The Secret French Recipes of Sophie Valroux - Samantha Verant Page 0,60

on Small Rounds of Toasted Bread

Escargots de Bourgogne

Oysters with a Mignonette Sauce

Oysters with Pimento Peppers and Apple Cider Vinegar

Oysters Rockefeller, deglazed with Pernod, served with Spinach, Pimento Peppers, and Lardons

Sophie’s Spiced Langouste (Spiny Lobster) à l’Armoricaine

Crayfish, Crab, and Shrimp with a Saffron-Infused Aioli Dipping Sauce

Moules à la Plancha with Chorizo

Selection of the Château’s Cheeses

Three Varieties of Bûche de Noël

The kitchen staff walked in as I threw the chalk on the counter. Phillipa snuck up behind me. “Oh my God. That menu looks wicked incredible. I’m already drooling.”

Clothilde nodded her head with approval. “It’s perfect. You’ve made your grandmother proud.”

“How many bûches do you think we’ll need?” asked Gustave, referring to the celebrated and traditional log cakes served in every French restaurant and household sometime during the holiday season.

“Twenty?” I answered.

“Good thing I started on them a few days ago,” he said. “Pineapple and mango, chocolate and praline, and vanilla and chestnut.”

“No alcohol?” I asked.

“Maybe just a pinch of Armagnac.” He held up his forefinger and thumb. Looked like more than a pinch.

“Desserts are your specialty.” I clapped my hands together. “The menu is set.”

“You forgot about the chapons and the faisans,” said Gustave.

“Wow, what a feast. Capons and pheasants, too?” I asked.

“Oui. I’m roasting them tomorrow morning, and les dames are making the farce aux marrons. Not everybody is a fan of seafood.”

The granny brigade whispered in a corner, nodding their heads in unison. By their smiles, everybody seemed happy with the plan. I was proving I could do this—to me and to them.

“Are we all ready to get to work?” I asked.

“Oui, Chef,” came the shout, the two little words sending tingles and shivers down my spine.

Phillipa tapped me on the shoulder. “I’m taking off to pick up Walter and Robert. You’ve got things covered here?”

“I do,” I said. “And thanks.”

“No need to thank me,” she said. “I’ll be back in a few hours.”

* * *

Walter and Robert stood in front of the château, mouths agape. Naturally, they both wore their matching Façonnable shirts, Robert showing his personal sense of style with his ascot. “This is your grandmother’s house?” asked Walter with a gasp. “Why were you slumming it with me?”

Robert brought his hands to his chest as if he were having a heart attack. “We are so getting married here.” He thrust his hand in my face, showing off a simple black ring. “Walter and I are engaged!”

“Congratulations! This is amazing news. I’m so happy for the two of you, and I wouldn’t expect you to get hitched anywhere else,” I said, but something caught my attention. My gaze shot to Rémi. My smile turned into the hardest of frowns. Rémi’s expression was harder.

“Oh mon Dieu, who is that?” asked Robert, fanning his neck dramatically.

“It’s not a who,” I said, glaring at Rémi. “It’s a what.”

“Then what is that?” asked Walter.

“A giant asshole,” I said.

“Is that your childhood sweetheart? Rémi? What happened to him?” asked Walter, knowing all of my stories.

“He changed,” I said. “And not for the better.”

“I don’t know about that. His ass is Adonis-like,” said Robert. He snorted out a laugh at my look. “What? You know Walter and I have a look-don’t-touch policy. I’m a one-man guy. Sophie, you should do something about that.”

Walter let out a groan. “The last thing Sophie needs right now is that kind of distraction. Look at her, she’s finally back. She looks great. She doesn’t have that crazed look in her eye. She looks happy.”

Admittedly, I watched Rémi’s ass as he walked away. No, I didn’t need that. For now, having my two closest friends in France was the best distraction in the world. It was nice bantering with them and, minute by minute, I was feeling back to my old self.

“Come on,” I said, locking my arms through theirs. “I’ll give you a quick tour and then take you to your room.”

19

joyeux noël

The sky darkened and thick clouds rolled in, giving the château’s grounds an ominous feeling. The leaves on the bushes and the moss on the trunks glowed with a haunting hue. A van rumbled down the gravel driveway, snaking its way among the plane trees. The doors opened. A ramp lowered. There sat Grand-mère Odette in a wheelchair dressed in her Chanel skirt suit with an orange Birkin bag on her lap, surveying all from behind large black Chanel sunglasses. I raced up to her and we swapped les bises.

“Clothilde told me she brought you your clothes this morning,” I said. “I’m so glad you’re