The Secret French Recipes of Sophie Valroux - Samantha Verant Page 0,53

remembered, felt like home. My heart beat with excitement. People were counting on me, and I was going to do everything in my power not to screw anything up. By Clothilde’s expectant expression, I knew my grandmother had set up my immersion into the kitchen, and I wasn’t going to fail her. Along with fresh produce, a spark of happiness ignited my heart. Wanting to stoke the fire, I couldn’t wait to get cooking. This was exactly what I needed.

The first course would be an amuse-bouche, a little taste setting up the flavors to come, a way to whet the palate. The entrée was always the second course. Unlike in the States, where we referred to this dish as the main plate, in France it was more of a small dish, more substantial than an amuse-bouche. I’d heard of many Americans ordering an “entrée” in France, only to be disappointed with the small size of the portion. What they really had intended on ordering was un plat, or un plat principal—the main course. All of this, bien sûr, would be followed by a cheese course or a salad (depending on the menu) and capped off by an exquisite dessert. After much thought and almost wearing out the floor from my frenetic pacing, I came up with a doable menu and stepped up to the board.

MENU

L’AMUSE-BOUCHE

Pan-Seared Scallops wrapped in Jambon Sec and Prunes with a Balsamic Glaze

L’ENTRÉE

Pan-Seared Foie Gras with a Spiced Citrus Purée, served with Candied Orange Peel and Fresh Greens

OU

Velouté of Butternut Squash with Truffle Oil

LE PLAT PRINCIPAL

Bœuf Bourguignon à la Maison served with a Terrine of Sarladaise Potatoes

OU

Canard à l’Orange served with a Terrine of Sarladaise Potatoes along with Braised Fennel, garnished with Pomegrante Seeds and Grilled Nuts

OU

Filet of Daurade (Sea Bream) served over a Sweet Potato Purée and Braised Cabbage

LA SALADE ET LE FROMAGE

Arugula and Endive Salad served with Rosemary-Encrusted Goat Cheese Toasts, garnished with Pomegranate and Clementine, along with a Citrus-Infused Dressing

LE DESSERT

Poached Pears in Spiced Red Wine with Vanilla Ice Cream

When I finished marking up the menu, I wiped the chalk off my hands and looked to Clothilde for her approval. “Do we have everything? Do you foresee any problems?” I asked. “Should I change anything?”

Clothilde stood silent for a moment, her lips pinched together. My nerves were about to go haywire until she smiled. “It’s a beautiful menu, one your grandmother would be proud of,” she said, scribbling notes. “Time to type them up and print them out on the beautiful linen paper for the guests and Bernard so he can plan the wine pairings.”

I blew out a sigh of relief.

Jane swaggered into the kitchen with her perfect French twist and twisted smile. She eyed the board. “Lovely menu,” she said. “Clothilde, I’m assuming you planned it.”

“No, it’s all Sophie’s doing,” she said.

Jane’s eyes met mine. “I see. Well, I hope you can pull it off.” She glanced at my sneakers. “We don’t need a repeat of the runaway chef.”

I bit down on my tongue as she turned on her kitten heel and left. I knew she was trying to throw me off my game; I just didn’t know why.

All I needed to do was push back any panic, breathe, and focus. So, it took the death of my career and Grand-mère Odette’s stroke to get me here, but there was an unforeseen benefit. As I surveyed the kitchen—this perfect kitchen—with the excitement I felt rushing through my veins, I knew the scars left from Cendrillon would eventually heal. My cooking mojo: it was coming back to life. I could only hope the same for grand-mère.

17

poached pears and a poached chef

On Friday afternoon, the granny brigade and Gustave arrived early, and after a round of les bises and chatting about days gone by from the last time they saw me at the age of thirteen, the kitchen buzzed with activity. I was almost feeling back to my old self. The distraction that came with cooking—really cooking—was exactly what I’d needed to move my mind to a better place.

This was by far the strangest kitchen staff on the planet, or at least in this corner of France. Gustave, an older man in his sixties with a scruffy beard and wild red-tinged eyes, sipped on a bottle of pastis, a potent anise-flavored liquor, as he poached the pears for the dessert. Most people mixed pastis with water in a glass, but, clearly, Gustave cut straight to the punch. The gray-haired granny