“As you wish, Chef.” Claude nodded crisply. “And the party upstairs?”
She rubbed the back of her neck and rolled her shoulders. God, should she call Nanine and ask her what to do? If she wanted to come by and handle Dassault herself? Madison could not in good conscience serve this man.
Then again, she’d cooked for morally dubious people in Miami. She’d known it. Cooking couldn’t be personal. It was bad for business. People came. You fed them. That was the job.
But somehow this evening wasn’t so simple, especially when she feared Dassault had come to cause trouble.
She cracked her neck. Suddenly she could see Nanine’s understanding brown gaze as if her mother figure were standing in front of her. She knew what Nanine would want. She’d want Madison to make her own decision because she was the head chef of Nanine’s now.
“I’ll see what they want, but I’d like you to come with me. Have Julian join us.”
There was no way she was going into the lion’s den alone without witnesses, and a maître d’ and sommelier joining her made sense for such renowned guests. Besides, she had her version of an ice breaker.
“Yes, Chef.”
Pierre was rocking on his perch when she returned to her station and informed Fabian of her plans for Kyle’s family and the party upstairs. When her witnesses returned to the kitchen, she grabbed the treasured wooden box Nanine had given her when she’d told her she wanted to take over as head chef. Together, they made their way up Nanine’s treacherous stairs.
She’d looked Flaubert up after Thea and she had spoken, so she knew he was the lean man with the shock of white hair trailing over a slightly wrinkled brow line.
Dassault’s massive bald head and robust body was one she’d known since Nanine had first told them the story of their affair and the subsequent fallout. He wore the bully persona like he’d been born to it.
And of course, Chef Parnaud’s wiry frame was familiar from her research of France’s most famous chefs. He’d been photographed with French presidents along with the rest of their party.
These were culinary movers and shakers, and she’d always wanted to earn a place in their ranks. Tonight, their presence only made her sick.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” she began in French, stepping into the ring as their conversation paused upon seeing them. “I am Chef Madison Garcia.”
She introduced her staff, watching Dassault closely. From the smug look on his face and the way he peered down his nose at her—even seated as he was—she confirmed he hadn’t come here to be delighted by their cuisine and bury the hatchet. Good. She wasn’t any good at beating around the bush, and now there was no need to try.
“If I may be so bold, I would like to say it is a special honor to have Chef Parnaud here with us tonight.” She extended the wooden box and opened the lid. “I am a great admirer of Chef Paul Bocuse, and it was with great pleasure that I was given a boning knife that Chef Bocuse had gifted toMonsieur Jean Laurent for the produce and ducks he’d delivered to L’Auberge du Pont de Collonges many years ago.”
Chef Parnaud’s mouth formed a brief smile. “A treasured gift, no doubt. Chef Bocuse did treasure his ducks.”
“We have that in common.” She kept her gaze on him, knowing he was a potential ally. “Monsieur Laurent gave this knife to his daughter. They lived in Lyon, you see, and she had always wanted to become a chef. She did that, of course. You are sitting in the restaurant she created. When she stepped down as head chef, she gave me this knife, and it reminds me of the tradition of excellence I now represent. We are happy to have you with us in good faith.”
You could have heard a pin drop.
Sweat beaded down her back. Dassault shifted in his chair so loudly it scraped the floor, turning his back on her. The cut was direct. Her mouth went dry. Fire surged in her belly.
“Monsieur Flaubert, I understand you wished to speak with me,” she began, raising her eyebrow.
He tapped the table with the emphasis of a judge presiding over a court case. “Yes, and I find your story makes my purpose here easier. I was deeply touched by your gift of bread, and it equally intrigued me to discover how one would pair such exquisite breads with the excellent cuisine I have heard so much about. But I also felt it was time for a détente of sorts. Between Nanine’s and my good friend Auguste here.”
The large man sputtered as he swung his meaty hand through the air. “What do you mean, Christophe? We came here to send a message?—”
“No, you assumed that, Auguste,” Christophe answered.
Flaubert was here to broker peace? She closed the lid of the box and tucked it to her side so she wouldn’t drop it in shock.
Christophe leaned his elbow on the table. “We have been friends many years, Auguste. I have listened to your storieson many subjects. Tonight I felt it was time to start a new chapter. You have met the new chef of Nanine’s tonight, and now let us enjoy the cuisine everyone has been raving about in the good faith of which she spoke. I can personally attest that the breads I sampled are some of the finest I have ever tasted and carry the soul of France in them.”
Dassault shoved back angrily in his chair, making Madison move swiftly to the side so as not to be hit. He pounded the table, the sound ricocheting off the walls like the solid whack of a racquetball. “You had no right to do this, Flaubert.”
“I am an old man,” the lean man continued, steepling his hands. “A wrong was committed, one that has bothered me for many years. Tonight I came in the hopes that something right could emerge.”
“I will not tolerate this insult.” Dassault pounded the table again before swinging around and facing Madison. “And you! Sending a pathetic breadbasket to an old man… That wicked woman was behind it, wasn’t she?”
Madison balled up her hand and had to refrain from punching him in the face. “If you mean Nanine, she had nothing to do with this.”
