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Xavier gave me an irritated look. ‘Yes. I’m sure,’ he said, taking the bowl from me. ‘In fact, by way of demonstration, we will cook these as well as a correctly prepared batch and then you can see and taste for yourself.’ He silently ground a handful of peppercorns in the mortar and pestle and added them to my mixture which I poured into the eight white ramekins sat waiting. I then repeated the whole process, this time continually whisking as Xavier instructed, adding the peppercorns at the very end, and filling another set of ramekins, ready to cook. All sixteen went into the oven as Xavier clashed about with the washing up and I tidied everything away.
‘Sorry, Xavier. I didn’t do it on purpose,’ I said eventually, breaking the silence, not sure why it was such a big deal.
‘You have huge potential, Holly, but you have to listen,’ he ranted. ‘This is the difference between an average chef and one with a Michelin star.’ He shook his head.
The oven timer went off and we pulled the two trays of crème brûlées out for cooling. They all looked identical as we transferred them to the wire rack, so only time and the taste test would tell.
‘Now they rest for half an hour, and we finish them with honey and sesame seeds to refrigerate overnight. The top needs to crack in the same way a crème brûlée dessert would crack. The honey gives a delicious sweetness in contrast to the sharp taste of the goat’s cheese.’
‘What would be wrong with a quiche-like texture here?’ I asked, genuinely curious.
‘There’s nothing wrong with it. It just doesn’t give the delicate smoothness that we want. It is the difference between serving a rough-chopped terrine and a smooth pâté.’
I nodded. ‘So either could work, but not for what we want to do?’
‘Exactly. And because we are serving with homemade granary toasts, we have the texture of the seeds and nuts in the bread and the saltiness of the butter to consider.’
I nodded again.
‘You need to think about the entirety of each dish in relation to all the elements, as well as all the other courses.’ It felt like Xavier was being unnecessarily cross with me and I wasn’t sure why.
‘Of course, sorry. I didn’t realise stopping blending would make such a difference.’
Once the brûlées were cool enough, we drizzled a thick layer of honey onto each, sprinkled them with sesame seeds and put them in the fridge to set.
‘I’m desperate to try one,’ I said, looking at them longingly as Xavier slid the tray into the fridge.
‘That’s enough Chef School for today,’ he said abruptly, taking off his apron and hanging it up. His phone started ringing andCHRISTINAflashed up on the screen. He pressed the green button and her face appeared: alabaster skin with a neat, black bob and big, red lips. Of course she was gorgeous. Gorgeous and talented. They were quite the power couple.
‘Bonjour, Cherie,’ she breathed happily into the phone.
‘Salut,’ he replied, turning his back on me and walking down the corridor to his bedroom, leaving me stood in the kitchen alone.
Seventeen
17th December
I snuck around the back of the chalet to the ski room to stash my skis and boots. I’d been for another early morning ski lesson and didn’t want any tricky questions from Liv and Xavier while I was being snow-ambidextrous.
‘Have you been out already?’ Xavier asked as I padded into the kitchen.
‘I have,’ I said, swiping a slice of ginger cake from the platter he was preparing and rearranging the other pieces to hide the gap.
‘Non, non, non!They’re going upstairs,’ he said, shooing me away with a tea towel.
‘Sorry, I need sustenance,’ I said, taking a big bite, ‘I need to recoup some calories.’
Xavier was stirring a large pan of simmering milk while slowly pouring in chocolate sauce. The smell was delicious.
‘I’ll make you a hot chocolate,’ he said, gesturing at the kitchen stool next to the counter. I watched as he whisked the liquid into a froth and the hot chocolate started to thicken. My mouth watered as he poured it into a round bowl, lumped cream on top with chocolate sprinkles and placed it in front of me.
‘No marshmallows?’ I asked, hopefully.
‘Pfttt! Absolutely not. Hot chocolate doesn’t need anything extra to sweeten it. What is it with the English and Americans turning hot drinks into desserts? Keep it simple.’
The bowl had no handles. This was how the French served their hot chocolate. Boiling hot and impossible to drink. I’d have to just enjoy the sweet, chocolatey aroma until it was cool enough to pick up. Lapping at it like a cat wasn’t really an option. I watched as the cream melted into a pool in the middle of the hot liquid, leaving a greasy film.
‘This looks nice and cosy. What’s going on?’ Liv asked, bursting into the kitchen, dressed in her uniform.
