Dreamveil (Kyndred #2)

Dreamveil (Kyndred #2) Page 21

Vince’s cruel trick of asking her to pick up a red- hot roasting rack was not repeated, and her silence on the matter seemed to earn her a measure of respect from the other cooks. Lonzo never said anything about it, but after everyone watched Vince plow through a hundred pounds of squid at the gutting table, he didn’t have to. In return, Rowan made sure the garde-manger never had to wait for anything he called for.

Gradually she began noticing each chef’s work and how he went about it, and while she picked up a few new tricks, after a week she felt sure she could outcook most of the men on the line. She didn’t mind her menial status, however, because for all the fetching and carrying she did, she spent at least an hour every night watching Dansant cook.

No one could best the executive chef at anything, she decided. He used his knives like a surgeon, slicing and chopping and filleting with frightening speed and pinpoint accuracy. He also had a nose that could pick up anything from a bit of rotten basil leaf to a neglected tray of crème brûlée about to blacken under the broiler. Not even Lonzo, who had amazing hands and a psychic’s intuition when it came to cooking times, could keep up.

New York’s cutthroat fine dining scene had not changed a great deal from what Rowan had seen during her years of hanging around restaurants, but it did surprise her to discover just how successful D’Anges was. Not a single night went by that they didn’t have a full house or did less than a hundred and fifty meals. She’d already peeked in at the dining room when it was at full capacity, and seen a lot of happy, relaxed faces around the tables. Although the interior looked exactly the same as that of any fine dining establishment, the atmosphere was as warm, intimate, and relaxing as Dansant’s amazing cuisine was delicious.

It all seemed to her a little too good to be true.

She learned that patrons had to make reservations months in advance just to get in the door, and a place at the chef’s table—Dansant’s once-weekly event where he dined with a group of patrons in a private room—had become one of the most coveted spots in the city. Dansant made the rounds of the dining room every night, and sometimes Rowan saw how the women gushed all over him. It made her stomach turn a little.

She could admit she was a little jealous over how her entire gender seemed to sparkle around her boss. She could also feel sorry for them. If her secret love for Matthias had taught her anything, it was that wanting the unattainable is as stupid as expecting to have a chance at it, and where Dansant was concerned an unrequited, juvenile crush was all she could ever hope for.

Rowan worried that her interest might annoy her boss, but Dansant seemed happy to have her hovering at his side, and readily explained everything he was doing as he worked. He also insisted she taste practically every dish he prepared, and as she sipped and chewed and savored he tested her knowledge of the ingredients. That was how she learned that there were three types of snails used for escargots , and the American wine she knew as Chablis was an insult to its own name.

“The escargots we use for cooking are called coureurs, or runners, in spring,” Dansant explained, “and voilés, or veiled ones, in summer.”

“What do you call them in winter?” she asked with a straight face. “Popsicles?”

“Operculées, the covered ones. You see?” Dansant showed her a snail shell, and traced his finger around the membrane that sealed the open end. “This they do when they go to sleep during the cold months, and because of it they have more moisture than the snails we use in spring and summer. This makes them the best for all dishes.”

Rowan was still trying to get used to the fact that D’Anges’s chefs kept their supply of snails alive until they were ready to cook them. Although the current stock were hibernating away under a generous layer of grape leaves in a tank kept in the storeroom, it made her shudder to think of them crawling around the work stations while the chefs worked. She was also convinced that while she was not picky about food, and would never turn down a gourmet meal, she wasn’t going to be able to make herself eat escargots no matter how moist they were or when they were cooked.

Dansant didn’t seem insulted when she refused to taste his snail concoction, although he smiled as he tossed the morsel to a grateful Enrique. “You Americans are afraid to eat snail, but you will stand in line for hours to eat raw fish.”

“Sushi doesn’t crawl,” Rowan told him. “It swims.”

Dansant accompanied her down to his wine cellar when he needed her to retrieve a bottle of Chablis for a sauce he was reinventing. When she protested that she could find a bottle of wine on her own, he corrected her. “To you Americans Chablis is something you pick up at the convenience store. They sell it by the gallon for a few dollars, do they not?”

“They do,” she admitted. “But I’m guessing the Chablis you use doesn’t come in a screw-top jug.”

“Non. It does not.” He led her down the cellar stairs, turned on the overhead lights, and took her to a high rack filled with dusty bottles. “This is the Chablis we use.” He selected one bottle and wiped it off carefully with a towel. “There are tasting glasses there.” He nodded toward a row of small, upside-down goblets. “Take one.”

“I don’t really drink.”

“You are not drinking. You are tasting.” When she took down the glass, he continued. “French Chablis is made entirely from Chardonnay grapes. There is only one town in France that produces it, the town of Chablis in Burgundy.”

He took a corkscrew from a nail on the rack and carefully uncorked the bottle, then poured a small amount into her glass.

“In the old times the vintners would ferment and age their Chablis in special barrels made of oak. Now most of them follow modern ways and use vats made of stainless steel.” He urged the glass up to her nose. “Close your eyes. What do you smell?”

“Wine.” She chuckled, and then sniffed. “Uh, grapes. Alcohol. And . . . vanilla.”

“That is the influence of the oak barrels. At the modern vineyards they say the steel vats make for a purer wine, but I will not buy from them. By its nature Chablis is dry and very flinty, and it needs to age in the oak for balancing.” He pressed the edge of the glass against her bottom lip. “Now taste.”

Rowan took a sip, and instead of the sweet vanilla flavor she was expecting from the scent, the wine filled her mouth with a cool, sharp-edged taste that reminded her of biting into a green apple.

“Your American winemakers blend together weak wines that are barely a month old and call it Chablis,” Dansant said. “The best French Chablis is not sold until it has aged at least twenty years.”

She opened her eyes after she swallowed. “Oh, shit. Was I supposed to spit it back in the glass?”

He grinned like a boy. “I will not tell anyone if you will not.”

Dansant was as demanding as he was charming. He would return any delivery that wasn’t up to his standards, which were apparently much higher than those of other chefs around the city. As a result Lonzo often fielded irate phone calls from their vendors. He also expected the kitchen to be kept scrupulously clean, and once they had finished cleaning up after the last meal of the night, he personally checked the equipment and stations. If he found something not to his liking, he didn’t call over Enrique to handle a second cleanup, but made the chef responsible for the area do it while Dansant stood and watched.

In return the line cooks gave Dansant the kind of deference and respect men usually reserved for successful professional athletes. More than once Rowan caught one of the cooks watching Dansant work before turning away and shaking their head as if in disbelief. Enrique especially worshipped the executive chef, and while the dishwasher mainly kept to his corner of the kitchen, he watched Dansant like a hawk. The chef never even had to call for a clean pot or utensil; the dishwasher always seemed to anticipate his needs and brought it over as soon as Dansant had his ingredients assembled.

Rowan had already resigned herself to silently lusting after her handsome, charming boss for the duration of her employment. It wasn’t his fault he was born to make some other man very happy, although at times she wondered if his partner really appreciated how lucky he was. Whoever he was, Dansant’s boyfriend never showed up once at the restaurant, not even to pick him up after work. Rowan knew the cost of keeping a car in the city was outrageous, and the cab Dansant called every night to take him home was probably much cheaper, but it didn’t seem right that the guy never once bothered to stop in. None of the line cooks ever said a word about Dansant’s domestic situation, much to Rowan’s annoyance.

She did wish her boss could give her next-door neighbor a couple of private lessons on how to get along with people. Since she’d moved in she’d seen Meriden several times, usually in passing on the stairs. She always said hello, but he either ignored her or grunted something too low for her to hear. She figured he had a bad case of insomnia, as he usually arrived home an hour before her shift ended at one a.m. and left for work early in the morning before she woke up. Once she’d gotten up at dawn to use the bathroom and found him on the way out.

After her second week working at D’Anges, Rowan left a note for Meriden under his door, asking him to stop by and let her know about the status of her bike. When he didn’t, she tried knocking on his door when she knew he was home, but he didn’t answer. Other than staking out the bathroom, she wasn’t sure what to do.

Rather than bother Dansant about Meriden, she asked Lonzo one night if he knew where Meriden worked.

“He’s got a garage couple blocks from here. He the one working on your bike?” When she nodded, he waved her over to the office, where he flipped the Rolodex to M and jotted down an address on a sheet of notepaper. “Here’s the address and phone. I’d pay him a visit, see how the work’s going.”

“Thanks.” She folded the paper and slipped it into her pocket. “I think I will.”

Chapter 9

Meriden’s garage had no sign above the one open bay, and only a rust-edged metal door with a small meshed-glass window leading to what Rowan assumed was the office. Since she didn’t hear any work sounds coming from the bay, she guessed he was in there, but decided to have a look around first. It wouldn’t hurt to see what kind of setup he had, considering how she was trusting him to do right by her ride.