Page 21 of Boss of the Year
Just like it always did, the knot in my stomach tightened at the reminder of why exactly I was here and why I’d been sent to Paris for a year.
Ondine was a former Michelin-starred chef whom the Lyonses had plucked from a restaurant in Paris thirty-five years ago. But as she approached retirement (and the desire to return to France and spend her golden years with her grandchildren), she had convinced the family that paying to train me as her replacement would be cheaper and ultimately better for their tastes than paying for another top-tier chef at the height of their game.
I was a good cook. Maybe even on my way to being a great one. But I wasn’t sure culinary school had made me a proper chef. Not yet.
Nevertheless, a chef I was expected to be. And for the Lyons family, that title came with the responsibility of events like these, where no mistakes could happen.
I swallowed and smiled. “At least we have a few more months together before you leave.”
Ondine pinched my cheek and smiled. “Oui, we do. Now, where are you going tonight, looking like dessert,hein? Maybe you should go to the party instead.”
I bit my lip. “Well, actually…”
Ondine looked up from where she was checking one of her line cooks’ julienned zucchini. “You are going?”
I forced myself not to fidget with my dress, knowing the delicate silk would wrinkle with one twist. “My sister and her boyfriend were invited. His parents are neighbors, and she wanted me to come to…”
I drifted off. I didn’t want to lie to Ondine.
But my mentor knew me too well. I’d never said a word to her about my secret and soul-deep obsession with Daniel Lyons, but there had been hints that she was aware. A pat on the shoulder. A kind reassurance. And the look on her face right now.
“Marie,” she said in a low voice, coming closer so the others in the room wouldn’t hear. “I know you always want…that you andMonsieurDaniel might…” She looked over my dress, which practically screamed “Make me a woman!”
My cheeks blazed.
“It’s not like that,” I lied blatantly as my voice rose about two octaves. “My sister wanted me to come with her. That’s all, I swear.”
Ondine tipped her head. “Ah, well. You are young. You deserve to have fun and be a little stupid.” She patted my cheek before going back to her oversight of the kitchen. “But we have a saying in France,chérie.Ne jamais mélanger les torchons et les serviettes.”
I frowned as I mentally translated. “Never mix dish towels with napkins?”
The meaning was clear: everything and everyone had their place. But what did that make me at this moment? The dish towel?
“Oui,your French is much better.Mince!” Ondine erupted as she rushed to the other side of the kitchen to snap at one of the chefs. “What do you think this is, a Starbucks? We are not making the pumpkin spice garbage, sopas denutmeg,entendu?”
I chuckled. That was Ondine: sweet one moment, salty the next. She had a mouth like a trucker when anyone made mistakes, and with a nose like a bloodhound, which was probably what made her such a brilliant chef.
“Marie,” she called with a wave of her hand. “Viens. Thisandouilleover-spiced my sauce. Tell me what it needs to fix.”
I approached the long marble counter and took the proffered spoon that had been dipped in the béchamel sauce.
“It’s to put with the veal, but I cannot serve like this.” She looked at the chef, who had the decency to stare at his feet. “You had better listen to what she say. She will be your boss if you want to work here again.”
I winced as I tasted the sauce. It did indeed have far too much nutmeg in it. “Blend it with some cashews and curry it with your Madras mix. Make that an option with some chutney and tamarind to balance the sweetness, if you have any.”
I had no doubt she did. The Lyonses’ kitchen was better stocked than the grocery store.
I snapped my fingers and was surprised when the ashamed sous-chef obediently handed me a bit of Ondine’s custom-made spice mix along with a bottle of tamarind extract. I grabbed a pinch bowl from the cabinet above the stove and mixed the flavors together, careful not to get anything on my dress. When I was finished, I handed a new spoon to Ondine for a taste.
“Ah, Marie,” she hummed, eyes closed, as though the new flavor soothed her senses. “This is why I miss you so much.”
Warmth replaced the knot in my chest as I relaxed, just like I always did when I finally got something right with Ondine. Or with anyone, for that matter.
“Maybe I should stay,” I offered before I could help myself, just as my cell phone dinged with a message from Joni, announcing her arrival. “I could help remake the sauce, and?—”
“No, no, no,” Ondine objected immediately. “I saw what you did, and I can fix. You go—go be the napkin tonight, my love. Because starting tomorrow, it’s nothing but dish towels for you.”
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