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“I suppose we’ll find out,” she replied, taking a breath as she held open one last door, like she was steeling herself. But what for?
I glanced around curiously as we entered a medium-sized dining room, filled mainly with children and people I assumed were au pairs, though a few bleary-eyed parents sat here and there as well, mostly checking their phones. I called out to Veronika and Clotilde, and they waved back, but no one else greeted us. A few of the other children glanced at Sylvia, then turned their backs.
Huh. Weird.
I waited until we’d filled our plates at the extensive buffet that had everything: kimchi, omelets, Greek yogurt with honey and fresh berries, vegan bacon, thick ham steaks, even rice congee. Not that anyone was eating much of it.Not even the children had more than a few bites of food in front of them, though a few of them were glancing at the buffet as if they wanted more.
When we sat at a table, alone, my plate was piled high, while Sylvia only had two strips of vegan bacon. “Not hungry?” I asked.
Her eyes flitted to the au pairs who were drinking black coffee and eating a similar, carb-free meal. I knew without asking what that look meant, and I silently cursed the media, the patriarchy, and the clueless adults who were responsible for ruining one of the best parts of being wealthy.
Really good food, with no dishes to do afterward.
I dug my fork into my food, taking out my aggression on the pillowy-soft scrambled eggs. And stopped. “Oh... my… god.” I swallowed and flagged down the crew member who was waiting on the tables. “Could I speak to the chef please? About what’s in these eggs.”He raced away.
“Are you allergic to something, Soleil?” Sylvia whispered. “Do you have an EpiPen?” She looked panicked. Way more panicked than she should be.
“No,” I soothed her. Before I could explain, the chef was on her way through the double doors to the galley, and she looked pissed. Before she could say a word, I rose and held out my hand. “Are you the one who made these amazing eggs? I took a course with Master Chef Stella Del Raspici in Florence a few years ago, and she made eggs that tasted exactly like this!”
The chef’s broad face widened into a huge grin. “What a compliment! Stella is a friend of mine. We studied in Lyon together.” We switched to French and then Italian, speaking about the eggs and then about the different ways to prepare them.
Something tugged at my sleeve. “Why are eggs such a big deal?” Sylvia asked. “They’re just… eggs.”
“Oh, no,” I said, shocked. “If you want to know if a cook has truly mastered their craft, you can tell that by tasting their eggs.” The chef smiled and introduced herself to Sylvia.
Sylvia’s eyes narrowed, but she took her fork and tasted a bite of my eggs. Her eyes widened.“Those are really good.” She swallowed, and snuck some more while I spoke to Chef Juliette.
“Chef, I believe that every young person should know the basics of cooking. Is there any way I could bring my young charge into your kitchen so she could watch a Master Chef prepare eggs correctly?”
Juliette was already shaking her head when we looked down, and saw that Sylvia had eaten all of my eggs. “Please?” she asked in a whisper. “I’ve never tasted anything so good in my life.”
I didn’t turn my head, but could sense that all the other children, and the adults as well, had gone silent. Listening.
“I cannot bring children into my galley. But!” She winked at Sylvia. “I can bring my galley to you, Mademoiselle.” She gestured to the wait staff who sprang into motion, while I cleared our table for the impromptu cooking lesson. In minutes, there was a small propane burner, a copper-bottomed sauté pan, and all the ingredients for scrambled eggs sitting in the middle of our table.
A soft, cleared throat at my elbow got my attention. “Miss, can we… can we watch, too?” It was another girl, probably about ten. Two women hovered a few feet behind her, and the girl, Devon, introduced them as her mom and her aunt. The aunt was a female alpha, who smelled… I blushed. Her scent wasn’t as good as Giovanni’s, but she smelled of sour cherries and heavy cloves, and the glint in her eye told me she’d noticed my reaction.
I peeked back down at Devon, who was smiling shyly at Sylvia. “Sure, sweetie. Sit by us.”
In seconds, a whole group of children had clustered around our tables and the other au pairs were pulling up chairs all around. When Chef Juliette came back out, she laughed at the crowd.“I will need a sous chef with this many.” She pointed at Sylvia. “Miss Grantham-Standish?”
“M-me?” Sylvia stammered, but stood at Chef’s beckoning hand.
“Yes, you. Put this on.” She draped an apron over Sylvia’s neck, wrapping the ties around her small waist twice before tying it in the front, and plopped a white hat, smaller than her own chef’s toque, on Sylvia’s head. “When I ask you to do something, you must obey immediately, and say ‘Yes, Chef!’” The chef’s eyebrows danced up and down, then she leaned over and whispered something in Sylvia’s ear. “Do you understand?”
“Yes, Chef,” Sylvia replied, her narrow shoulders shaking slightly. I was worried until she turned, and I could tell she was suppressing laughter.
Chef Juliette took over, instructing the assembled group as if she had taught wedding guests how to scramble eggs a thousand times. Maybe she had. What made me grin so hard my cheeks hurt was how Sylvia responded to the attention. She was intense, as always, but when her turn came to demonstrate the lesson, she did every step perfectly.
Her dark eyes shone with pride as she placed the finished eggs in front of me. “Well, Soleil? How did I do?”
I took a bite, and the flavor exploded in my mouth. “Oh. My. Goodness. Sylvia, you could be a chef yourself. What did you put in these?” She rolled her eyes, but the light shining from her face was brighter than any smile.
“Make me some, Sylvia?” a red-haired boy, who looked about twelve or thirteen, asked. “I’m starved.”
The adults all moved away, and I joined the au pairs I’d met and chatted with them for a while. Some of the other kids were looking bored, but the pools outside hadn't been uncovered yet, so I asked the waiters for clean napkins, and spent the rest of that hour teaching them all how to make swans and teddy bears. I was probably prouder than I should be when I realized that not one of my examples ended up looking like a dick.
Then the pools opened, and everyone rushed out of the room. Sylvia asked permission to go out with the boy, Alexandre, and I sent her on. From the bench seat at one end of the room, I could watch them through a window, so I relaxed. I was finally getting my first cup of coffee—with a healthy splash of cream and a tablespoon of dark chocolate—when a low voice interrupted me.
