Soon, the waitstaff would arrive to taste tonight’s specials, which would be followed by our family meal. I eyed the board on the wall and licked my lips. The amuse-bouche consisted of a pan-seared foie gras served with caramelized pears; the entrée, a boar carpaccio with eggplant caviar, apples, and ginger; the two plats principaux, a cognac-flambéed seared sea scallop and shrimp plate served with deep-fried goat cheese and garnished with licorice-perfumed fennel leaves, which fell under my responsibility, and the chef’s version of a beef Wellington served with a celeriac mash, baby carrots, and thin French green beans.
As I lit a match to flambé the scallops, Alex and Eric raced around the kitchen, checking everybody’s stations. Alex always looked as if he was sweating profusely, out of breath. Not to mention the way he’d leer at the waitresses working the front of the house. When Eric left the restaurant, O’Shea couldn’t want this lecherous creep to be the face of Cendrillon, could he?
My match fizzled out. I lit another one.
Damn it. I’d paid my dues. I started off as a garde manger, making salads, hors d’oeuvres, canapés, and terrines. Then it was on to entremetier, a commis under the chef de partie in charge of all the vegetables. I worked hard and soon I was a commis to one of the three poissonnières—fish cooks. Not many people can handle seventeen-hour-long shifts, wake up, and do it all over again the next day. And, more to the point, not many women could or even wanted to endure the abuse, especially under a brute like O’Shea. But I’d learned my way around a testosterone-infused kitchen and I held my own. I worked twice as hard as the men, my hands rough and calloused. Rule number one: no crying in the kitchen. I never shed one tear. I did what I had to do and I got it done—no matter the occupational hazards, which also included avoiding Eric and his advances after we broke up.
Sure, as chef de partie I was lower down on the totem pole than Alex. But speed, precision, and consistency were the most important traits in a kitchen like this and Alex was lagging, mostly due to his severe cocaine addiction.
I grabbed a handful of tarragon and closed my eyes, inhaling its sweet fragrance. I could almost feel my grandmother next to me, smell the aromas embedded into her poppy-print apron, taste her creamy veloutés. Thanks to her, my skills in the kitchen started developing from the age of seven. I’d learned how to chop, slice, and dice without cutting my fingers, to sauté, fry, and grill, pairing flavors and taming them into submission.
Just as I’d experienced with my grandmother’s meals, when people ate my creations, I wanted them to think “now this is love”—while engaging all of the five senses. For me, cooking was the way I expressed myself, each dish a balance of flavors and ingredients representing my emotions—sweet, sour, salty, smoky, spicy-hot, and even bitter. My inspiration as a chef was to give people sensorial experiences, to bring them back to times of happiness, to let them relive their youth, or to awaken their minds. Although I was only telling O’Shea’s tale, I hoped one day I’d get the chance to author my own culinary narrative.
When this third star came in, my grand-mère would be jump-over-the-moon-and-swing-from-the-Michelin-stars proud of me. Pinches of guilt tweaked my heart. I hadn’t spoken with Grand-mère Odette in ages and I’d never properly thanked her for her tutelage. She had inspired my culinary career, and now everything I’d worked so hard for was within my grasp.
O’Shea’s voice knocked me out of my olfactory-induced trance. He held six bottles of champagne, three in each of his enormous hands. “I think we should celebrate early.”
The brigade shouted out a whoop, followed by the beating of pots and pans. Somebody popped open a bottle of champagne. In an instant, corks flew across the kitchen. I made a mental note to call my grand-mère.
As the bottles were passed around, the phone on the wall blinked green. Our hostess Bernadette’s sultry voice interrupted our celebration. “Excuse me, Chef, but you have a call,” she said.
“Take a message,” said O’Shea. “I’m in a staff meeting.”
“I think you’ll want to take this,” said Bernadette. “It’s Gabrielle from Michelin.”
I willed my heart to stop racing and prayed again to the kitchen gods. Please, make me the youngest female chef de cuisine at a Michelin three-star restaurant in New York. Let me become a part of culinary history.
“Put the call through.” O’Shea’s eyes widened and he held up a finger. “Guys, simmer down. Not a word. I’m putting the call on speaker.” He clicked the line open. “Dan O’Shea here.”
“Good afternoon, Dan. First, as you know, this is a courtesy call before next year’s New York red guide is released, which is tomorrow—”
O’Shea’s eyes crinkled into a smile. “Yes, yes, an exciting time.”
“I’m happy to inform you that two of your restaurants, Cendrillon Las Vegas and Cendrillon London, have received rising stars, and Cendrillon Los Angeles has received its second étoile.”
O’Shea nodded his big head and shot us the thumbs-up. “And Cendrillon NY?”
“Dan, I’m afraid I have some not-so-wonderful news to deliver.”
Eyes darted back and forth. O’Shea grunted. “Yes?”
“Consistency is very important to us here at Michelin, and I’m afraid Cendrillon NY did not receive its third star,” said Gabrielle. “With that said, I’m devastated to tell you that Cendrillon is not only not gaining a star, I’m afraid it’s losing one.”
Time stopped for a moment. We couldn’t contain our surprised and disappointed groans. There was nothing worse for a chef than losing a star. It burned the ego, damaged reputations, and destroyed identities.
“I’m sorry, Dan. I wish I was the bearer of better news,” said Gabrielle.
“Thank you for your candor,” said O’Shea. He cleared his throat. “I guess I have some things to sort out.”
“At the very least, congratulations on your other achievements.”
“Thank you, Gabrielle.”
O’Shea did not hang up the phone. He ripped it right out of the wall and smashed it to the ground. He sank to the floor and cradled his head in his hands, sobbing.
I gulped.
When you see someone strong and powerful shatter, it’s haunting; you see the ghost of a man with his dreams dying. You want him to get up, to put disaster behind him, but he’s crumbling right before your eyes. A deep sadness slowed down my heart. I found myself wanting to say something. But what words would be appropriate? It’s like when you hear somebody has died and all you can come up with is “My thoughts and prayers are with you” or some other contrived shit like that. It’s not that you don’t care; you just don’t know what to say. Most of the brigade rubbed their eyes with disbelief . . . or looked down at their clogs.