The Secret French Recipes of Sophie Valroux - Samantha Verant Page 0,93
Mousse au Chocolat spiced with Pimento Chili Peppers and Chocolate Flakes, garnished with Mint
I spun around on one heel, excited to get prepping. Unbeknownst to me, the rest of the kitchen staff had arrived, their jaws agape as they stared at the menu. As usual, Phillipa was the first to speak up. “That menu looks wicked incredible.”
“I don’t know about adding hot peppers to the mousse au chocolat,” said Jane, and the granny brigade nodded in agreement.
I was so sick of her know-it-all attitude. I knew a thing or two and I was going to stand by my decision. “The combination has Aztec roots. To honor the fertility goddess they drank xocolāt, a chocolate concoction spiced with chili pepper and vanilla. It’s delicious and unexpected.”
Jane rolled her eyes. “You’re the chef.”
“I am,” I said, wanting to challenge her. “And this is the menu.”
“I think the hot peppers sound interesting,” said Gustave. “But the recipe is missing something.”
“Alcohol?” I asked knowingly, and he nodded. “Add in a bit of cognac.”
“Can I do something interesting with the chocolate shards? And what about a little bit of pear?”
“Bien sûr. Desserts are your specialty.” I chalked his additions onto the board and then wiped my hands on my apron. “The menu is set.”
I turned to Sébastien. “I heard you’d like to move from the waitstaff to the kitchen. Is this true?”
“Yes, madame,” he said, his eyelashes lowered. “I’ve been cooking my entire life.”
“How old are you?”
“Eighteen.”
“The same age I was when I started cooking school,” I said. He had a cherubic face, slender hands, and sensitive eyes, and I couldn’t help but think how the brigade at Cendrillon would have chewed him up and spit him right out. I’d have to toughen him up. “But schools aren’t the real learning arenas, right, Phillipa?”
“Amen!” she said. She put her hands together toward the sky.
Choking back my laughter, I turned to Sébastien. “Have you ever used a plancha?”
“I’m half Spanish. Mon nom de famille is Rodriguez,” he said with fierce pride. “I can cook using a plancha blindfolded. And please, call me Séb. All my friends do.”
I liked his attitude. “Ready to prep, Séb?” I asked.
“Yes, Chef!”
As he darted off to his station, Rémi snuck up from behind me and whispered, “I understand your concept for the meal.”
“You do? Am I that transparent?”
“Don’t get me wrong, she loves to cook and cooks with love, but Grand-mère doesn’t cook with her emotions. The sugar, the chocolate, and the pears. All sweet. Maybe your feelings for me? Or am I being presumptuous?”
“You’re not.” I turned to face him. “Go on.”
“Sour, bitter, and hot. It’s the worry you’re feeling for Grand-mère.”
“And her ingredients?”
“Vinegar, arugula, hot peppers—a few more.”
“I guess you have me all figured out,” I said.
His hand ran up my back, quickly. “No, not at all. But I want to.”
“Rémi, like the recipes I’m making tonight, it’s all about creating the perfect balance.”
His mouth came close to my ear. “Which is what we’re going to have if you stay in Champvert.” I froze. “Sophie, you’ve gone quiet.”
“I’m thinking,” I said.
As I looked into his eyes, New York, the stars, and making my mark as the comeback chef faded from my desires. I had everything I needed in Champvert, including the possibility of falling in love.
* * *
Right before service, Jane tapped me on the shoulder. “The guests want to meet the chef.”
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?”
Jane lifted a well-shaped eyebrow. “It’s a tradition at the château, and it’s now or never. And that’s the truth.”
The truth.
The truth was, I loved every moment in this kitchen. And I loved to be able to talk to somebody openly about extremely personal issues and to have them share their problems with me. I loved every second my heart beat. I loved the feeling of falling in love. Because, with my heart closed off to everything but the kitchen, I’d never really felt it before. My confidence was back.
“Let’s go,” I said.
One careful footstep at a time, I followed Jane to the dining room, which gleamed in silvers and whites. Jane grabbed my hand and we stood in the doorway, me willing my heart to stop racing and surveying the room. Wildflowers and fresh herbs from the château’s gardens surrounded the white roses on the tables. Jane had outdone herself, celebrating the changing season.
Perhaps I’d misjudged her as much as she’d misjudged me.
“I’d like to present our wonderful chef at Les Libellules here at Château de Champvert,” Jane exclaimed, ushering