Page 24 of Chef's Kiss at the Chalet
“This week won’t be too busy. Mr. Hawthorne is traveling and Mrs. Hawthorne often goes with him. Amelia and Charles will only be here sporadically, but it’s best to have something prepped for them at all times, particularly for Amelia when she comes home. There’s usually a guest or two with her when she is here.”
“Understood,” I said, taking the sheets of paper.
“Your first event will be in two weeks. The Hawthornes throw an annual Thanksgiving dinner that’s become famous. Mrs. Hawthorne will need to approve your menu. Your budget is listed on the next page there, plus a few suggestions based on the guests. Can you start drafting a menu?”
My stomach flipped. “Yes. I’ll get going right away.”
“Good.” She nodded tightly. “Oh, and for Amelia tonight, she often likes some late-night charcuterie to nibble on when she’s entertaining.”
“No problem.” I pulled a pen from my white daytime chef’s coat and made a note on one of the pages Ali gave me. “I can handle that.”
“I’m not sure if you’ve had a chance to walk the property yet, but Amelia stays in one of the outbuildings.”
“Does she come here for her snacks, or do we deliver to her house?”
Ali popped a grape in her mouth, shaking her head. “You don’t have to worry about that. Someone from the house staff will deliver whatever she asks for.”
Seemed simple enough. And with the whole day to prepare for dinner, I decided some grocery shopping of my own was in order.
As I washed up our coffee cups, several more staff members entered to marvel at the food waiting for them. They dug in before Ali ushered them all out to the hallway to start their meeting.
It was an odd dynamic, not really interacting with, or even formally introducing myself to, the rest of the team. I wondered if that was a product of them all expecting me to run back down the mountain screaming, as my predecessors had done. No point making friends if they didn’t think I’d stick around. Though what I’d seen of the family so far didn’t send up especially red warning flags.
Well, the obvious notwithstanding.
Perhaps I was missing something, or the faint whistling in the distance was the other shoe about to drop, but I was feeling encouraged that I could make this gig work. Charles was nowhere to be seen. And it was only three months after all. I could do that standing on my head.
When the kitchen was spotless again, I went to my cottage to change back into regular clothes, then hopped in the Land Rover for a trip into town. Savoring the luxury of the heated seat, I sat for a while and aimlessly scrolled through Instagram. Many of my friends from Escoffier had been in the private chef business for a few years now and my feed was filled with generic posts of pretty food in immaculate kitchens. The content was simple, following their daily lives as chefs in these beautiful high-end spaces. A former classmate had already amassed over 20,000 followers with content that I, too, could easily post.
Admiring the snow glistening in the ethereal morning light, I thoughtwhy not?
Playing with the settings a little to get that edgy look to the photo, I snapped a few shots of the stunning view, making sure not to get any buildings that could identify exactly where I was, other than it was clearly the Rocky Mountains.
I thought about Mrs. Hawthorne’s warning. Surely she wouldn’t be thrilled with me posting publicly from their property? They had gates and thick garden walls for a reason, after all. To be safe, I needed to edit my profile name and location so that I could have been any private chef in any part of Colorado. I looked around for inspiration, and spied a pair of skis leaning against one of the garage doors.
“The ski chef, the slope chef, the chalet chef,” I mused aloud to myself.
Ugh. Garbage.
But then I glanced at the shopping list I’d jotted down on the papers Ali gave me. Brie was top of the list because, according to Ali, Mrs. Hawthorne loved it, and I thought it would be a nice way to butter her up. If that was at all possible.
Glancing back up at the skis, I had a sudden moment of inspiration. Après Brie?
I searched the silly play on words on Instagram. Nothing popped up, so I quickly changed my username to @ApresBrie. It wasn’t like I had any followers who would notice. I hardly ever posted.
Uploading the mountain-scenery photo, I added the customary excessive number of hashtags to try to get noticed. Later, I would take a few foodie photos, and maybe stitch together a video from dinner prep that creatively cropped out any evidence of whose kitchen I was cooking in. It would be my little secret. An outlet to share what I was doing with the protection of anonymity. After all, if I ever wanted to go into business for myself, I had to get used to a little self-promotion. Baby steps.
My first stop was The Snowdrift Inn to ask about Amelia’s cookies. Inside, the foyer smelled like bacon and French toast. Everything was now decorated for the season, with autumn leaves and little porcelain turkey figurines dotted around. Garlands draped with twinkling lights lined the banister and mantel over the fireplace.
“You’re back,” Pops said, cheerfully approaching the reception desk. “Good to see you again.”
“Good morning. You’ve certainly been busy.”
He grinned proudly. “Well, I try to get things started a little at a time leading up to the holidays. I’m not as young as I used to be, and it takes me quite a while to get all the decorations up.”
“Doesn’t anyone help you?” I asked.
He nodded. “Oh, yes. Don’t worry about me. But I try to pull my weight. I’m not too old.” He said the last sentence a bit louder than the rest, as if trying to ensure someone other than me heard it.
