Read Learning Curves 1 - French Cooking 101 Online
Authors: Olivia Rigal
Learning Curves 1 - French Cooking 101
LEARNING
CURVES
I
French Cooking 101
by
Olivia Rigal
©2013 Lady O Publishing LLC
This book is a work of fiction.
Even if some locations depicted do exist
and some collective events did occur,
this story is totally fictitious
The names, the characters, and the events described
have been imagined by the author.
Any resemblance with reality would be a coincidence.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
For permission requests, write to the publisher at the address below.
contact / Lady O Publishing
www.ladyopublishing.com
Special thanks to:
Cassie Cox @
Red Adept Publishing
&
Yoly @
Cormar Covers
and to Becca Whitaker
for Ariane’s cartoon.
Ariane
ARIANE SLIPPED THE RED LOOP around her neck. The apron covered but couldn’t conceal her ample bust. She made sure none of her wild blond curls escaped her net-covered bun then tied the apron around her waist. She didn’t need a mirror to know the garment showed off her hourglass figure, but she had made her peace with that. After all, to most people, a skinny cook was a suspicious oddity.
She looked around one more time to make sure everything was in perfect order for the intensive weekend seminar. On six of the eight work stations located on the central island, she had placed the tools needed for the Friday evening introductory session, along with sturdy, off-white cotton aprons embroidered with her school’s logo. The handbooks included easy traditional French recipes they should be able to carry out after the weekend workshop. In the adjacent room, where they would sample their own cooking, she had set the table for seven.
Only American apprentices had registered for the special French Cooking 101 class, which she had announced on some popular foodie blogs and advertised in a Paris expat magazine. Her English wasn’t bad, and her teaching method was very hands-on. With years of experience, the first of which had been at a vocational school with very difficult kids, she was pretty sure that whatever she couldn’t explain with words, she could demonstrate.
Ariane secretly hoped that she would get at least one truly talented student, one who would leave her course feeling confident enough about the basics to become creative and really good. But a weekend was not much time, so if they were all capable of preparing a palatable meal by Monday, she would be happy.
The first two to register were Jena and Thomas, young newlyweds in Paris for their honeymoon. They had been gifted with her seminar as a wedding present from some friends.
Next were Mary Doyle and her brother, Peter. Ariane had exchanged a few emails with Mary, who had arranged the entire trip. She was in Paris for ten days to celebrate her fortieth birthday with her “kid” brother. Mary had explained that while she could find her way around a kitchen, her brother, the proverbial absent-minded professor, desperately needed to learn how to cook a decent meal for himself.
The fifth student was George Sweet, an American living in Paris. He was working on a historical novel about François Vatel, the superintendent of the kitchens of the Grand Condé and a famous French icon for all cooks. The man had become legendary after committing suicide over the late delivery of the fish he was to serve to Louis XIV. George had started his novel and realized that to write about life in a kitchen, he needed some basic training.
Ariane had done a Google search on George. After reading a few of his reviews, she discovered that he was indeed a famous author. He had written quite a few novels based on historical characters and was acclaimed for the thorough research he carried out to acquire knowledge of the periods and activities of his subjects. Ariane didn’t care for historical fiction, but fortunately, none of his books had been translated into French, so she had a perfectly acceptable reason for not having read any of them.
The last student was Charles—no last name given. She’d spoken to him briefly on the phone earlier in the week for a last-minute registration. He lived within walking distance of her school and had been told about the seminar by her friend, Jean-Michel, who was very active in the LGBT movement. Jean-Michel managed the butcher shop where Ariane purchased her meat on rue Saint Dominique. When she had thanked him for the referral, he hinted that Ariane should let Charles know that he was available to give a special course on the French choice pieces. Ariane was pretty sure he wasn’t talking about cuts of beef.
Charles had introduced himself as an actor who had just been hired to play the American cousin of the hero of a French soap opera. During his six-month contract, he looked forward to taking full advantage of his stay to try everything Paris had to offer. If Ariane’s gaydar was in working condition, he was not considering sampling the French women.
❦
Ariane pulled up the curtains of her workshop windows to let in the last moments of daylight. Daylight Saving Time made for very late sunsets. She was happy to see that some of her students were already there. She unlocked the glass door and welcomed them in.
George Sweet came toward Ariane. He looked around forty. Square and sturdy were the two words that came to Ariane’s mind. He gave her a seriously strong handshake while he mumbled something that sounded like “nice to meet you.” Square jaw, square hands, square shoulders—a regular block of granite. He didn’t smile but just walked right in.
That will be one icy grouch to thaw
, thought Ariane, turning to two people holding hands. She assumed they were Jena and Thomas.
They made twenty-nine-year-old Ariane feel almost ancient. They couldn’t possibly be a day over twenty. Both were adorably cute in their identical jeans and white T-shirts, about the same height and the same build, Thomas as dark as Jena was blond. They looked blissfully happy. But then, what did they have to be unhappy about? They were young, madly in love, and honeymooning in an exotic city!
“Congratulations on your marriage,” said Ariane as she hugged Jena and gave her a kiss on each cheek according to the French fashion. She did the same with Thomas and walked with them to their workstation. “I usually separate people who come together to avoid distractions, but French tradition prohibits sitting couples apart for the first year of their marriage, so I have seated you together.”
“Oh, thank you,” said Jena. “I promise we’ll be good.”
“Or at least we’ll try,” continued Thomas with a wink.
They were interrupted by Martine, the teenage daughter of Patrick, the next-door baker with whom Ariane shared a special bond. Martine arrived with the lovely assortment of bread Ariane had ordered.
“Bonjour, Martine,” said Ariane. “Ça va?”
“Ça va, tu veux la même chose pour demain et dimanche?”
“Oui merci,” said Ariane, confirming her identical orders for Saturday and Sunday.
Before slipping away, Martine whispered in Ariane’s ear, “Beau cul le petit!”
Martine rushed out without waiting to see the effect of her “nice ass” bomb. Ariane laughed out loud. Without turning around, Martine waved
good-bye. From the way her shoulders moved, Ariane could tell she was laughing as well. Ariane wondered when precisely the tomboy she had met just a few years ago had turned into a seventeen-year-old girl who looked at boys’ derrières. She wondered if Patrick knew how grown up his daughter had become.
Ariane put the bread basket away in the dining room and came back to the workroom. She looked at George Sweet, who was exploring her small universe. He was studying the diplomas and awards Ariane had framed and hung on her walls. Noticing that he started to smile as if he was suitably impressed, she made a mental note to thank Véronique, her friend and marketing mentor. She had instructed Ariane on making the best of all she had and forced her to toot her own horn.
“Mr. Sweet, you will be working next to Jena,” she told him.
“Please, call me George,” he answered, looking past Ariane through the window. “I think more of your students are here.”
Ariane looked out the window too. “That will be Peter and Mary Doyle.” She walked toward the door to greet the new pair.
They had a definite family resemblance. In addition to warm identical smiles, strong jaws, and a hawk-type nose, they both had piercing blue eyes and a head of black hair—curly for Mary and too short to know for Peter. He had the complexion of someone who lives outdoors. That seemed odd for a university professor. Both were tall and triangular. Peter’s triangle went from muscular shoulders to his narrow waist, and his sister’s triangle grew from a narrow bust to wide hips. Two pieces of a family puzzle.
She was not beautiful, nor was he drop-dead handsome, but there was something about them. As they walked around the room introducing themselves and shaking hands, Ariane felt it. They both had charisma. They were charming and magnetically attractive. Judging by the way George was looking at Mary, Ariane could see that he obviously shared her opinion—at least about Mary. Ariane had just assigned Mary and Peter to separate work stations when Charles burst in.
“I’m not late, am I?” he asked in a coquettish way.
Looking at him, Ariane couldn’t help smiling. Her gaydar was perfectly tuned. He was
the
poster boy for a gay caricature. Too cute, too groomed, too perfect, and way too dressed up for kitchen work. Through his clothes, she could see he had a perfect body. He had broad shoulders, long limbs, and lean muscles that made for a magnificent-looking male. At the same time, he had such an air of vulnerability about him that the main thing Ariane saw was an obvious need to be accepted and loved. She felt an overwhelming urge to reassure him.
“No, of course not. You’re not late. Everyone else was early.” Ariane pointed to the large clock adorning one of the walls above the ovens. “It’s just six, so we’ll start. We have two hours to get our dinner ready. For this weekend, you will take your dinner at eight p.m. as French people do. Well, unless you’re in grammar school and eight is your bedtime.”
❦
George
GEORGE TRIED TO LISTEN TO what Ariane was explaining about the composition of a traditional French meal. It was actually interesting and could be useful for his book, but he was distracted.
He kept looking at Mary, who was sitting next to him. He had no idea what was wrong with him. Well, actually, the truth was…he was having a very bad case of lust at first sight.
Being, by trade, a studier of human behavior, he was observing himself with some amazement. Objectively, Mary was far from pretty. The big jaw and prominent nose she shared with her brother looked good on him but were too masculine for a woman’s face. Nevertheless, they somehow worked with her large blue eyes and lovely smile. Her large red lips opened on perfectly aligned, white teeth. As far as he was concerned, she was irresistibly attractive. Go figure… It had to be chemical.