The Secret French Recipes of Sophie Valroux - Samantha Verant Page 0,59
Oh my God. I almost forgot. I need chocolate and nougat for the thirteen desserts.”
“Thirteen desserts?”
“It’s a tradition in France representing Jesus Christ and the twelve apostles, always displayed on Christmas Eve and enjoyed until December twenty-seventh, consisting of a combination of dried fruit, fresh fruit, nuts, and sweets. Voilà. A total of thirteen desserts. It’s for the party.”
“Party?”
“Another tradition. The Christmas Eve party for the staff and, pretty much, every villager within a twenty-mile radius of the château,” she said. “Clothilde told me you were in charge of planning the menu. She said Grand-mère was counting on you. Didn’t they tell you about it?”
“No, they didn’t,” I said with a sigh.
So much for the simple life.
* * *
The next few days were beyond awkward. Every time I ran into Rémi, he always looked as if he wanted to say something, or kill me, but clamped his mouth shut and stormed off before doing so. He’d ignore me and go back to doing whatever he was doing, like decorating the twenty-foot-tall Christmas tree in the entry or installing lights in every front-facing window of the château for the party. It seemed every time I turned a corner he was there.
One afternoon, when I walked into the kitchen to plan the menu, Rémi was unloading crates into the walk-in refrigerator. His eyes locked onto mine. I wrung my hands.
“Thank you for taking care of the delivery,” I said, not knowing what else to say during an awkward and tense silence. I wasn’t about to bring up his daughter, though it crossed my mind until I thought better of it.
“Pas de problème,” he said with a shrug. “It’s my job.”
These were the least loaded sentences we’d exchanged so far. Maybe he’d gotten over whatever it was he needed to get over. Maybe he was going through a shitstorm, too. “So, what have we got?” I asked with a hesitant smile.
“You’ll figure it out,” he said. “Or, then again, maybe you won’t.” He clomped out the back door. I flipped him le doigt d’honneur—my middle finger—as he left.
Take a deep breath. Get back to cooking. Get back to yourself. You can’t let your grandmother down. You can’t let yourself down.
After slamming my roll bag of knives on the counter, I headed into the walk-in to plan the menu and opened the crates. The fish vendor had delivered a sea of heavenly delights. Les gambas, large shrimp, were the size of my hand. Once cooked, they’d be lovely and pink. The oysters were enormous and beautiful, the briny scent conjuring up the sea. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d swum in open water. Six years ago on a Sunday trip to the Hamptons with Eric? Oh God, I didn’t want to think about him.
Besides the work of shucking more than three hundred of them, oysters were easy. They’d be served raw with a mignonette sauce and lemons, along with crayfish, crab, and shrimp, accompanied by a saffron-infused aioli dipping sauce.
I lifted the top of another crate, and fifty or so lobsters with spiny backs greeted me—beautiful and big, and the top portion freckled by the sea. I loved working with lobster, the way their color changed from mottled brown and orange to a fiery red when cooked. I’d use the tails for le plat principal, flambéed in cognac and simmered in a spicy tomato—my version of my grandmother’s recipe for langouste à l’armoricaine. The garnish? A sprig of fresh rosemary.
The other crates were filled with lovely mussels, scallops, whelks, and smoked salmon filets, along with another surprise—escargots. Save for the snails, this meal would be a true seafood extravaganza.
The more I thought about the meal, the more inspired I became, and hunger set in. With these incredible ingredients laid before me, it was a dangerous situation, kind of like going to the grocery store when you’re famished and buying everything in sight. I couldn’t help but open an oyster, digging into its side with an oyster knife and popping the top shell off. I loosened the meat and it slid down my throat, all salty and sweet.
As I licked my lips, inspiration set in. Whatever happed to the château, whatever happened with my grandmother, I was going to tame these ingredients into tasteful submission, giving the guests an unexpected gastronomic experience. Pleased with my plan, I darted to the board, grabbed a piece of chalk, and wrote out the menu.