The Secret French Recipes of Sophie Valroux - Samantha Verant

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counting stars

A zucchini flew over my head, missing it by a few centimeters.

Miguel, my commis, caught the torpedo of a vegetable with flair, swaggered over to the Bose sound system, and changed the music from Vivaldi’s The Four Seasons to Madonna’s “Lucky Star.” Nobody whipped Miguel’s ass with a kitchen towel or slugged him on the arm as he danced his way back to our station. Instead, after exaggerated moans and groans from a few of the macho men, the brigade sang along, Miguel using the zucchini like a microphone.

Insanity, momentary madness, spread like wildfire. Vegetables were launched in all directions, a few tomatoes thudding on the floor with a healthy splat. Freedom. Chaos. The rules went out the window. I smiled so wide my cheeks hurt.

Miguel set the zucchini down on a chopping block and then he nudged my ribs. “Look at you, Sophie, you’re always so serious. But right now you look like that weird Cheshire cat in the Disney movie—all teeth and crazy eyes.”

“This is my wonderland,” I said, sweeping out my arms.

“Wonderland? You sick?” He placed the back of his hand against my forehead. “You’re looking a bit pale and skinny.”

“I’ve always been pale and skinny,” I said with a laugh.

When I’d first stepped foot into this kitchen five years prior, the entire brigade made fun of my whiter-than-white complexion and teased me, saying they’d expected me to break like a porcelain doll. But I proved to them that I was far from fragile—conquering late nights and early mornings, not to mention all the burns, cuts, and bruises. It wasn’t long before they dubbed me Scary Spice, the guys having learned never to drop their pants in front of a woman wielding an oyster knife.

“Dios mío, Sophie, I never, ever thought I’d be a part of something like this,” said Miguel. “Do you think we’ll get it?”

I couldn’t respond because I was praying with my heart and soul we would.

Rumor had it that any minute now we’d find out if we’d received our third star before Michelin released next year’s New York red guide. Renowned chefs throughout the city were already receiving courtesy calls—a few of them gaining stars, and a few becoming starless. Judging by the six-month wait to dine at Cendrillon NY, this third star was shooting right toward us in all its shining glory. I clasped my hands together and lowered my head, my spine tingling. I wanted this more than anything. I wanted to be blinded by the light of this magnificent event, the splendor.

“Chica, you’ve zoned out,” said Miguel, hip-bumping me. “Do you think we stand a chance?”

“Well, we deliver the ultimate dining experience,” I said, floating back from my galactic-inspired fantasies and coming back down to earth. “The third star is in the bag. For sure.”

Miguel made the sign of the cross with his right hand, exuberantly—up, down, left, and right.

“Pray to the food and wine gods,” I said, and we both snorted.

Miguel grabbed me by the waist and we sambaed. Or we did our best with my two left feet. Yes, this kitchen was my crazed wonderland.

Normally, we were a well-oiled machine, operating with precision—the way any Manhattan-based Michelin two-star restaurant should run. If Auguste Escoffier—the French chef who’d codified the brigade system for the hierarchy of kitchen staffs in the early 1900s—were still alive today, he’d have flambéed our crew of eighteen one by one. But today was an exception, and perhaps even Auguste would have cut us some slack. I’m sure he strived for his dreams, too. If Michelin decorated Cendrillon with its third star, every kitchen door in the world would swing wide open for me, and the thought of running my own restaurant sent chills down my spine. The kitchen was the only place that made sense in my world, where I had control and could make people happy with my cooking. The kitchen was my life.

A cough came from the doorway. Miguel raced to the Bose and turned the music off. The brigade froze as Chef O’Shea sauntered into the kitchen. He stood in silence for one of those moments that felt like an eternity.

Barrel-chested and broad-shouldered, O’Shea’s appearance was more similar to a redheaded street boxer from Southie than that of a two-star chef. We’d joke he was part pit bull, part man, but not when he was around. His hands were enormous—it was amazing he could handle his knives with such grace. The man could fillet a yellowfin tuna in under a minute.