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“Can you do it, Henri? For me?”
Henri straightened his shoulders and looked his boss in the eye. He towered over the younger man, but had leaned closer and turned his good ear to make sure he didn’t miss a word. “Monsieur, it would be an honour.”
Gordon nodded his thanks. “Six sharp.”
“Of course, monsieur.”
Henri chuckled to himself as he turned towards the kitchen. His kitchen. Gordon Oliver might have inherited the hotel, but Henri had established himself in the kitchen of the Chateau Sanglier before the boy was born.
It was Henri who had maintained the standards of culinary excellence set by the young man’s grandparents. Pushing those standards, in fact, to the point where his kitchen had received rave reviews in every magazine that mattered.
“Monsieur Henri?”
“Yes, Pierre?”
Henri’s understudy raised an eyebrow. “Did I hear correctly, monsieur? We will be serving Steak Diane tonight?”
“Yes, yes, is that a problem?” Already Henri was running through the ingredients in his mind. Everything must be perfect for such a special evening. He took out his battered Zippo, absent-mindedly flicking the flint. An old habit. “Do we still have that bottle of cognac, the old Hennessy?”
“Yes, monsieur. Certainly. But I thought...”
Henri had moved on to planning dessert when he noticed the shortened query. He turned, still rubbing his hands, and bent forward to hear what he had missed. “Yes? Speak up.”
“Well, monsieur, it’s just that we haven’t served that particular dish for some time.”
Henri froze. Yes. Of course. Pierre would have made the connection. He was a good twenty years younger than Henri, but he had been here. Nothing had been said at the time. Nothing needed to be said now.
Henri put a wrinkled hand on the smaller man’s shoulder. His eyes softened. “Ah, Pierre. Yes, it is time, old friend.”
Pierre nodded. “I’ll go fetch the cognac.” He looked into the old man’s eyes and briefly rested his own hand on top of his before he went.
*
STEAK DIANE. HENRI hadn’t created it. In fact, he had never even prepared it until she had come to the hotel that night, twelve years ago now. She had grown up, filled out, but she hadn’t changed since high school. Still, if she hadn’t been with her sister, Henri wouldn’t have believed his eyes. Destiny might have played a part in bringing her back to the village. Henri knew nothing of such things.
Henri had cornered the maître d’ and persuaded him to add an impromptu special to the evening’s menu. Something she wouldn’t be able to resist.
For the next half hour, Henri was a man possessed. The presentation had to be perfect. Where was the Hennessy? The good one? And a clean apron. Immediately, monsieur.
Henri had endured the entrée, allowing Pierre to serve the ladies. Would she remember? It had been so very long ago.
He surprised himself when his hands didn’t shake. Four decades presenting his signature dishes to the rich and powerful. Royalty even. Never had he felt this need to wipe his hands repeatedly on his starched apron. Never had he swallowed so many times. Not even when he had politely declined the American president’s offer of a position in the White House. Travel and immigration, these were the business of the hotel’s guests, not the kitchen staff. Henri knew nothing of such things.
Diane’s eyes had sparkled when he presented the dish he had prepared in her honour, flicking his Zippo to flambé the cognac. The merest glance to thank him had faltered, delight giving way to doubt, as she went through a mental process similar to Henri’s when he had seen her enter the restaurant.
“Henri?”
She remembered. Despite the years, lifetimes lived on opposite sides of the country, she remembered.
*
“MONSIEUR HENRI?”
“Eh? Oh, Pierre? Forgive me. I am an old man. Sometimes my mind, she plays tricks with me.”
“No matter, monsieur.” Pierre held up a bottle. “The cognac. The good one. We are prepared.”
Henri nodded. “Thank you, my friend.” He leaned closer, a gnarled forefinger and furrowed brows helping him focus as he squinted at the tiny print from his wingback chair. “Is that the same bottle we used last time?”
Pierre turned the label so he could see it better. His face paled.
“Monsieur...”
Henri raised a hand to cut him off. But gently. “It is fitting, I think. Perhaps later, we might share a toast.”
Pierre placed the bottle on a nearby table.
In hushed tones, “Monsieur, we never knew what became of mademoiselle. It was not discussed.”
Henri bowed his head. A spark lit the eyes under their heavy brows. A private joke.
“Did you not read France’s most tragic love story?”
“Read it? Monsieur?”
The old man shook his head. “No, Pierre. You did not read it. But it was written. Monsieur Oliver came across a writing competition, perhaps two years ago. They wanted stories centered around food, restaurants, hotels.”
Pierre clasped his hands in excitement. “And you wrote this story, monsieur?”
“Who better to write the story? Have I not spent my entire life in this kitchen? Have I not grown old in this hotel? Have I not sacrificed everything for our world-famous restaurant?”
Pierre could offer no reply. It was true. The kitchen was a demanding mistress. And a jealous one.
“I am sorry, Pierre.” The antique chair wheezed as Henri pushed his large frame upright. “An old man blames the world for his own decisions. Pay me no heed.”
“Of course, monsieur. But the competition? You won?”
Henri looked at his friend’s face, loyal eyes wishing it to be true.
“No, Pierre.” Henri lifted the cognac from the table. “Monsieur Oliver submitted the manuscript for me. I hoped to use the prize money to travel, to visit Diane one last time. Perhaps to hire a specialist to attend to her. She was not well, you see, and I had not seen her for a decade. Family matters. But alas,” he shook his head, “another writer won the competition.” He chuckled. “A real writer. I am merely a chef, Pierre. I know nothing of such things.”
*
THE RESTAURANT WAS always busy. A waiting list booked months in advance brought pressure that was steady, unrelenting, draining Henri’s energy and attention as he threw himself into the only life he had ever known. The life he had chosen.
Diane’s mother had remarried after the war and taken her young daughters thousands of miles away. The practicalities of life and death in the early twentieth century left no room for childhood romance. The teenagers had written faithfully, then less faithfully, then sporadically, then rarely. Then not at all.
Henri was born in the village that had evolved around the chateau. In the magical Dordogne, that ancient landscape buried in the south of France. In the house where his father was born. And his father before him. It was likely that Henri would die in that same stone cottage. Sooner, rather than later, he chuckled, if his doctor had his way. He had given up his beloved Gauloises years before, but the damage had been done.
Life in an award-winning kitchen had often seemed to be a sentence rather than a career choice. Village girls held no appeal. Chateau guests were from another world. Even when they deigned to compliment the architect of their gastronomic adventures, they were merely talking to the help. Henri had no illusions about his station in life. He worked for the Olivers, the way his forefathers had worked for the Olivers. It was all he knew. It was where he belonged.
*
THE HOTEL STAFF WERE aflutter. Years of hosting celebrities had not prepared them for the night their boss would bring a date to his own restaurant.
Gleaming surfaces had been polished one more time. Freshly laundered uniforms had been replaced with new uniforms. Even the trees had been forbidden to shed leaves on the immaculate driveway.
Henri understood. When the staff assembled to bid welcome to mademoiselle Diane, she was a fairytale princess illuminating the dark oak entrance hall with her smile. Decorating her elbow, a manic gleam betrayed Gordon’s cool exterior as he inspected his world, eyes scrutinizing every sparkling detail.
Then they were seated, and the hotel machinery relaxed into practiced efficiency.
Monsieur Oliver had left nothing to chance. Pierre would handle the pre-planned entrée. Henri had his truffles and fillet set aside with the other ingredients. And Pierre would step in again with dessert. The remaining kitchen staff were ready to assist at a moment’s notice.
All except Marie, who stood at the entrance to the dining area, saucer eyes fixed on the happy couple.
Henri coughed gently behind her. She turned with an ecstatic smile. “Isn’t she beautiful?”
Henri nodded. “Certainly, monsieur Oliver has impeccable taste. Now, Marie...”
“And so talented.”
Henri frowned. “Talented?”
Marie’s eyes widened. “Monsieur? You have not read her work?”
Ah. A real writer. Henri smiled. “No, Marie. I have no time to read every book in the village library.”
“But monsieur,” she insisted, “she won a short story competition. Thousands of euros, and a publishing contract for her next novel. But the story, monsieur...” Marie’s eyes closed. She hugged herself. She shivered, despite the heat in the kitchen. Then her eyes snapped open. “Monsieur must read it. I have it on my phone.”
Henri shook his head. Stories on phones. Instead of paper. He knew nothing of such things.
What he did know was how to cook. He moved to his section of the kitchen, knife poised to attack the shallot.
“Monsieur, a moment, before you begin.”
Marie was back with her cellphone, eagerly scrolling through pages on the screen. What could it hurt to humour the girl? Henri took the phone, sharing a smile with Pierre across the counter.
His smile froze. The opening lines of the story pulled him into a world of sacrifice and heartache. Young lovers torn apart by circumstances beyond their control. Briefly reunited, years later, only to lose one another again due to tragic family responsibilities. It was a story Henri knew well. Intimately, in fact. For Henri had lived such a story. Indeed, Henri had written this exact story, two years before.
He would have written a sequel, too. A happier tale, of a simple man who struggled his whole life to express his emotions. Who instead poured his creativity into his work, his art, his kitchen. Of a man who grew old alone, never forgetting his first love. Of the story he wrote for her, finally revealing how he felt. Of the glittering awards ceremony, where she would be his honoured guest. Of the acceptance speech he would deliver, dedicating the award, the money, all of it, to her, his muse, his inspiration.
“Here is the ceremony, monsieur.”
Henri was too numb to object when Marie took the cellphone from his shaking hands and scrolled to the video.
Through blurry eyes, he saw her at the awards ceremony. Mademoiselle Diane. But the wrong Diane. In a glittering black dress, with monsieur Oliver on her arm.
There she was, accepting the award, the money, all of it, and dedicating it to him, the young man at her side, her muse, her inspiration. She couldn’t have done it without him.
Marie gasped as she caught the phone that slipped from Henri’s nerveless fingers.
*
“PIERRE, PLEASE FETCH more cognac.” Henri waved his empty glass. “Any cognac, whatever we have left.”
Pierre wrung his hands, stepping closer so that only the old man could hear his words. “Monsieur, I have never seen you like this.”
Henri smiled with only his mouth. “Old friend, do not worry. Everything is under control.” He raised the glass, flicking his lighter beneath it. “But we do need more cognac.”
“Of course, monsieur.”
He was a good man, young Pierre. Not so young any more, perhaps, but still years behind his mentor.
Henri chuckled to himself. Truth be told, there was nothing more he could teach his protégé. In fact, Pierre had been effectively running the kitchen for some time now. The rest of the world, including the hotel staff and even monsieur Oliver, believed the old chef was still in charge. But his senses had betrayed him. He missed walking in the herb garden. His herb garden. Entire vocabularies of scent had deserted him. His eyes struggled to discern the subtle shifts in colour that marked each plant’s readiness to contribute to the business of the day.
So too in the kitchen. Only a lifetime of experience told him when a dish was cooked and ready to be served.
“Your cognac, monsieur.” Pierre stacked four bottles along the shelf closest to Henri. The old man smiled at his impudence. Then he reached for the first bottle.
*
GORDON AND DIANE LEANED together, sharing a joke, his hand on her arm.
They sat back as Henri approached with the cart. Steak Diane was prepared tableside, with appropriate theatrics. Henri’s cart carried everything he required.
Gordon’s face lit up. He rose unsteadily to his feet, one hand on his companion’s shoulder.
“Diane, I’d like you to meet Henri, our Michelin star.” He giggled. Henri noted the empty cognac bottle on the table. “Henri, I present my better half. Mademoiselle Diane.”
Henri drew himself up to his full height before gracing them with a bow. “Enchanté, mademoiselle.”
“What do you have for us tonight, Henri?” Gordon rubbed his hands as he sat down.
Henri winked at his boss. “In honour of our special guest, monsieur, I present to you... Steak Diane.”
The special guest looked at Henri in wonder.
Gordon reached across the table. “Created specially for you, Pumpkin.”
Her eyes reminded Henri of that night so long ago, that other Diane whose eyes had sparkled exactly the same way. In that moment, she was saved.
Henri lit the burner on his cart. The gas sputtered under the skillet, an invitation the steaks could not refuse. Then it was the shallot’s turn. Finally the piece de resistance, as Henri lifted the cognac bottle from his cart, brought it close to the skillet.
And poured it over his boss.
Gordon leapt to his feet.
Henri’s lighter sparked again.
The cognac caught.
Gordon shrieked.
His face and hands whooshed into a wall of flames. Henri dropped another two bottles at his feet. They exploded, leaving Gordon dancing in a ring of fire.
Diane screamed.
Marie screamed from the kitchen.
But Gordon screamed loudest and longest.
*
LATER THAT EVENING, Henri sat alone on the chateau’s front steps with the last bottle of cognac, watching the detectives on the lawn shake their heads. Would they arrest him, he wondered? How long would the trial last? More time than his doctor had given him?
Henri rattled his handcuffs and took another drink. He was merely a chef. He knew nothing of such things.