Provence - To Die For (10 page)

He looked over at René, who was bent over his paper scribbling rapidly. “Monsieur Bonassé, all I see is the top of your head,” he said. “How do you expect to learn if you spend all your time writing everything down?”

The young man looked up impassively. “How else am I to learn except by writing it down?”

“You watch,” Bertrand exploded. “That’s the whole point of taking a class with a master chef. You watch to learn. Otherwise, why bother to be here? You can stay at home in your Paris apartment and read cookbooks.”

“Very well.” The younger man carefully put down his pen and crossed his arms over his notes. “I am watching,” he said coolly.

“We will cook the blini now,” Bertrand announced. He turned his back to the class as he fussed with a pan on the stove.

Mme Poutine got up from her seat and stood next to the chef while he cooked our blini. Since I knew she’d taken his class many times, I assumed what she did was permissible for everyone, and I joined the two of them at the stove. I stood behind Bertrand and heard her whisper in rapid-fire French, “René is rating you, I’m sure.”

“Calm yourself,” he said in a low voice. “You are always imagining things.”

“Emil, I saw his notes,” she murmured, offended. “It was an evaluation.”

“Ridiculous!”

“I am only concerned with what is good for you. You do not appreciate me anymore, now that you have a younger admirer.”

“Your jealousy does not become you. Save it for your husband,” he said.

He sensed my presence, turned, and said in English, “Ah, Madame Fletcher, you see how the pan is ready now?” He poured olive oil onto a flat round griddle with a long handle, swirled the pan around, and dropped in a hunk of butter that sizzled.

Mme Poutine glared at me and walked away.

“I apologize if I interrupted a personal conversation,” I said.

“Not at all,” he replied mildly. “I am at your disposal. What would you like to know?”

I would have liked to know more about their discussion, but asked instead, “What kind of stove is this?”

“It’s an old wood stove,” he replied, ladling circles of the blini batter onto the hot griddle. “It is just for show, really. In my own kitchen I cook with gas. All my equipment is new.” He pulled the griddle to the side to reveal a series of concentric rings around a small hole through which the flames were visible. Using an iron tong, he hooked one of the rings and removed it, enlarging the opening, and exposing the griddle to more flame as he slid it back on the burner. “This is a kitchen from years ago, very charming, but perhaps a bit artificial. However, a good chef adapts to the circumstances. I can cook on anything.” He used a fork to flip the blinis, which were now browned on one side. “You are a good cook at home?”

“I hope so,” I replied, “but I can always be better.”

“Bon! I like this attitude. You are very intelligent, and much more.” He gazed languidly into my eyes and then dropped his glance to my mouth and then up again. I had a feeling this expression of interest was more for Mme Poutine’s benefit than for mine, and I didn’t care to be used that way.

“I’d better finish preparing my charlotte,” I said, returning to my seat. I took another ramekin and began to butter it.

Craig took my place at the chef’s side. “So let me see how you do this,” he said. “Can’t have the women hogging all your time.”

Bertrand set the blinis aside just as Guy brought in the makings of the main dish.
“Voilà!
Now we will really show our skill,” the chef announced.

The three rabbit bodies were not recognizable as anything other than small animals, but my stomach lurched at the sight of the meat covered in blood. The heat in the kitchen carried the scent around the room.

“These are very fresh,” Bertrand said as he picked up the first rabbit, rinsed it under the faucet of the sink to his right, and laid it on a cutting board. He explained his actions as he cut out the “saddle,” separating the meat from the bone with his razor-edged knife. He worked rapidly, blood staining his fingers, which he wiped on the front of his apron. He tied the meat with string and laid it in a pan. Taking up his heavy knife, he chopped the skeleton in half, the crunch of the bones as the blade split them loud in the silent room. He threw the two halves into the pot with the boiled wine and vegetables.

“Everything gets used,” he said, smiling, and picked up the second rabbit.

Mallory, her face very white, slipped off her stool and left the room. On the pretext of seeing if she was all right, I followed her, glad to breathe in the dank air of the courtyard and escape the coppery smell of blood.

“He’s horrible,” she whispered when I’d closed the door behind us. “A little rabbit, to end up like that. It was awful. He’s a horrible man. Someone should...” She stopped in midsentence and hurried down the step, then stood in the middle of the room and wrapped her arms around her body.

“Let’s go get some fresh air,” I said, putting my arm around her.

We took the elevator upstairs and pushed through the hotel’s glass front door. The rain had stopped but it was still overcast—and cold. I realized I’d left my jacket and handbag in the classroom, and so had Mallory, along with her backpack.

She was shivering, but now I wasn’t sure if it was caused by her reaction to the butchering demonstration or the chilly temperature outside.

“I’m okay,” she said, breaking away from me and pacing in a small circle in front of the building.

“It wasn’t a pretty sight, I agree. We aren’t used to seeing what happens to our meat before we cook it, are we?”

“Meat? I’m not eating that.” She waved a trembling finger in the direction of the door.

“No one says you have to. Are you a vegetarian?”

She shook her head. “I wasn’t before, but I could be now. What a horrible man.”

She stepped into the narrow, deserted street and walked across it and back, rubbing her arms. Some color had returned to her cheeks.

“Mallory?”

“I know. I know.” She continued pacing. “What did I expect from a cooking class?”

“No. That wasn’t what I was going to ask.”

“Oh.” She halted in the middle of the road and turned back to me. “What?”

“I think you know.”

She looked down at the cobblestone street, and toyed with the end of her braid before raising her eyes to meet mine. “Why did I leave Marseilles? What am I doing here? Why did I decide to take this class?”

“One at a time will be fine,” I said, watching her closely as various emotions flitted briefly across her face.

“You’re missing your class,” she said, as if it had suddenly occurred to her. She clapped her hands and started walking toward the door, tossing her braid over her shoulder. “I didn’t mean to interrupt it for you.”

“Come on, Mallory. Talk to me.”

“Nothing terrible happened in Marseilles, if that’s what you’re thinking,” she said, stopping in front of me. “I just got bored. No one at the hostel was very friendly, and there’s only so much to do there in the cold. You can’t go to the beach or even sit outside in a café all day. And how much bouillabaisse can you eat?” She released a short bark that was almost a laugh. “I was thinking I would go to Cannes, but I don’t know anyone there either, so I decided to come here instead. There’s more to do, and you were the one who said I could call.” She finished with a pout, as if I’d reneged on a promise.

“But you didn’t call.”

“Well, I would have,” she said, pulling her braid over her shoulder and gripping the thick plait as if it were a lifeline, “but you told me you were going to be in town today, and I was coming to Avignon anyway. I met this guy who was on his way here, and he said he knew a great hostel.”

“Is that where you’re staying?”

“Yes. It’s a couple of blocks from the station. An easy walk. Only took me fifteen minutes. And it’s very cheap.”

“But this class is not. If you’re worried about money, why did you sign up for the class?”

She put her hand on the handle of the hotel door. “I have enough money, and I have a cash card. Actually, I’d only planned to come and ask after you, but the girl at the desk said someone hadn’t shown up, and I could join the class if I wanted. She didn’t charge me anything. I thought it would be fun,” she said, disgusted. “I didn’t think it would be like an
abattoir.”
She used the French word for
slaughterhouse.
“And I thought I would surprise you,” she finished softly.

“Well, you certainly did that,” I said, shaking my head.

Abruptly she pushed the door open and held it for me. “We have to go back in. You must be freezing. I know I am. I’m sorry to have been so selfish, keeping you out in this weather.”

As we reentered the lobby, Claire came around the front desk.

“Is everything all right with the class?” she asked.

“Yes. Fine.” I said. “We were just taking a little break, but it’s too cold to stay outside.”

“We serve coffee and tea in the atrium. If you want, I can have something brought up for you.”

I looked at Mallory, who’d paused by a table and seemed to be casually browsing a newspaper left there for guests. “I think we’re ready to return to the class, but thank you. We’ll stop for tea later on.”

We took the elevator downstairs and walked through the arch. At that moment the door to the classroom opened, and Guy emerged carrying the roasting pan with the saddles of rabbit neatly tied up in string. The other students followed him out. Chef Bertrand remained in the school kitchen, stirring a pot on the stove.

“We’re going to put the meat in the oven, and take a short tour of the hotel kitchen,” he said. “Are you up for it?”

Mallory nodded, and we joined the others.

The hotel kitchen, half as wide as it was long, was empty. “They don’t serve luncheon in the winter,” Guy explained, opening the top oven in a stack of three gas ovens and sliding in the roasting pan, “although Room Service can put together something for guests who don’t want to go out.” He knocked on a door. “This is the office, where the chefs plan menus, order supplies.”

The narrow room had a small desk at the end, piled with papers, under which could be seen the curled cord of a telephone and the side of a laptop computer. Sitting at the desk was a handsome man in chef’s whites who looked up from his book.

“Ah, Guy. Is this your class?” the man asked.

“
Oui
.”

The office was cramped and messy. A battered file cabinet leaned against one wall. On the other was a long row of bookshelves filled with cookbooks, more piles of paper, and various kitchen implements, some still in their packaging. The untidy office was diametrically opposed to the kitchen with gleaming stainless-steel cabinets and counters.

Guy introduced Daniel Aubertin, the hotel restaurant’s chef and director of the cooking school. “Daniel will give you a short tour of the kitchen,” he told us, “while I keep an eye on the rabbits.”

Daniel rose from his seat and treated us to a captivating smile, shaking hands with each student as he exited the office, and seeming pleased to meet us. Curly haired and clean shaven, he had the dark good looks of a movie idol and the confident, slightly bored manner of a man who has done this many times before.
The kitchen tour must be a standard part of the class,
I thought, as he walked backward down the aisle, speaking in English to accommodate the foreigners, and pointing out the four separate work areas used for preparing fish, meats, cold dishes, and desserts.

“For garnishing,” he said, pointing at a rolling cart at the end of one counter near the door. Its top was covered with bowls, bottles, and canisters, the little containers filled with different sauces, spices, herbs, seeds, crumbs, chopped nuts, dried fruits, olives, miniature pastries, wafers, and other items used to garnish the food and decorate the plate.

“What time do you have to start cooking for the dinner guests?” René asked, his pen poised above a small notebook.

“The chef and his staff plan the menu after the market in the morning and then go their separate ways. The dinner chef returns at about four-thirty. That would be me. The pastry chef comes in a little later. And the kitchen closes at midnight.”

“How do you choose the menu?” Jill asked.

“The full menu changes each season,” he replied. “At the hotel restaurant here, certain specialties we will make every day, but half the menu depends upon what we find in the market in the morning.” He went to a large double-door locker and opened it. We crowded around the opening to peek inside. The shelves were filled with a variety of fruits and vegetables bought that day. Several crates of squash were stacked on the floor. Daniel walked in the locker and picked up a squash. “These were plentiful in the market this morning. From this, we will make a wonderful cream soup. It’s one of our signature dishes. It will also be caramelized to accompany the roast lamb. Later we will add it to our vegetable terrine. Perhaps we will also dry thin slices in the oven with salt and pepper for tomorrow’s garnish. Everything we serve is fresh. We must use what we buy imaginatively and efficiently or the customer will become bored, and our business will fail.”

“How do you know how many customers you’ll have?” Jill asked.

“They take reservations, of course,” Mme Poutine told her crisply.

“Yes, of course,” Daniel said, nodding at her. “But reservations tell only half the story,” he added, looking at Jill. “The rest you learn by being in business. We keep an eye on the weather. Here, for instance, rain will keep the hotel guests in house, and if occupancy is high, that is good for the restaurant. If it is not ...” He shrugged. “We read the newspaper to know what groups are in town and likely to fill our seats. We know what festivals are on the calendar each year, and keep a log of how they affect our tables. We plan, we track, and we market ourselves; a good review can generate reservations for months at a time. But you must always be prepared for fewer guests as well as more guests than you expect. We cannot waste food or we lose money. And we must have enough or our diners will be disappointed.”