Too Many Cooks (16 page)

CHAPTER 20

Paris! I can't believe it. I've dreamed about going to Paris ever since I was a little girl. I first caught a glimpse of the city on
Dallas,
when Bobby and April went on their disastrous honeymoon. I was only four at the time, and the show was on way past my bedtime, but I snuck downstairs and watched through the spindles on the banister while my mom sat in front of the TV with her tumbler of blackberry brandy (which, at the time, I thought was just juice for grown-ups). I couldn't follow the plot, but I thought the city looked like something out of a fairy tale, and I've wanted to visit ever since.

And now I have my chance! I'll be accompanying Natasha, which puts a damper on things, but I'll probably get the royal treatment as part of her entourage. Considering how posh the guest room in her house is, I can't imagine her staying anywhere that isn't fabulous. Maybe I'll even meet Joël Robuchon, or Pierre Hermé. I can't wait.

The only downside to this sudden news is that I now need to cancel my date with Harry. If I'm going to Paris for three days, I'll lose half a week of testing, and given how behind we are, I need to use every available hour before we leave to stay on schedule.

When I call him on my way home, he doesn't even try to mask his disappointment. “I suppose next week is out then, too, if you'll be in Paris,” he says.

“Sorry. Maybe we could do something next Saturday instead?”

“Yeah, okay. That sounds good. There's a great pizza place in Brixton—assuming you like pizza.”

“Love it.”

“Great,” he says, his tone brighter. “Shall we say eight o'clock? The queue can get rather long, but the wait is worth it.”

“Works for me. Sorry again about having to cancel—this trip came out of nowhere.”

“Not a problem. Have fun in Paris. Eat a few croissants for me.”

I spend the rest of the week working at a frantic pace, perfecting the zucchini salad and refining the dreaded kale burger so that it is almost entirely green. When I'm not testing recipes, I spend nearly every waking minute researching which restaurants, boulangeries, and patisseries I will cram into my three-day trip: Poilâne, Le Relais de l'Entrecôte, Ladurée, Gérard Mulot, Pierre Hermé, L'As du Fallafel, Le Bistrot Paul Bert, Le Comptoir. Considering I will only be there for three days, I'm not exactly sure how I will fit everything in, but I'll find a way. Who knows when I'll have another opportunity to go to Paris? I have to make every second count.

As soon as I arrive Friday morning, I start preparing the zucchini salad and the kale burger for our noon tasting. I think I've finally nailed both recipes, developing versions that not only taste good but also that Natasha will like. The zucchini salad is zippy, but not overly lemony, and the flavor is rounded out by the touch of anchovy and garlic in the dressing and the toasted almonds and nutty Parmesan. I also managed to preserve the flavor of my original kale burger while making it greener, and I've improved the texture. The only dish I don't have lined up for the tasting are her grandmother's scrambled eggs, but I've started working on them and will have something for her soon. And anyway, Parisians are the masters of all things
oeuf,
so I can do research while I'm there.

By 11:55, all of the dishes are ready. By 12:15, I start looking at my watch. By 12:45, the toasted almonds in the zucchini salad are getting soggy. By 1:00, the uncooked kale burgers look a little sad. And by 1:30, I am officially pissed off.

At 2:00, Natasha bursts into the kitchen, dressed in leopard-print spandex pants and a sports bra. As usual, Poppy trails behind.

“Hey,” Natasha says, dabbing at her forehead with a small towel. She lets out a big sigh. “We made it.”

I glance at the clock. “I thought we said noon.”

“Yeah, but my trainer wanted me to check out the new Pilates equipment in her studio, and noon was the only time she could meet me.”

“Oh. I wish I'd known. I'd have worked on a few other recipes this morning before prepping the tasting.”

“I'm sure you survived. Anyway, where's the food? I just got my period and could eat the whole house.”

I pull the dishes from the refrigerator. “Do you want to start with the kale burger or the zucchini salad?”

Natasha wipes her neck. “Why don't I try a bite of the zucchini while you cook up the burgers?”

“Perfect.”

I scoop some of the salad onto two plates, and as she and Poppy dig in, I heat a frying pan.

“Is this the dressing with the . . . ?” Poppy trails off.

“The what?” Natasha asks.

I look over my shoulder. “Oh. I think she's referring to the anchovy. I used one in the dressing.”

Poppy spits her salad back on the plate, and Natasha rolls her eyes. “You're such a prole,” Natasha says. “I love anchovies.”

Out of the corner of my eye I notice Poppy's cheeks are bright red.

“It's something to do with the smell,” Poppy says. “I just . . . I can't.”

Natasha takes another forkful of the zucchini salad. “More for me, then.”

I finish cooking the kale burgers and transfer them to a large platter. “One for each, or one to share?”

“One each—I'm starving,” Natasha says.

I place the burgers on two separate plates and push them across the counter. They cut into them and take small bites.

“Now this I like,” Poppy says.

Natasha scrunches up her nose. “Do you?”

Poppy's cheeks flush again. “I do. Don't you?”

“I mean . . . it's
nice
. It's tasty. But I wonder . . . is it clean enough?”

“Clean how?” I ask.

“I don't know. Like, all that smokiness? What is that?”

“Smoked paprika,” I say.

“And what about these chunky bits? What's that?”

“Mashed white beans.”

“See, that's what I mean. All those beans . . . It seems a bit heavy, doesn't it?”

“We need something to bind all of the kale together,” I say. “We can't only use kale.”

“Why not?”

“Because the burgers wouldn't stick together.”

“What about an egg?”

“I used one of those, too.”

“Oh.” She taps her fork against the plate. “Well, could you maybe try it with chickpeas instead of white beans?”

Oh dear God, this recipe is going to kill me.

“Sure,” I say. “Whatever you want.”

“And maybe cut back on the smokiness.”

“No!” Poppy jumps in. “Sorry—I just . . . I don't know much about food, but I think the smokiness is lovely. It makes the burger feel meaty . . . without the meat.”

My eyes flit between Poppy and Natasha.
Please agree with Poppy; please agree with Poppy
.

Natasha throws up her hands. “Fine. Keep the pimenton. But try to make the taste . . . cleaner. And lighter.”

“Okay.” I look down at the plates of zucchini salad. “What about the zucchini?”

She lets out a drawn-out sigh. “Oh, I don't know. I mean, I love it. But hearing Poppy talk . . . maybe she has a point. A lot of people don't like anchovies.”

“But you do.”

“But I don't want a bunch of people skipping a recipe in my book because it has anchovies in it.”

“Okay. Maybe I could try the dressing without the anchovy? Or tweak it in another direction?”

She shifts her jaw from side to side. “You know what? Why don't we ditch the zucchini salad and go back to the carrot salad.”

“The one I made for you on Monday?”

“No . . . I mean, yes, that
kind
of carrot salad, but could we get rid of the chickpeas? And maybe add sunflower seeds. Or almonds. I don't know—something crunchy.”

I try very hard not to combust.

“Okay, but like I said before, with your deadline . . . The more we retest, the trickier things become. At some point we're going to have to start cutting recipes.”

“What? No. No way are we cutting any recipes.”

“I don't
want
to cut any recipes. It's just with all of this retesting, and the Paris trip next week—”

“Well, you'll just stay here and work,” she says.

I freeze. “What?”

“If we're running into deadline problems, then you shouldn't come with us to Paris.”

“No, no—I'm not saying we're running into problems yet. I'm saying we could run into problems down the line.”

“And that's the last thing I want to happen. I'd much rather you stay here and get us on track.”

My heart sinks. “But I'm sure I could make it work. It's only three days. And it could be good for research. . . .”

I realize I'm backtracking on everything I just said, but I have been looking forward to this trip all week. I have to go.

“Nope,” she says. “I've made up my mind. You're staying here. I'm sure you'll have plenty of other opportunities. It's not like I needed you to come with me, anyway.” She looks at Poppy's notebook. “Are we done?”

I nod, unable to speak through the lump in my throat.

“Great. Good luck with those recipes. I'll see you next Wednesday afternoon when we're back.”

She throws her exercise towel over her shoulder and turns to leave. “Oh,” she says, turning back around, “and see if you can come up with a fun topping for those burgers. Like, maybe a plum ketchup or a honey mustard. You'll certainly have the time.”

 

I hate her. Oh, my God, I hate her.

What kind of person dangles a trip to Paris in front of someone, and then yanks it away? It isn't my fault we're running into deadline issues. She's the one who keeps changing her mind: “Carrot salad! No, zucchini salad! No, carrot salad!” If she would just stick to the plan, we'd be fine. But she's capricious and thoughtless, and now I'm stuck dealing with the consequences. In London.

Not only am I in London—I'm in London
alone
. Harry is visiting family in Devon, and Jess is on some weekend trip in the Lake District, and they are the only two people I know well enough to call. Part of me is tempted to move up my date with Harry to earlier in the week since I'll be around, but instead, I decide to use the time I would have been in Paris to get ahead of schedule. If I'm not going, I need to make this time count. The sooner I get out of here, the better.

So on I go, using my weekend to mash, blitz, and sear my way to veggie-burger perfection. This time I use chickpeas and a bit of lemon juice to brighten and lighten the flavor. Once I've completed that recipe, I move on to a new carrot salad and a recipe for the fluffiest, creamiest scrambled eggs I've ever tasted. If Natasha doesn't like these eggs, it's official: Her taste buds are up her asshole.

On Monday, I decide to tackle three new recipes: a topping for the kale burger, a spicy Brussels sprout hash, and a rendition of seafood paella, inspired by a dish Natasha once ate while on location in Spain. Neither plum ketchup nor honey mustard really goes with the kale burgers, but I develop a garlicky aioli that is perfect: creamy and peppy, with just the right amount of kick from the garlic. It is the ideal foil for the burger, which means Natasha will probably hate it.

By the time I finish that evening, it's well past six, and Olga has already left for the day, having shown me how to lock the servants' entrance behind me. As I scrub down the counter, my feet throb in pain, and a dull ache wraps itself around my lower back and down my legs. Putting in extra hours will help me finish this project sooner, but it may also kill me. I haven't been on my feet this long since my first job washing dishes at Abe's Coney Island, and that was when I was a fit, energetic fourteen-year-old. I may only be twenty-eight, but I'm rapidly losing the ability to stand on my feet for ten hours at a time.

The mere thought of walking a half mile to the Belsize Park tube station makes me want to cry, so I plop down on one of Natasha's kitchen chairs and kick my feet up on the seat of another. I close my eyes and allow myself a quick catnap, drifting off to the rhythmic sound of the dishwasher as it whooshes through its cleaning cycle. Visions of croissants and steak frites float through my mind as I picture Natasha and Poppy prancing down the Champs-Élysées, cackling loudly as they mention my name and how sad I must be sitting in London, alone. I bet that was part of the plan all along. I bet it's some big joke between the two of them.

As I envision Natasha tripping over a crack in the pavement and falling face-first into a tower of éclairs, I'm awoken by a voice in the kitchen.

“Hello?”

My eyes bolt open, and I leap up from my seat. “Hugh—Mr. Ballantine. Hi.”

“I've told you, call me Hugh.” His brow furrows. “What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be in Paris?”

I wipe beneath my eyes, certain I have gobs of mascara and gunk stuck there. “I had to stay back and work on some recipes.”

“What? That's rubbish. Why?”

“We're starting to run into some deadline issues. Natasha—we didn't think I could spare the time.”

“Oh, dear. How far behind are you?”

“Hard to say. We could be fine, if we stick to the plan, but she keeps—” I catch myself. “The plan is a little . . . in flux.”

“Ah. Right. With Natasha, that tends to happen.”

He drops his briefcase by the door and shimmies out of his suit jacket, a navy one with a slight sheen. He loosens his pink tie as he makes his way to the refrigerator.