“Good.” Michel looked satisfied. “The others are already here.” He gestured for her to follow him and headed back to the kitchen. She glanced around eagerly as they passed through the dining area. It was a beautiful space, intimate and perfectly appointed with a sleek, understated elegance. Outside the main room, live trees grew in a beautiful little courtyard with tables dotted around the stone patio. She spied a fountain with a lion’s head set in one of the patio walls. The inside of the restaurant reminded her of nearby Sacré-Coeur, serenely white and bright and dignified. It was a gorgeous restaurant. And after today, it could be hers to helm. Strangely, the thought did not thrill her. She brushed aside the sensation, chalking it up to nerves, and followed Michel.
“Your place is there.” Michel motioned to the far end of the kitchen. The space was a good size for a Paris restaurant kitchen, far larger than that of La Pomme d’Or. It was also brand-new, all gleaming stainless-steel surfaces and high-quality cookware. Now it was set up almost like one of those televised cooking competitions, but far more bare-bones. There was a giant gas industrial cooktop that the contestants would share, three stainless-steel prep tables arranged in a U shape to fit in the kitchen space, and essential kitchen items for each contestant. Nothing fancy and unnecessary like a frozen yogurt machine or an air fryer. Those were for American TV, not quality French cooking.
The other contestants, Gerard Boucher and Leonie Alarie, greeted her politely. They were already setting up their stations.Georgia swallowed hard, feeling a flutter of nerves. What if she panicked and couldn’t get her dishes made in time? What if she forgot an important step or did something stupid again like substituted salt for sugar? What if she failed completely? She took a deep breath and closed her eyes.
“You can do this,” she told herself. Not only could she taste everything again, but she knew who she was. She was Georgia May Jackson, the next in a long line of Stevens women. She had a gift to give the world. This was her moment, the opportunity she had been working toward since she was a child. She opened her eyes.
“Julia, help me win this, please,” she whispered. “Today is the day I’ve been waiting for almost my whole life.” She waited, hoping for a word of inspiration from her patron saint.
“Just remember, nothing is more important than the people who love you. Relationships are the most important thing—not a career or work, or success—people who love you are the greatest gift,” Julia trilled earnestly in her ear.
Georgia blinked, a trifle taken aback by the sentiment. “That’s not helpful right now,” she protested under her breath. Julia said nothing.
“Many thanks for being here today.” Michel started the competition with a gracious little speech. “You are each here because I believe you can bring something fresh and exciting to the Paris culinary scene. And so today I am not looking for technical brilliance but for that spark of inspiration, that touch of curiosity that leads to true revelation for those who eat the food. I am not looking to be impressed. I want to be enthralled. Please complete your three-course meal in a timely manner. I will enjoy each of your preparations on the patio in three hours. Then I will decide.” He gave a little nod, and Georgia’s heart leaped. This was it. It was time to shine.
She saw Gerard and Leonie spring into action. For an instant, she froze, panicked, then spied the leafy green fronds of celery root poking out of the top of her bag, and all of a sudden she could breathe again. She knew what to do. Follow her heart and cook what delighted her.
“Follow the wonder, find the delight,” she murmured, and reached into the trolley for her ingredients.
The next few hours passed in a blur. Later, Georgia couldn’t remember much about that time. She vaguely recalled Gerard swearing explosively in French after burning himself on a hot pan. And Leonie working across from her with silent, laser-like focus. After her initial spurt of panic, a strange sort of calm descended on Georgia. She worked quickly but smoothly, dicing and chopping, sautéing and whipping with a metal whisk. She let the ingredients speak to her. She was not just cooking, she was inventing a little too, and it felt light and fun and a touch nerve-racking. Her menu was simple—she worried that it was perhaps a little too simple, but she had found her spark and she didn’t want to extinguish it under the weight of elaborate dishes and complicated techniques. She wanted the food to sing, to inspire with its fresh simplicity. So she put aside her worries and tried to recapture the joy she’d felt at Anemone, the sensation of delight, like child’s play.
Beside her, Leonie was muttering instructions under her breath like a mantra. Across from her, Gerard dropped a knife and cursed aloud in French. Georgia closed her eyes and concentrated on the sensations of the island—the bracing, spicy scent of evergreen needles, the briny creaminess of an oyster still in its shell, the chewy, viscous luxury of Star’s honey on the comb, the light acidity of a local cider. And then she cooked what she felt, that sense of wonder, the lightness and clean sea salt air. A sprinkle of salt, the crispness of fresh vegetables, theunctuous luxury of good olive oil. Finally, as if from far away, she heard the bell ding. Her time was up.
She came to as if out of a trance, finding herself standing in the kitchen at La Lumière Dorée once more. She looked around in surprise. Michel was waiting on the patio.
Gerard served his menu first, a decent-looking bleu cheese soufflé followed by seared lamb chops in a cognac and mustard sauce accompanied by potatoes dauphinoise and a light salad of wild spring greens. For dessert, he served a Sauternes custard with bitter caramel. It was technically well executed, Georgia could tell as she watched the dishes go by, but his menu lacked creative imagination, and the food was heavy. As Gerard served each dish, Georgia and Leonie crowded close to the window overlooking the patio, watching Michel sample each course.
“He doesn’t like it,” Leonie observed in French.
Georgia secretly agreed. She knew Michel well, and although he kept his face smooth and blank, he did not look surprised as he took each bite. He also did not savor it, just ate as though it were his duty. She exhaled in relief. One down. One to go. The odds were more in her favor now. Surprisingly, the thought did not bring her the thrill of joy she expected.
Then it was Leonie’s turn. Her dishes were perfectly executed and technically complex, with a surprising twist. She was an exceptional chef, Georgia had to admit. She stood at the window with a sulking Gerard. They both watched as Leonie brought out her three courses. First, a delicate velouté of chilled asparagus sprinkled with tarragon, the vivid green hue of spring grass. She followed this by a second course composed of a beautiful Lyonnaise potato salad redolent with pickled herring, accompanied by crab-stuffed deviled eggs topped with a silky dollop of hollandaise sauce and tiny medallions of pepper-crusted veal.Her dessert was a simple but decadent chocolate ganache torte with an olive oil crust and blackened pistachios.
This time, Michel lingered over each bite. And the sliver of torte he finished completely. Not a good sign, Georgia thought with a frown. Not a good sign at all. He had enjoyed that.
“Georgia?” Leonie tapped her on the shoulder. “It is your turn. Bonne chance.” She spoke the words without a trace of rancor.
Georgia nodded and smiled. “Merci. He liked yours,” she affirmed.
She swiftly returned to her prep station and served the first course to Michel on the patio. Scallops crudo made with scallops sourced from Normandy drizzled with preserved lemon-infused olive oil and a side of seaweed salad. Michel cut a tiny piece of the raw scallop and tasted it, dipping it in the preserved lemon olive oil. He ate a bite of the seaweed salad. Georgia held her breath. He closed his eyes, chewed, swallowed. Looked at her. “Daring.”
She exhaled, relieved. He liked daring. That was a good sign. She served the second course. She had opted for a light menu, perhaps too light. She placed the plate in front of him. Rounds of roasted apple and celery root liberally smeared with a chèvre and toasted walnut spread and topped by a nest made of strips of candied salmon.
Michel studied the plate a moment, then glanced at her and raised his eyebrows. She gave a small, chagrined shrug. “I told you I found my spark on the island,” she said.
“Hmm.” He poked at the candied salmon, which was deliciously chewy, heavily smoked, and cured with sugar and salt, then tried a bite of the dish, careful to get a taste of every layer. “Fascinating.”
He set down his fork and took a swallow of water. Georgia was disappointed. Fascinating, but not good enough for him to want to eat the rest. She glanced over at the window where Gerard and Leonie were keeping an eye on the proceedings with a studied air of disinterest. She knew they were dissecting every gesture and glance. She felt a little sick with the strain. One last course to go.
Her dessert was so simple she hoped it would not seem offensive. A little cup of light-as-air meringue filled with tiny wild strawberries and drizzled with Star’s lavender-infused honey. It had felt right to use something from the island today. It was because of Star that Georgia had found her spark again. Now here she was standing before Michel, her dream finally within her grasp.
Michel made a little sound of appreciation as he looked at the meringue, diminutive and pretty as a still life. Georgia served it with a tiny silver spoon, the bowl of it no bigger than a quail’s egg. Michel cracked the meringue and nodded approvingly. He scooped up half the meringue with a few wild strawberries and ate the bite, then quickly devoured the other half.
“Where did you get this honey?” he asked, scraping up the last golden drizzle with the edge of the spoon and licking it clean. “It’s divine.”
“From my mother. She keeps bees,” Georgia admitted.
Michel shot her a speculative look. “Interesting,” he mused. He set the plate aside. “Merci, Georgia. Now I will consider. Please let the others know I will have an answer for all of you shortly.”
