Yes chef, p.15
Yes, Chef, page 15
Chapter Fifteen
Crème brûlée: a creamy and rich custard dessert topped with a layer of caramelized sugar, creating a contrasting texture of a crisp and brittle caramel crust.
The next morning Evie joins us to shop at the market. She gushes over the selection of foods and the way the vendors greet James and me by name, and as I suspected would happen, she and Theo are also fast friends. He sends her home with some of his “good Brie,” and I know that alone is a seal of approval from my favorite cheese man.
The lighthearted, fun James is back and in full swing, and I’m starting to regret missing the shift. This version of James is far too enticing for me. The way he relaxes into conversation with his sister—constantly trying to make sure I’m included in the conversation, mind you—is revealing what I was scared to admit. James is a good guy. He’s a little Type A, sure, but what chef isn’t? And my suspicion about him being a mother-henny proves to be one hundred percent accurate as he goes over, in great detail, what streets Evie should and shouldn’t shop on while she’s left to her own devices. He makes sure she has pepper spray and a fully charged phone before we part ways and walk to Teaks.
His light-hearted mood follows him to the kitchen. His jesting comments are back, and he insists I walk him through step by step what I did to the custard in the mille-feuilles from last night. After tasting it again, he decides that tonight’s dessert is going to be crème brûlée, and then makes me show the entire kitchen the way I tweak the custard recipe. Even Chef Elliot pops in to taste it for himself, his eyebrows popping up in delight after a bite. A rare sighting, and I have to actively work to keep myself from beaming like an idiot at the silent compliment.
I pay special attention to how Gabe and I act around each other. I hate that it was misinterpreted, but I affirm that we’re strictly friendly. I don’t joke around the same with many other people in the kitchen, but that’s because they don’t have the same sense of humor. When I ask Gabe about the picnic date with Evie, he immediately agrees.
“The beautiful blond from your table last night? Oh, mon Dieu, of course. She was an ange.” I watch closely to see if he gets that predatory look again, but there’s nothing but pure reverence in those chocolate eyes of his. “Tell her I’ll take care of the food if she brings the wine. And tell her a dry white would be ideal.”
“Done. Friday sound good?”
“Parfait.”
The rest of the shift, I feel a warm bubbly ease at where I find myself again. I’m not a people pleaser, per se, but only after the relief of knowing someone doesn’t hate me as much as I thought and after feeling a weight lifted from my chest do I realize how impactful that weight was on me in the first place. Having James back to his easygoing self is a relief I didn’t know how much I desperately wanted.
My tables for the evening are pretty straightforward, but they ask intelligent questions which eggs me on. I love food, so obviously I love when people love food. My last table of the night gobbled every course and asked for any detail I had to offer up. They particularly liked the cheese Theo recommended today and enjoyed hearing about the dairy farm it came from down in Provence. We became friends, and they repeated the sentiment that they planned to return frequently. There’s no better compliment to a chef than a repeat customer. Knowing our menu changes all the time means that just because you’ve been to Teaks once doesn't even begin to scratch the surface of what we do.
James is waiting for me at the door when I finish cleaning up, and we step into a comfortable pace walking home. Now that we’re fully into the cold season, I pull out my gloves and wrap my scarf around my neck a little tighter.
“Your limp looks better today,” James points out. “Is that tea actually working?”
“I think it is,” I admit. “I didn’t believe her, but honestly the pain has dulled substantially, and I don’t care if it’s all in my head or not. I’ll take it.”
“How long have you been dealing with this?” He looks down at my leg again as if he’s offended it's an issue he can’t solve.
“A little over a year.”
“Did it happen in the car accident?”
“What?” I ask, whipping my head to look at him.
“The car accident? The one you mentioned on the way back from Martin’s?”
I’d completely forgotten about that trip and the meltdown he witnessed firsthand, so it was a surprise he not only remembered it but connected the dots. “Oh, yeah. That’s where it happened.”
“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to,” he adds quickly when he sees how uncomfortable I get.
“No, it’s okay.” I take a deep breath that puffs out in condensation, and I feel a little self-conscious for how wide my breath distributes but continue: “It was a pretty bad wreck. My leg got . . . caught—” I swallow around the lump in my throat at the memory. The fact that I can’t handle blood means that this memory is very intentionally tucked away in the far recesses of my mind. “. . . They had to do a lot of, well, they had to work hard to make sure I not only survived but could walk again. I was put in a rehab center for four months. It’s not necessarily the standard for the type of injury I had, but my parents wanted me watched around the clock to make sure . . . um, to make sure everything healed properly,” I summarize.
“And you can run on it now?” he asks with a note of proud surprise.
“Barely. I don’t know if you can call what I do running, but I’m determined not to give up.”
He smiles at me before saying, “I can understand that. But just getting out the door is the hardest part, and you do it all the time.”
“You’ve said that before.”
“I’ve meant it both times,” he says. Then to my relief, he quickly steers the subject away. “So, the Louvre tomorrow. I need to apologize in advance for Evie . . . she’s like the energizer bunny, but I don't know if she has an off switch. You might need to double up on the tea.”
I can’t help the laugh that barks out of me in the most unattractive way, but describing Evie as the energizer bunny is too fitting. We sort through the details on the rest of the walk back. He’s been to the Louvre several times, it appears, and has a very specific opinion on the best route to take to see the most important things before the crowds get too thick. But he assures me that going on a Thursday should help. He explains that he showed Evie the gardens the other day but didn’t want to go inside yet because Mondays are still “a little too full.” I don’t admit I saw them walking around, nor do I admit to myself the vast difference that has occurred in just a few days.
This side of James is dangerous, but I don’t have it in me to put up too much of a fight. I want to be his friend. I want to find out he’s entirely Type A about everything in his life—not just the way his kitchen is done. I want to hang out with him and Evie and watch the comfortable sibling companionship they have.
So, sure, this side of James is dangerous, but I kind of want to test the waters. I can be his friend. I can do this. I can shove aside all the butterflies . . . well, I can’t shove them aside, but I can pointedly ignore them. This should be good, actually. Maybe being friends with him will remove the butterflies altogether. I’m sure that after reading so many romance books, I’m just attracted to the classic grumpy trope. That’s gotta be it. No, this is good. Being friends with James will put us right in the friend zone, and that’s a super safe place to be. Right? Right.
Wrong.
Thankfully I make a healthy salary at Teaks because, in looking at my monthly statements, I realize that I just pass most of it right on through to the Au Coin de la Rue. I chose to be so close to a café for the sake of convenience, but at this point, I’m such a regular that I feel almost guilty for never making coffee at home. But, another way to think about it, I’m really just one restaurant industry professional supporting another. It’s a good thing I overpay for coffee—I’m paying it forward. And while I could make croissants at home, it takes three days to get them buttery and fluffy like this, so it’s an investment back into my time. Really.
Evie and James meet me at my regular table. Evie has her own croissant in front of her, and I note that she gets one au chocolat. I’m wondering if her energy levels are natural or sugar-induced but seeing her start the day with a sugar spike has me reaching into my bag to make sure I have backup Advil, just in case. I do. Thank God.
James looks up from the book he’s reading (another mystery, I notice) and . . . good God, he shouldn’t be allowed to smile at me like that. Moving on.
“Ready?” he asks.
“Ready.” I parrot.
“Let’s go!” Evie pipes in, all excitement. “Should we catch a ride-share?”
I blanche at the suggestion but before I can try to find a way to politely skirt around it, James pipes in, “Nope, let’s take the train. It’s more fun that way anyways,” he says, looking at me with a wink.
Those damn butterflies are starting to perk up early this morning.
We make it there in plenty of time, and James goes into full herding mode. He’s pulling up tickets, maps, and anything else on his phone that will be helpful for us in the next fifteen minutes. He guides a distracted Evie to the right line when she starts to wander in the wrong direction. He’s prepared. I’m sincerely surprised he doesn’t pull out a backpack full of snacks. The only thing this dad-mode version of him is missing is the Home Depot theme song.
But if he’s giving off dad vibes, he’s a total DILF. Respectfully speaking. He’s dressed in his usual simple black shirt that hugs his biceps—a little too intimately for my wandering eyes—but thankfully they're mostly securely tucked under a simple army green jacket. His light-wash denim jeans are another article of clothing that fits a little too perfectly for my stability. But I'm tough. I can look away from his impressive backside. His aviator sunglasses rest lightly on the bridge of that perfect nose of his. But despite my best efforts, my treacherous eyes keep snagging on those perfect shoulders. Those shoulders look like they could wrap me up in a bear hug so consuming it’d hide me from the world entirely. Does he work out? You can’t have a body like that and not work out, right? But when?
I shouldn’t be thinking about this. I should not be thinking about this. Nope. Friends don’t think about friends like this. Employees don't think of their bosses like this. Nothing good comes from those thoughts.
By the time we make it inside the first pyramid, I’m sweating. Not from exertion or the excessive layers I have on, but because I’m making a concerted effort not to stare at the broad shoulders leading the way with confidence. I didn’t realize I had a thing for shoulders until now. But there they are, the perfect example of them.
Evie, bless her, shakes me from my thoughts when we finally make our way to the statue room. It has a real name, I’m sure, but James was walking so fast that I missed the sign. He insisted this is where you start because if you time it right, it feels like you have the whole place to yourself.
And he’s right.
I can’t believe I’ve been skipping out on this experience for years. For years! I’ve been to Paris so many times that this is truly embarrassing.
Each alcove of the space has one different intricate marble statue after another. Each one is twice my size and the idea that someone carved these statues by hand has me ogling every detail. Well, not every detail. The statues seem to all be anatomically correct, and in my current flushed state, I decide it’s best to focus on facial features, clothing, hair . . . anything north of the border if you catch my drift.
James stays close by, admiring things himself, but he lets Evie show me around. She’s been once before, she explains, and it never gets old to see history in person. I’m inclined to agree.
One of my favorite things about wine is how it feels like a piece of history, corked and preserved, to participate in. Napa is young wine by global standards, but even I get a chill up my spine when we open up one of the original vintages. The fact that there’s wine on this continent that dates back to the seventeen hundreds genuinely blows my mind.
We make our way through the different wings of the museum, and James was right, the crowd does make a difference. Thankfully we catch the Napoleon Apartment before most everyone else, and we can walk through unobstructed to get a good look at all of the wallpaper. Room by room, I can’t stop gushing about how intricate and colorful everything is. I stop in front of a particularly pretty pallet of colors to admire the flowers up close when James comes up from behind me.
“Please tell me you’ve at least been to Versailles?”
I turn to face him, and woah—he’s close. Really close. I’ve brushed his arm (unintentionally . . . of course) several times today, so this closeness isn’t exactly a new thing, but this time it feels more . . . personal? Sadly, I have to answer his question in the negative, but before I deliver the news, I can’t help the embarassment that crosses my face. “Um, nope. Can’t say that I have . . . ” I trail off.
“Well, you’d love it. Maybe we can get you out there before Evie takes off.”
“Not sure we’ll have the time, now that I have my date with Gabe and all,” Evie cuts in as she walks by, clearly unfazed by the close proximity of her brother and me.
I take a half step back, though, just in case.
“Thanks for setting that up by the way,” she says cheerfully.
“No problem. How much do you like picking out wine?”
“Oh, I’m terrible at it. James always tells me what to do. I have terrible taste buds.”
“Gabe said to bring a dry white. I can help you if you’d like,” I offer.
“Amazing! I don’t know where I’d even begin to look for that.”
James’s gaze lingers on me a bit longer than I’d like to note before we move along to each section of the museum. We pass through the religious relics, then the Egyptian artifacts, until we find our way over to the Mona Lisa room. I’m truly dumbstruck by the room. Not because of the Mona Lisa herself—she’s cool, sure, but she’s tiny and there’s a line of people about an hour long waiting to get to be just twelve inches away from her frame.
But that’s not why the room dumbfounds me. While everyone is waiting to see the tiniest painting with a highly inflated hype around it, on the direct opposite wall is perhaps the largest, most intricate painting I’ve seen in my entire life. And people pass right by it! It's close to fifty feet tall, and people are like, that’s nice but have you seen this woman's almost smile?
People who decide what history or art matters most hold so much power, and I hope they know how to wield it correctly. I know there’s a long history as to why the Mona Lisa is more popular than a war painting larger than a one-story building, but seeing the two side by side, the juxtaposition sits funny with me.
At Teaks, we’re going after a star. We’re trying to be the best. How much different is that from getting a painting into the most famous art museum in the world? But even if you get in, you can get cast aside in favor of a novelty no one knew was coming. It takes several more rooms for me to come to terms with the fact that the context and appreciation of something for being what it is decides its longevity. How many portraits of unknown people did I pass by? Yet it was one portrait that caught the world's attention. You have to work hard, but you have to work with what you’ve been given in this world—not against it.
The rabbit hole has me thinking about my family’s vineyard back home.
I recognize that I jumped into the restaurant world to pursue something adjacent to my family legacy. I didn’t exactly run away; I just went to find what my own contribution to the family name could be. Watching my dad lose himself in the maintenance of what was already established, successful, and well known made me want to find a way to add my own individual flare, not fall to the wayside as another notch on the family tree and nothing else. When I return home, I want to apply what I know to the flow of what we already have working for us as a tiny little empire.
Moving away also gave me some well-needed perspective. Going to visit Grandma Allen was the only time I’d get a reality check that the whole world does not, in fact, belong to me. It was so easy to get lost in a hierarchy while in Napa because we owned the most land and produced the most wine. You can get too much of an inflated ego when you spend too much time at the top. If the accident showed me anything, it was that I could benefit from falling down a few notches and learn a thing or two.
After a solid four hours of meandering, James declares that we’ve probably hit our limit for the day. Though I don’t say it, I’m extremely thankful, as my leg has started a micro limp, and I wonder if he noticed. Evie is a little put out but agrees when she realizes how soon we need to be at the restaurant ourselves.
Walking through the garden, I get a glimpse of my favorite people in Paris—the geriatric fountain nappers. I can’t help the smile that crosses my face when I see them all lounged and relaxed, sleeping or simply enjoying the sun on their faces.
“What are you smiling at, chef?” James asks, coming up to walk next to me.
“Oh, nothing much. I just always get a kick out of the nappers by the fountain.”
“It kills me,” James adds with a laugh, “but if you like this, we need to go to the Luxembourg Garden next. Not only do they sleep by the fountain, but the walking trails are full of people catching an afternoon shut-eye.”
“No,” I breathe. “There are more of them?” His laughter is infectious, and I find myself involuntarily joining.
“Oh, this is child’s play by comparison.” He glances in my direction, then to my surprise he adds, “We can go Monday next week.” He turns to talk to Evie, confirming her plans for the day.
