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Around 4 p.m., we check into a cute little bed-and-breakfast Connor found for us. We have just enough time to shower and change for dinner. I hope my LBD is going to be all right for this place. It’s a simple design, V-neck, sleeveless, comes just above my knees. It fits looser than the last time I wore it, thanks to my birdseed habit these past few months. I wasn’t necessarily trying to lose weight, but I had no appetite. That has certainly changed.
Connor’s “friend” turns out to be a famous chef, Anton Arnaud. I watched him on the Food Network in a mystery ingredient battle last Christmas. The mystery ingredient was cranberries. I was impressed by what he could do with them — even the jellied canned version. Anticipating our meal, I’m actually pretty thankful my dress is a little roomy.
“You know Anton Arnaud?” I hug Connor’s arm as we stride into the restaurant. The blast of air-conditioning feels marvelous. The day reached triple digits and I swear the humidity level must have topped the 90thpercentile.
“He helped me get one of our more upscale restaurants in Buckhead up and running a couple of years ago. He’s actually a friend of Ox and Tori, but we all worked together a lot during the start-up.”
“This is so cool.” I can’t help but gaze around and take it all in like a kid in a candy store. Inner Foodie is floating on cloud nine right now.
The restaurant, like Anton, is French. Connor and I are seated at a long counter that overlooks the kitchen and the chefs and cooks work directly behind it. These coveted seats allow the lucky diners who secure them to not only watch their food being prepared, but to speak to Chef Anton as well. And of course, Connor Rose is one of the lucky ones.
Watching the staff in the kitchen is like watching a well-choreographed ballet. Sparks of fire set the stage. Clinks of metal on metal and sparse conversations of “couper,” “émincer,” “trancher” and “oui, Chef” provide the symphonic arrangement to the dance. Decked out in their crisp white chef’s jackets, the cooks, alongside the penguin-clad servers, twirl and dance across the kitchen and dining room in perfectly practiced movements. It’s beautiful poetry. And the aromas that waft through the air are fragrant enough to make me salivate like Pavlov’s dog. My Inner Foodie is officially falling in love.
Anton comes over and greets Connor warmly and offers me a customary French greeting with a kiss on each cheek. He’s a stout man with a cherry red face and long curved mouth that smiles widely, when it’s not scowling at his staff demanding “la perfectionnement”. I know a little French, and Anton continues to refer to me as Connor’s “la petite amie.” It’s not just “little friend” as would be directly translated, but “girlfriend” for those who are more familiar with the language. Connor doesn’t correct him. I know he doesn’t think of me as a girlfriend. It’s probably easier than explaining that I’m an acquaintance of less than a week whom he’s invited to journey in a camper van with him for five weeks from Atlanta to Martha’s Vineyard because she couldn’t get hired for a job due to her lack of a personal life. Yeah, girlfriend is a lot easier. And I don’t mind, actually. He did call me his girl once.
For more than four hours, we dine on the most delicious food on the planet. Anton brings us one amazingly beautiful dish after another. Each is more savory and well-crafted than the last, and paired with wines and cocktails carefully selected to amplify the flavors.
During my brief tenure with the New York Philharmonic, I performed in Paris and ate some delicious French cuisine while I was there. Nothing I ate then could rival what Anton and his crew create in this kitchen. He manages to somehow meld traditional French cuisine with more modern influences and adds in slight hints of American and Italian flavors.
By the time we finish the seven courses, drink two entire bottles of French wine with Anton and laugh until our sides ache, it is nearly 2 a.m. We are the last to leave the restaurant.
“I wish you’d give me the recipe for that chicken dish you served to Ox and me that night our restaurant opened. Our chefs have never been able to reproduce it the same way you made it,” Connor says, clapping him on the back as we slowly make our way toward the door. Wait staff work busily around us to close up for the night.
“Ah, zat iz becauz I remove ze secret ingredient from ze rezipe,” Anton confesses, tapping his finger alongside his nose.
“What do I have to do to get it from you?” Connor begs. The persuasiveness edging the periphery of his voice makes me think he already has something to offer in exchange. The sly look in his eyes tells me he’s not ready to reveal it — not yet. I love the way he looks playful.
Anton pulls up some information on his phone, and I hear Connor’s device beep with an incoming message. He glances down and lets out a bark of laughter.
“Really? A scavenger hunt?” Connor muses.
“Oui. You and la petite amie can spend ze day finding it. And when you do, you will leave for me ze thing I ask of ze Ox when I help with ze restaurant. Oui?” The long curve of a smile pulls across Anton’s face and pushes up the knobs of his full scarlet cheeks.
Connor laughs again and claps him on the back. “All right. You win. What do you say, Lainey Bird? You up for a little scavenger hunt tomorrow?”
I nod eagerly, fueled by the wine and high spirits of the evening. The pleasantness of the friendship between these two men spills over and fills me.
“Oui! C'est très bon!” I make a mock salute. I’m rewarded with a hearty laugh from Anton and Connor and immediately start laughing along with them.
La vie est belle.
