“What can I say? News travels fast in the culinary circles. Everybody knows everybody’s business.”
“Eric was behind it.” Once again, I repeated my sad, pathetic story.
“I always hated that skinny, diabolical bastard. Never knew what you saw in him.”
“You and me both,” I said. “So, back to my question. I’m thinking a change of scenery and a new job would do wonders for my psyche—”
“Babe, you know I love you. I do. But I simply can’t take the risk right now. What were you thinking?”
“I wasn’t thinking. It was Eric,” I cried. “I’ve screwed myself, haven’t I?”
“It’s not the best of scenarios.” Monica sighed. “I hate to drop this on you on a day like today, but you’re going to find out anyway. El Colibrí is on the rising star list.”
“Oh,” I said, gripping the phone. My voice shook. “Congratulations. You must be thrilled. You’re part of the one percent.”
“I’m sorry. I know it’s been your dream, too. A dream that would have come to fruition if Eric the skinny rat weasel hadn’t—”
“Don’t apologize. I’m happy for you.” I gulped, even though jealousy tweaked my heart. She’d done it; I hadn’t. I was ruined. “I’m thrilled. Really. You deserve this.”
“Well, I was jumping over the moon until I heard what happened. Really kind of flattens the champagne bubbles, if you know what I mean.” Monica paused. “If you’re serious about a change of scenery, you’re more than welcome to come stay with Esteban and me for as long as you want. I can put you in contact with some chefs I know—chefs doing exciting things.”
“Nobody is going to touch me with a ten-foot pole. Eric has turned me into a liability, an outcast. I’m so screwed.”
“Things will simmer down soon. As they say, time heals all wounds. Believe me, the truth always has a way of rising to the surface. I’m just so sorry I can’t offer you a position here.”
A long silence lingered. The chatter of a man’s voice in the background interrupted our conversation. Monica grumbled something and then got back to me. “Babe, I’m so sorry, but I’ve got to bolt. As you can imagine, we’ve got a huge night ahead of us—”
“I understand,” I said.
“I’ll call you tomorrow morning when things are calmer, okay? And think about visiting Esteban and me for a few weeks. A few months. Whatever you need. Mi casa, tu casa.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“Ciao, babe. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
The line went dead. I sat on the couch, a deeper depression sinking in.
My culinary life was dead.
My dreams were dead.
And I wanted Eric dead.
Before I ended up in jail for killing the bastard, I needed to figure out next steps. I could email one of my food critic contacts at the Times with a fake email account, tipping her off as to what really happened at Cendrillon; I could pretend to accept his offer of working for him, and then poison him with arsenic; and, of course, I could cut off his balls and feed them to stray dogs in the alley. (The last option brought a twisted smile to my face.) I was tempted to send him a few texts, laying into him, and I even typed a few out; it made me feel better.
You are the biggest prick on the planet.
I’m putting a curse on you.
Your restaurant will fail.
I deleted all but one.
You destroyed my life.
Still reeling from the buzz of champagne, after I sent the message, I thought, What life? Although running a restaurant as part of the one percent of women had driven me all these years, I didn’t have a life. I’d been a beard for a gay man. Aside from Walter, Robert, and Monica, I didn’t have any friends. I definitely needed a big change. Maybe I even needed to change? When was the last time I was happy? Truly, madly, and wonderfully happy? When was the last time I laughed? Felt free? The answer hit me like a thunderbolt: those summers in southwestern France cooking with Grand-mère Odette.
My life in the kitchen began with my grandmother in the village of Champvert in the Tarn-et-Garonne department of southwestern France, the town so small you’d need a magnifying glass to find it on the map. I’d sit on a tall wooden stool, wide-eyed, watching Grand-mère Odette in her navy-blue dress and black ballerina flats, her apron adorned with les coquelicots (wild red poppies), mesmerized by the grace with which she danced around her kitchen, hypnotized by all the wonderful smells—the way the aromas were released from the herbs picked right from her garden as she chopped, becoming stronger as she set them in an olive oiled and buttered pan. She’d dip a spoon in a pot or slice up an onion in two seconds, making it look oh so easy, and for her it was. But my favorite part was when she’d let me taste whatever delight she was cooking up, sweet or savory. I’d close my eyes, lick my lips, and sigh with happiness.
Sometimes Grand-mère Odette would blindfold me, and it wasn’t long before I could pick out every ingredient by smell. All the other senses came to me, too—sight (the glorious plating), taste (the delight of the unknown), touch (the way a cherry felt in my hand), and hearing (the way garlic sizzled in the pan).
“You are a chef,” she’d say.
“One day, I want to be just like you,” I’d say.
Her pale green eyes, which reminded me of the freshness of spring, would crinkle as she smiled and she’d tousle my hair. “Sophie, quand tu es en France, il faut que tu parles français.” (When you are in France, you must speak French.) Then, she’d mumble something about how that traveling star-chaser of a mother of mine had ruined my education and how, thankfully, I spent the summers with her so she could put the pieces back together, to get me in touch with my roots. After all, I was born in France, so I was French in Grand-mère Odette’s eyes and not an American, and not, heaven forbid, a New Yorker. Much to Grand-mère Odette’s chagrin, the facts were the facts and I was all three.
Those formative years, all the summers spent with Grand-mère Odette in her kitchen in southwestern France, fueled my dreams of becoming a chef, the love of cooking running like the sweetest of cherry juices through my veins. Thanks to the skills I picked up while soaking in Grand-mère Odette’s every word like the greediest of sponge cakes, I graduated at the top of my class from the Culinary Institute of America.
The more I thought about Champvert, the lighter my anger became. Unfortunately, it was three a.m. in France, too late to call Grand-mère Odette, and I wasn’t quite sure if she’d be happy to hear from me. We hadn’t spoken all that much in well over six months because I’d been too busy with work, pushing for a promotion I’d never get. She’d call, but I’d brush her off with “I’ll call you tomorrow. Got lots on my plate.” Unfortunately, her hours didn’t match mine, not with the six-hour time difference. In a failed attempt to drown out my misery, I opened up a bottle of wine, poured, and then stared off into space, trying to think of happier times.