“Pfff . . . I’d rather not even think about it. New Year’s Eve dinners are always the pits. But, hey, it’s well paid. And by the way, I’ll ask for a good pay for you too.”
“Oh, that’s not a big deal.”
“Yes, yes, it is a big deal. You’ll see, tomorrow evening.”
43
“TIME to go now. We’ll have a coffee when we get there.”
“But these pants are way too big for me!”
“Doesn’t matter.”
They crossed the Champ-de-Mars running.
Camille was surprised by the atmosphere of agitation and concentration which already reigned in the kitchen.
It was suddenly so hot.
“Here you go, boss. A brand new commis.”
The boss grumbled something and waved them away with the back of his hand. Franck introduced her to a tall guy who didn’t seem to be awake yet: “This here’s Sébastien. He’s the garde-manger man. He’ll also be your chef de partie and your big boss, okay?”
“Nice to meet you.”
“Mmm.”
“You won’t be dealing with him, but with his commis.”
Turning to Sébastien, Franck asked, “What’s his name again?”
“Marc.”
“Is he here?”
“In the cold store.”
“Okay, I’m handing her over to you.”
“What does she know how to do?”
“Nothing. But you’ll see, she does it well.”
And he went to get changed in the locker room.
“Did he show you how to do chestnuts?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, there they are.” He pointed to a huge pile.
“Can I sit down?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“No asking questions in a kitchen; you say, ‘Yes, sir,’ or ‘Yes, boss.’ ”
“Yes, boss.”
Yes, asshole. Why on earth had she agreed to do this job? She’d go much faster if she could sit down.
Fortunately, a coffeepot was already on the boil. She put her mug down on a shelf and got to work.
A quarter of an hour later—her hands were already aching—Camille heard a voice ask: “Everything okay?”
She looked up and was dumbfounded.
She didn’t recognize him. Spotless trousers; an impeccably ironed jacket with a double row of round buttons and his name embroidered in blue letters; a little pointed bandana; immaculate apron and dish towel; and his toque resting nice and tight on his head. She’d never seen him dressed any other way than as a consummate slob; she found him very handsome indeed.
“What is it?”
“Nothing. You’re very handsome like that.”
And just look at him, bloody idiot, stupid fart, braggart, little provincial matador with his loud mouth, his big motorcycle and his thousands of bimbos notched on the butt of his battering ram: yes, that’s him, the very same man—and he cannot stop himself from blushing.
“It’s the uniform that does it, I expect,” she added with a smile, to let him off the hook.
“Yeah, that—that must be it.”
He moved away, bumped into a co-worker and showered him with insults.
No one spoke. All you could hear was the clack-clack of the knives, the glup-glup of the mixing bowls, the whoosh-whoosh of the swinging doors, and the phone ringing every five minutes in the boss’s office.
Camille was fascinated, torn between concentrating on her work so she would not get yelled at, and looking up so she wouldn’t miss a thing. She could see Franck in the distance, from behind. He seemed taller and much calmer than usual. It was as if she did not know him.
In a low voice she asked her fellow peeler:
“What does Franck do?”
“Who?”
“Lestafier.”
“He’s the saucier and he’s in charge of the meat.”
“Is it hard?”
The pimply boy rolled his eyes: “Totally. The hardest thing of all. After the chef and the second, he’s number three in the team.”
“Is he good?”
“Yeah. He’s a jerk but he’s good. I’d even say he’s really good. And you’ll see, the chef is always turning to him, not to the second. The second he has to keep an eye on, but Lestafier, he leaves him alone, even watches how he does it.”
“But—”
“Shh.”
When the boss clapped his hands to announce time for the break, she raised her head and made a face. Her neck, back, wrists, hands, legs and feet all ached—she ached in places she didn’t even know could ache.
“You want to eat with us?” Franck asked her.
“Do I have to?”
“No.”
“Then I’d prefer to go out and walk around some.”
“As you like. Are you okay?”
“Yes. But it’s hot in here, isn’t it? You’ve been working hard.”
“Are you kidding? This is nothing! There aren’t even any customers!”
“Well . . .”
“You’ll be back in an hour, right?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t go out right away, cool off a bit, otherwise you’ll make yourself sick.”
“All right.”
“You want me to come with you?”
“No, no. I feel like being alone.”
“You’d better eat something, okay?”
“Yes, Father.”
Franck shrugged his shoulders.
Camille ordered a disgusting panini in a snack bar for tourists and sat down on a bench at the foot of the Eiffel Tower.
She missed Philibert.
She dialed the number of the château on her cell phone.
“Hello, this is Aliénor de La Durbellière,” said a child’s voice. “To whom do I have the honor of speaking?”
Camille was thrown.
“Uh, to—May I speak to Philibert, please?”
“We’re having lunch at the moment. Might I take a message?”
“He isn’t there?”
“Yes, but we’re having lunch. I just told you—”
“Oh! Okay, right, no, nothing, just give him a kiss for me and tell him I wish him a happy New Year.”
“Would you remind me of your name?”
“Camille.”
“Camille, just Camille?”
“Yes.”
“Very well then. Good-bye, Madame Justcamille.”
Good-bye, little smart-ass.
What the hell was that all about? What sort of song and dance goes on in that château?
Poor Philibert.
“In five separate tubs of water?”
“Yes.”
“Well, that’ll be some clean lettuce!”
“That’s the way we do it.”
Camille spent a ridiculous amount of time sorting and cleaning the salad leaves. Each leaf had to be turned over, calibrated and inspected with a magnifying glass. She had never seen salad leaves like this before, of every shape and size and color.
“What’s that?”
“Purslane.”
“And this?”
“Baby spinach.”
“And that?”
“Arugula.”
“And this?”
“Ice plant. Fig marigold to you.”
“What a lovely name.”
“Where are you from, anyway?” asked her neighbor.
She didn’t answer.
Then she cleaned the herbs and dried them one by one in absorbent paper. Her job was to put them into small stainless containers and cover them carefully with transparent wrap before distributing them into various cold boxes. She crushed walnuts and hazelnuts, peeled figs, rubbed an inordinate amount of chanterelles and rolled little mounds of butter between two ridged spatulas. She had to be careful not to make a mistake as she deposited one ball of unsalted butter and one of salted onto each saucer. At one point she was no longer sure and had to taste one with the tip of her knife. Yuck, she co
uldn’t stand butter, so she was twice as careful from that point on. The waiters went on serving espresso coffees to whoever wanted one, and you could feel the pressure rising another notch with every passing minute.
Some of them didn’t say a word, others swore in their beards and the boss acted like a speaking clock:
“Five twenty-eight, gentlemen . . . Six oh-three, gentlemen . . . Six seventeen, gentlemen . . .” As if his heart’s desire was to totally stress them out.
Camille had nothing left to do so she leaned against her workbench, raising first one foot, then the other, to relieve her legs. The guy next to her was practicing making arabesques of sauce around a slice of foie gras on rectangular plates. With an airy gesture he would shake a little spoon and sigh as he inspected his zigzags. It never came out the way he wanted. And yet it looked lovely.
“What are you trying to do?”
“I don’t know. Something a bit original.”
“Can I try?”
“Be my guest.”
“I’m afraid I’ll spoil it.”
“No, no, go ahead, it’s an old slice, it’s just for practice.”
The first four attempts were hopeless, but by the fifth, she’d gotten the knack.
“Hey, that’s really good, can you do it again?”
“No,” she laughed, “I really doubt that I could do it again. But . . . don’t you have a pastry syringe? Or something like that?”
“Uh ...”
“You know, a little pouch with a piping socket?”
“We do. Have a look in the drawer.”
“Can you fill one for me?”
“To do what?”
“Just an idea, you’ll see.”
She leaned over, stuck out her tongue and drew three little geese.
Her co-worker called the boss over to show it to him.
“What kind of bullshit is this? C’mon . . . we’re not working for Disney here.”
He walked away, shaking his head.
Camille shrugged her shoulders sheepishly and went back to her salads.
“That is not cuisine. It’s a gimmick,” grumbled the boss from the opposite end of the kitchen, “and you know the worst of it? You know what kills me? It’s that those idiots, they just love stuff like that. Nowadays that’s what they want: a gimmick! Oh, well, it is a holiday after all. Okay, mademoiselle, would you do me the honor of squirting your little farmyard onto sixty plates? On the fly.”
“Answer, ‘Yes, boss,’ ” whispered Marc.
“Yes, boss!”
“I’ll never make it,” moaned Camille.
“Just do one at a time.”
“On the left or on the right?”
“On the left, it makes more sense.”
“It looks a bit sick, no?”
“Nah, it’s funny. Anyway, you have no choice now.”
“I should have kept my mouth shut.”
“Rule number one. At least you’ll have learned that. Here, this is the right sauce.”
“Why is it red?”
“Made from beets. Go on, I’ll pass you the plates.”
They swapped places. She drew, he sliced the slab of foie gras, put it on the plate, sprinkled it with fleur de sel and coarsely crushed pepper, then handed the plate to a third guy, who added the salad as if he were working with gold leaf.
“What are they all doing?” asked Camille.
“They’re going to eat. We’ll go later. We have to open the ball, but we’ll go down when it’s their turn to take over. Will you help me with the oysters?”
“Do we have to shuck them?!”
“No, no, just make them look nice. Actually, did you peel the green apples?”
“Yes. They’re over there. Oh shit, looks more like a turkey, this one.”
“Sorry. I’ll stop talking.”
Franck walked by, scowling. He thought they were a bit too casual. Or rather too cheerful.
He wasn’t too pleased with the whole goose business.
“Are we having fun yet?” he asked, ironic.
“Doing what we can . . .”
“Tell me, you don’t have to heat it up, do you?”
“What did he mean by that?”
“Oh, it’s a thing between us . . . The chefs who do the heating up feel like they’ve been entrusted with a supreme mission, so no matter how hard we work, they’ll always look down on the likes of us. We don’t deal with the heat. You know him well, Lestafier?”
“No.”
“Yeah, that makes sense.”
“What?”
“Oh, nothing.”
While the others had gone off to eat, two guys sluiced down the floor, then scraped it with a long rubber blade to make it dry faster. The boss was conversing with a very elegant man in his office.
“A customer already?”
“No, he’s the maître d’.”
“Wow, he’s well put together.”
“They’re all good-looking, the ones who work on the floor. At the start of the workday, we’re the ones who are clean and they go around vacuuming in their T-shirts and as the day goes on the roles switch: we start to stink and get grubby and they walk by fresh as daisies, with their impeccable hairdos and suits.”
Franck came to see her as she was doing her last row of plates.
“You can get going if you want.”
“Well, no, I don’t feel like leaving now. It’d feel like I’m missing the show . . .”
“Have you got some work for her?”
“Have I! As much as she wants. She can take over the salamander.”
“What’s that?” asked Camille.
“That thing over there, a sort of grill that goes up and down. You want to do the toast?”
“No problem. Uh, actually, would I have time for a cigarette?”
“Sure, go on down.”
Franck went with her.
“You okay?”
“Great. He’s a really nice kid, Sébastien.”
“Yeah.”
She was silent.
“Why the long face?”
“Because . . . I wanted to speak to Philibert earlier on to wish him happy New Year and I got the brush-off from this snotty-nosed little girl.”
“Hey, I’ll call him for you.”
“No. They’ll be having dinner now.”
“Let me take care of it.”
“Hello? Excuse me for disturbing you, Franck de Lestafier speaking, Philibert’s fellow lodger . . . Yes . . . The very one . . . Very nice to talk to you, madame . . . Could I have a word with him, if you don’t mind, it’s about the boiler . . . Yes . . . Exactly . . . Au revoir, madame . . .”
He winked at Camille, and she smiled as she exhaled her smoke.
“Philou? Is that you, dear? Happy New Year, my love! I won’t kiss you, but I’ll pass you to your little princess. What? Hey, who gives a fuck about the boiler! Listen, have a good year, good health and lots of kisses to your sisters. Well . . . only the ones who have big tits, eh?”
Camille took the phone, squinting. No, there was nothing wrong with the boiler. Yes, a big hug to you too. No, Franck hadn’t locked her away in a closet. Yes, so did she, she thought about him often. No, she hadn’t gone for her blood test yet. Yes, you too, Philibert, happy New Year to you.
“He sounded good, didn’t he?” added Franck.
“He only stuttered eight times.”
“That’s what I mean.”
When they went back to their stations, the atmosphere had changed. Those who hadn’t yet put on their toque set them carefully on their heads, and the chef leaned his belly against the serving hatch and folded his arms over it. You could have heard a pin drop.
“Gentlemen, to work.”
It was as if the temperature in the room was rising one degree per second. Everyone was suddenly busy, careful not to disturb his neighbor. Faces were tense. Stifled swear words ricocheted here and there. Some remained calm; others, like the Japanese fellow, seemed ready to implode.
r /> Waiters stood single file by the serving hatch while the boss leaned over to inspect every plate. The boy next to him used a tiny sponge to wipe any finger marks or splashes of sauce from the edge of the plate, and when the boss nodded, a waiter, teeth clenched, would lift up the big silver tray.
Camille was doing the appetizers with Marc. She would put things down on a plate, some sort of chip or wedge of bark of a faintly reddish tint. She didn’t dare ask any more questions. Then she added a few blades of chive.
“Keep moving, we don’t have time for finishing touches this evening.”
She found a piece of string to hold up her pants, and swore because her paper toque was forever slipping down over her eyes. Her neighbor took a small stapler out of his knife box:
“Here you go.”
“Thanks.”
Then she listened to one of the waiters, who was explaining how to cut the slices of brioche sandwich loaf into triangles, removing the crust.
“How toasted do you want them?”
“Golden.”
“Go ahead, make me a sample. Show me exactly the color you want.”
“The color, the color . . . You can’t tell by the color, it’s a question of instinct . . .”
“Well, I’m a color sort of person, so please make me a sample, or I’ll start to get stressed out.”
She took her assignment very seriously, and was never caught off guard. The waiters came for the toast, sliding each slice into the folds of a napkin. She would have liked a little compliment: “Oh, Camille, your toast is superb!” but what can you do . . .
She caught a glimpse of Franck, from behind as usual, busy at his stove, like a drummer at his drums: bang a lid here, bang a lid there, a spoonful here, a spoonful there. The tall skinny guy, who she had gathered was the number two, was constantly asking him questions to which Franck rarely replied, and only then by means of an onomatopoeia. All his pans were copper and he had to use a cloth to pick them up. From time to time he must have burned himself, for she often saw him lift his hand and shake it and then raise it to his mouth.