“Playing with a few new ideas,” Michel replied with a small smile. “Here.” He went to the sink and cut a sliver of the tarte tatin. “Tell me what you think. A new twist on an old classic.” He offered it to her. Reluctantly, Georgia took a bite. As he watched, she chewed and swallowed, careful to not grimace. It tasted, predictably, horrible.
“Interesting,” Georgia hedged. “Your desserts are always so creative.” It was the truth and also a statement that had nothing to do with the taste of whatever was in her mouth. She didnot want to lie to Michel. She prided herself on being forthright and honest, but she also wasn’t ready to tell him about losing her sense of taste. After what happened at La Pomme d’Or, it felt disastrous to also admit that she had lost her ability to taste anything but bitter. Two strikes against her was too many. She could not risk ruining any chance she had of getting La Lumière Dorée.
La Lumière Dorée, translated the Golden Light in English, was the new sister restaurant to La Pomme d’Or. It was located in Montmartre, within a stone’s throw of the sublimely beautiful Sacré-Coeur Basilica. There was much speculation in the Paris restaurant scene over who Michel would name as head chef. There were a few names in the running, including Georgia’s, and Etienne had hinted to her last week that Michel was favoring her for the position. But that was before the disaster of last night.
Michel raised an eyebrow at her assessment of the tarte tatin. “That’s all? No critique? I’ve always known you to try to improve everything I’ve ever made.”
Georgia flushed. “I must be feeling generous today,” she said cheekily, teasing him a little. “That or you’re getting better.” She set the rest of the tarte tatin sample aside.
Michel rewarded her with a small, amused half smile. “I am not convinced it is as good as it could be.” He narrowed his eyes in thought. As one of the most influential chefs in Europe, Michel had a reputation for impossibly high standards and impeccable taste. He was a businessman first, though, not just an artist, and was known for his precision and his even temper, an anomaly in the high-pressure world of professional chefs.
“A little bird told me you had an eventful evening,” Michel remarked calmly, picking up the knife and resuming chopping the chocolate.
Startled, Georgia glanced at him in alarm. What did he know? “Did Etienne call you?”
That could complicate things substantially if he’d already heard about last night from Etienne. She wanted to tell him herself and explain why she’d done what she did.
Michel did not pause. “No, Antoine Dupont called me this morning.”
Georgia’s mouth went dry.
“Monsieur Dupont was very displeased by every aspect of his visit to the restaurant, especially his inedible meal—which he told me you served him.” Michel threw her a quick glance as he scraped the chocolate into a bowl. “And he was especially nonplussed when Etienne tried to convince him to not write a review. He said Etienne cited a domestic dispute with you as the reason the food was abominable. And so far this morning I have received no fewer than half a dozen messages, all about an article on the Internet? You know I don’t read such things, but many people have already contacted me to let me know. You are quite the talk of Paris today, my dear.”
Georgia said nothing. Michel looked at her, his expression mild but questioning. “Is it true? Did you sabotage Monsieur Dupont’s meal as Etienne claims?”
Georgia crossed her arms and hesitated, feeling like a scolded child. “Yes and no,” she said. “I caught Etienne cheating on me with the new pastry chef, so I shut them in the walk-in refrigerator and then in the uproar afterward, Monsieur Dupont’s sole meunière got quite overdone. I could have had the kitchen make him a new plate, but I didn’t. I...” She paused, embarrassed. “I served it to Monsieur Dupont on purpose,” she admitted regretfully.
“Ah,” Michel said mildly. “You’ve always had a hot temper to match that glorious hair of yours.” He shook his head and gave her a gently reproving glance. Going to the refrigerator, hetook out a tray with little ramekins of creamy white blancmange and set it on the counter.
“I was angry and humilated,” Georgia blurted out, “but I shouldn’t have done it.”
“You’re right,” Michel agreed calmly, picking up a ramekin of blancmange and examining it. He withdrew a small spoon from his pocket and tasted a bite, eyes narrowed, assessing. “It was a regrettable lapse in judgment.” He set the ramekin down and looked at her reprovingly. “Of course you were angry, Georgia, but did you consider what a bad review would do to your colleagues, to everyone else who works as hard as you do in that kitchen? You have every right to be angry with Etienne. He is a brilliant chef, but when it comes to matters of the heart, he lets what is between his legs lead him, like a street dog. But I expected better of you.” He sounded so sober, and her heart sank. She hated to disappoint him. “Your choice shows a lack of care for others around you,” he admonished. “That is not the way to inspire and lead people, Georgia. You must always think of serving those around you, not just yourself. Only then will you be ready to lead your own restaurant.”
Georgia nodded miserably. How could she have let one bad choice ruin so many years of grueling work? She was bitterly disappointed in herself.
“So now what?” Georgia asked quietly. She picked up a tiny lavender macaron, the size of an American quarter and light as a little cloud, from a tray of them on the counter by her elbow, then set it back down. She looked up to find Michel watching her carefully.
“I must be honest, Georgia. I was considering you for La Lumière Dorée,” Michel admitted.
Georgia’s stomach sank at his use of the past tense.
“But something gives me pause,” Michel continued. “It is not just about last night, but something far more grave, I fear.” Michel went to the stove and came back with a small saucepan of a clear amber liquid. It gave off the tantalizing fragrance of rosemary and caramelized sugar.
“More grave?” Georgia asked with a touch of dread. How could this get worse? Did he somehow already know about her losing her sense of taste?
“We all suffer from moments of insanity when it comes to passions of the heart.” Michel spooned a few teaspoons of the liquid over the top of each blancmange. “That is regrettable but understandable. But it is more than that. I fear you are losing your spark, Georgia.” He looked up at her, his expression assessing.
“My spark?” Georgia repeated blankly.
Michel gave her a small smile. “When I first met you, do you know what I saw?”
“My body flying across the hood of your car?” Georgia guessed wryly. She and Michel had met when Georgia had been thrown in his path quite literally one morning during her first few weeks in Paris. A rowdy student tour group had shouldered past her near the Eiffel Tower, bumping her into the street and straight into the path of Michel’s car. In truth, the hood had barely grazed her hip, but Michel had been so appalled and so apologetic about hitting her that he had insisted his driver take her wherever she was heading. She was returning to her hotel after being rejected by another restaurant unwilling to hire a female, American-trained chef. They had actually laughed in her face. It was not the first time.
On the way back to her hotel in a dodgy arrondissement, she and Michel struck up a conversation. Intrigued by the brash redheaded American with the Texas twang, Michel asked if shewould mind taking a small detour. He drove her to one of his restaurants, not open at that time of day, and invited her to prepare a simple lunch for him. After eating her food, he generously offered to have a word with a couple of restaurants about a possible position. As it turned out, his word was a golden ticket. She had started at the bottom, just above a dishwasher, but it was a start. Thanks to Michel, she had gotten the chance to prove herself at a good restaurant in Paris. And he had continued to mentor her in the twelve years since, providing invaluable advice and guidance as she’d worked her way up the ranks of several restaurant kitchens.
Michel waved away her attempt at humor. “Georgia, that day I saw the spark you carry within you. You were so new, so idealistic and unprepared, but you did extraordinary things with food, things I’d never tasted before. I ate what you cooked and it filled me with a sense of wonder, of possibility, of... joie de vivre, for lack of a better term. It was not because your technique was so superior. You are a talented and well-trained chef, but so are dozens of chefs in this city. No, it was something more. When I sampled what you made for me that first time, it was as though with every bite I could taste a better future, the possibilities yet to come.”
Michel paused, searching for the right words. He spooned more of the rosemary caramelized sugar syrup into the ramekins of blancmange, filling the kitchen with a sugary evergreen scent. “Your food gave me hope in the strangest way. And that’s why I’ve invested so much of my time into your career, because your potential seemed boundless, because the food you make has a touch of the... what is the English word? Transcendent? No. Sublime. That is it. There is something about your food that feels sublime, as though when I eat it, I see everything more clearly, I catch a glimpse of a better world. It is a beautifulthing. Almost a holy thing.” He gazed at her with a look of consideration.
