flakes of snow tumbled from the sky, sticking to the ground, the trees weighed down with frosty cream. In a few hours, the whole world had changed and everything was covered in white—like a clean slate. It was the most beautiful scene I’d ever witnessed, like a fairy tale or a snow globe, but unlike a snow globe, my life had been shaken up and nothing had settled. I wanted a clean slate.
“Ma puce,” said Clothilde, “put on a coat or you’ll catch a cold.” She glanced at my feet. “And you might want to wear a pair of boots. There are some in the closet about your size. Can you manage with your ankle?”
I’d forgotten about my ankle. Oddly, it didn’t hurt too much unless I twisted it to the right. I headed to the closet in the hall, kicked off my flats, and pulled on some rubber wellies. After grabbing my coat, I asked, “Are we off to see grand-mère so soon?”
“No, not quite yet. Bernard is meeting us at Le Papillon Sauvage for breakfast.”
“Oh, Bernard, I’m dying to see him. How is he?”
Clothilde closed her eyes, a wistful smile carving on her lips. “Wonderful, as always. Even after fifty years of marriage it still feels like yesterday,” she said. “On y va?”
I nodded. “Yes, let’s go.”
“Follow me,” she said, turning toward the back door.
I followed her outside, nearly slipping on the rocky steps. “The other restaurant in the barn? Can you tell me about it?”
“There’s not much to it. Le Papillon Sauvage serves simple country food at a fixed price,” said Clothilde. “Last year, the restaurant received an award from Michelin.” She cackled. “Eh ben, I’ve never understood what tires have to do with food.”
My heart skipped a few beats. “Did you say ‘Michelin’?”
Before she could answer, I jumped through the snow and raced to the barn. The sign was plastered right on the front door. Le Papillon Sauvage had received a Bib Gourmand. Not quite the same as gaining Michelin stars, this honor was reserved for restaurants serving exceptional meals at moderate prices. According to the framed menu hanging in the window, one could eat here for the price of twenty-nine euros, including wine from the château’s vineyards.