a wall of wooden paneling near the entrance, out of the main walkway’s path.
Pippa gazed about the space with purpose. “Do you see him?”
Captivated by the scene unfolding before them, Celine failed to reply.
Across the restaurant’s open dining area—near a set of curving stairs vanishing up into shadowy darkness—the freckled server caught the attention of an imposing figure standing beside the swinging door to the kitchen. The silk-faced lapels of his pristine frock coat glowed in the candlelight. Even from a distance, Celine recognized him as the ruler of this culinary domain. He maintained a ramrod straight posture, his dark skin and the gold ring through his right ear brilliant contrasts to his snow-white shirt. Then he glanced at the server, flicking his black eyes toward a table closer to Pippa and Celine. His gaze was pointed. Reproving.
A flush spreading across his cheeks, the young server conducted an artful about-face, twisting back in the table’s direction. He began distributing covered dishes before its four patrons, one of whom was a pale gentleman of Asiatic origin, sporting a thin mustache, perfectly groomed, and a shirt with a simple collar. Beside him sat a portly white fellow with red splotches across his nose and a smoldering cigar. Across the table was a man with skin the color of mahogany, wearing a spectacular waistcoat of gold and royal blue. Next to him sulked the younger, smaller version of himself.
It struck Celine as highly unusual. She’d never seen men of different skin color occupy the same space in a fine restaurant.
Parisian high society was not a society of mixed company. The Paris Celine knew was carefully sorted, just like its many arrondissements. As a small child, Celine was told never to traverse the narrow lanes of Saint-Denis just as its émigré residents were shown that they—and their kind—did not belong anywhere near the dazzling boulevards of Place Vendôme. She wondered if the scene taking place tonight within Jacques’ was normal in a port city like New Orleans, one in which people from all over the world congregated.
She would wager it was not. It had certainly been the truth for her own family. From an early age, Celine had been taught to be grateful for her mother’s absence from their family’s dining table.
Sadness flared around her heart. She took hold of it. Trapped it deep within her chest. It did no good to dwell on matters she could not change. Steadfast in her resolve, Celine looked to Pippa to see if they should proceed.
It appeared that Pippa, too, had been swept away by the unearthly magic of this place. She watched rapt while the freckle-faced server finished distributing the covered dishes. Then he snapped his fingers in a dramatic fashion, and all the silver domes were removed in concert. Scented steam wafted through the air, floating toward Celine and Pippa as though it were borne on an enchanted wind. Pippa stilled, her eyes falling shut.
“What . . . is that deliciousness?” she asked Celine.
Celine leaned closer to the table, peering around the hustle and bustle of the busy restaurant.
The food smelled familiar—the same scents of butter and wine, the same perfume of marjoram, thyme, and rosemary—that Celine had grown up enjoying in Paris. But something else filtered through the air. Spices she could not readily identify.
They plagued her. Tantalized her. Intoxicated her.
The newly uncovered plates of Limoges porcelain held fillets of sole resting atop beds of fragrant rice, finished with a sauce similar to a beurre blanc, but with a twist of roasted tomatoes and a hint of sweet herbs. To the right of the flaky fish sat a tureen of pommes de terre soufflées. The delectably puffed potatoes were served alongside an intricate pyramid of roasted asparagus smothered in truffle port sauce, then garnished with slender shavings of cured meat.
At the table nearest to them, an elegant woman dripping with pearls drank from her glass of red wine before nibbling on a pillowy gougères, the salty scent of Gruyère cheese mingling with the rich fragrance of the Burgundy.
In that moment, Celine wanted nothing more than to slip into this woman’s expensive shoes, just for a breath of time. To sink her teeth into something decadent, heedless of all else around her.
“Oh!” Pippa said, startled by a sudden tongue of fire leaping from another table. A white-gloved maître d’hôtel swished the burning contents of a small pan, a blue blaze dancing around its edges. The concoction appeared to be a strange kind of creamy fruit