Devour Me (Master Chefs Series #1) (8 page)

“Wow,”
she droned. “What a sad take on something so beautiful.”

He
leaned over the banister and looked straight down.  “If it’s really that
beautiful, why do more than half of them end with fighting and hating?”

She
didn’t know what to say. Her view of marriage had always been a little magical,
like most girls. She had her own dreams of walking into Kleinfeld’s and picking
out the perfect Pnina Tornai dress.  She’d envisioned the flowers, the venue,
the food.  The reception hall would be in white and silver, and she’d often
flirted with the notion of a color theme for all the guests.  Her bridesmaid
would…

Oh
my God.  Errol was right, she thought with dismal frankness. 

“You're
just now waking up to the realization, aren’t you?”

She
blushed as she saw him looking intently at her.

“I
saw it,” he said as he drew his finger in the air around her face.  “That look
in your eyes.  You’ve had those fairytale dreams, too, haven’t you?”

Shrugging
off his accusation, she turned to Paris. “When I was six, maybe, but since then
I’ve grown up and I have a more adult view of marriage.  Of course, I know
there are a lot of divorces out there, but that still doesn’t mean a happy
marriage can’t exist.”

“For
six months, top.  After that you just have a couple who tries to pretend they
want to be together.  Before long they’re barely able to stand being in the
same room together.  Then it’s just a matter of having an affair right then and
there, thereby stretching the marriage out a little longer, or doing the
honorable thing and calling it quits before anyone really gets hurt.”

Dumbfounded,
she looked at him.

“Don’t
look at me like that, honey.  I’m not unhappy knowing all this.”

“But,
what do you have to look forward to if not meeting someone you can love and
trust and spend the rest of your life with?”

Taking
a hold of her elbow, he led her along the walkway and let out a little laugh. 
“Give yourself a few years and a few relationships, and you’ll see exactly what
I mean.”

A
denser crowd occupied the west side of the tower and Taryn wondered what the
fuss was all about, until she caught sight of the golden rays of the fading sun
that lit the sky.

“Sunset
over Paris,” Errol said.  “There’s nothing like it.”

Taryn
tried to get a better view, but there were too many heads in front of her.

“Here.”
Errol pulled her back to the elevator.  “I have an idea.”

“But
the sunset…”

“I
know where we can have a perfect, undisturbed view of the sunset, all while
enjoying a perfect glass of Pinot Noire.”  He turned to the elevator operator. 
“
Le Jules Verne
.”

“We
won’t have time, Errol.”  She grabbed the side of the elevator as it jolted
into motion.  “In another twenty minutes the sun will be completely over the
horizon.”

“In
two minutes we’ll be sitting at one of the finest restaurants in all of Paris, and we’ll enjoy the best view Paris has to offer.”

The
doors opened and Errol guided her to one of the most famed restaurants in all
of Europe.  She’d not paid attention when he’d mentioned Jules Verne, but now
she remembered.  It was the restaurant all tourists dreamed of eating at, while
few could either afford the French menu or acquire a reservation.

In
hushed tones Errol spoke to the maitre’d who smiled, checked his list then
guided them to a quiet table with a breathtaking view.

“How’s
that for a sunset?” Errol said as he pulled back her chair.

Feeling
like the princess he’d scorned just moments earlier, she sat down.  “I never
would have believe I’d be sitting here at Jules Verne.  It’s unreal.”

“Wait
until you try their
langoustines

While
Taryn took in the view, Errol ordered a bottle of wine.

“I
take it you approve,” he said.

She
turned to face him.  “Isn’t it a little ironic that you, the self-professed
hater of all that is love, marriage and romance, should take me out to dinner
in one, if not, the most romantic restaurant in the world.  Do you have any
idea how many people get engaged here?”

With
a cockeyed grin, he picked up the menu and scrutinized it. “Just because people
want to foolishly turn this gastronomical heaven into some Parisian tunnel of
love…”

“You
know, you're really too cynical for someone your age.” 

*****

After
dinner they took a private staircase to the second level and strolled at their
leisure.  The sky had just turned its last shade of deep purple before
succumbing to the darkness of night and the City of Lights sparked to life.

“Oh,
my God.  Errol…” She gently reached out to touch his hand. “Look how
beautiful…” She wanted to weep at the beauty of this day, the perfect afternoon,
the wondrous dinner and the spectacular night show.

She
expected him to groan his disdain of romance again, but instead, he leaned into
her and tenderly kissed her brow. They remained silent as they took in all the
night had to offer.

When
a cooled chill blew by them Errol gave her hand a tug. “How ‘bout a touch of
sweetness to finish this off.”

The
dessert was the perfect finish to their gastronomical meal.  From beginning to
end, dinner was everything the Jules Verne reputation promised; the food,
elegantly plated and delicious; the view exquisite and unforgettable; the
service impeccable.

“What
I wouldn’t give to work in such a restaurant,” Taryn said as they later walked
along the darkened streets below
la Tour Eiffel
.

Paris came alive at night.  The lights, music and aromas all there to tempt the senses.

“I
would have thought your aspirations ran higher,” Errol said. “Like owning a
restaurant such as Le Jules Verne.”

She
chuckled and leaned playfully into him.  “You're right. I do dream of owning
such a restaurant… of turning the restaurant back home into the kind of place
people dream of dining at.”

For
a brief moment he put his arm around her and pulled her in tight before
releasing her.  “Do I hear a hint of doubt in that dream?”

Surprised,
she looked up at him. “Do you?”

He
shrugged. “There was a definite lack of conviction.”

“Hmmm.” 
She considered her words.  Did she really have any doubt she’d succeed in
building the reputation of her little family-owned restaurant into something
like
Le Jules Verne
?  “I know I have talent,” she finally said.  “I know
my way around the kitchen.  I know how to bring out the flavors in food without
overdoing it.  I know many of the techniques that make for great haute
cuisine.  I certainly have the passion to go on learning what I don’t already
know.”

“But…?”

She
stopped and turned to face him. “After eating something as divinely perfect as
what I ate tonight… I don’t know.  I guess I just really wonder if I have what
it takes to make it that far.”

Taking
her hand in his he led her onto the paved path that ran along the Seine. “A little doubt can be good… keeps you on your toes… keeps you hungry and eager to
learn… keeps you fighting for perfection.  There’s nothing worse than
complacency; than sitting on your laurels.  Some of the best chefs lose their
way because they allow themselves to think they know everything.  We never know
everything.  Cooking is a constantly changing art.  Just don’t let that little
taste of doubt get the best of you.  It can demolish you faster than you can
collapse a soufflé.”

Hand
in hand they walked along the river.  Quaint streetlamps offered a minimal glow
on the water, just enough to make for a romantic stroll.  Taryn basked in the
pleasant silence that enveloped them.  Occasionally they crossed paths with
other couples; couples who were obviously in love.

Taryn
involuntarily squeezed Errol’s hand and wondered.

*****

While
the dinner had been all and more than Errol had expected of his greatest
competition, a regrettable little voice at the back of his head persisted in
reminding him that it was because of her. 

Taryn
delighted him, more than he cared to admit.

As
they strolled along the Seine, he knew they were surrounded by the romance Paris promised.  Repeatedly, he told himself to let go of her hand, to shove his hands
deep into his pockets and simply walked along the famed river as two friends,
as two associates.

But
her hand was soft and warm… and that little squeeze. What had caused her to
spontaneously squeeze his hand like that?

You're
getting in too deep, his heart warned.

No,
the depth of his loin reminded him.  Women love to be romanced, to be wooed. 
He’d seen it in her eyes; despite his anti-marriage monologue, she still had
dreams of a white dress and fairytale ending. 

How
mistaken she was if she thought her time with him would end happily ever
after.  No, tonight… this evening… it was the perfect prerequisite for a heated
night of sexually tantalizing games… nothing more.

Chapter 8

“
T
he idea behind this is I want the outside to
be crispy without being crunchy while inside we find a warm… goo,”  Errol said.

Leaning
into the kitchen counter, Taryn let out an amused chuckle.  “Goo?  Is that the
official term for it?”

Errol
looked sidelong at her, his face a mask of professionalism.  “As a matter of
fact, I had considered giving the term some validity.”

“Errol
King’s goo… sounds like it’ll take off.  Before long everyone will be making
Errol King’s goo with its crispy but not crunchy exterior.”

“You
mock me, my dear assistant.” 

Though
he remained stiff and unsmiling, she knew he was toying with her.  She’d come
to know the little known comic side he hid from the world.  Heaven forbid the
world should discover that Chef King had a bonafide sense of humor.

“Not
at all,” she said with a haughty air.  “I think goo suits the purpose
perfectly.”

They’d
tried several variations of the recipe Errol wanted to add to his cookbook, but
could still not get the consistency he sought.  More salt.  Less baking powder.
More sodium bicarbonate.  Less sugar.  Hotter oven.  Shorter time.  Cool before
putting into oven.  Cool immediately out of the oven.

Finally,
Taryn said, “What if we were to brush a little sweetened melted butter over it
before popping it into the oven?”

Errol
grimaced.

“What?”
she said incredulously.  “I think that’s a perfectly good suggestion.”

“Sweetened
with what?”

She
thought for a moment.  She knew he would balk at plain white sugar, and brown sugar
wouldn’t be much better. No, it would have to be a liquid sweetener.  “How
‘bout honey?”

“Too
common.”

“Molasses?”

He
grimaced.  “Too vulgar.”

“Maple
syrup?”

“Too
hard to come by.”

“Isn’t
that the whole idea?” She opened the pantry door and peered inside. Among the
various bottles of fancy oils and vinegars, the many jars of rare ingredients,
spices and herbs and the few more common every day items, she found a bottle of
molasses. “I just found something rather vulgar in your pantry, Errol.”

He
cocked a brow as he looked at her.  A boyish grin made a quick appearance on
his face before dashing off to leave room for a smirk.  “Just because I enjoy a
little molasses on my buckwheat pancakes every once in a while doesn’t mean
it’s a good idea for this recipe.”

“Buckwheat
pancakes?  You?”

“Just
because I’m a culinary genius doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy a little comfort food
once in a while.”

Taryn
grabbed the bottle of molasses and brought it to their working space.  “I think
this will work.  Are you ready to give it a shot?”

He
looked at the bottle then at her.  “I honestly don’t think the flavor is going
to harmonize well with the…”

“Goo?”
she finished for him.

“Right,”
he said with a chuckle.

Ignoring
his doubt and skepticism, Taryn placed a small saucepan on the stovetop, threw
in a generous pat of butter and gently melted it.  When it was reduced to a
golden liquid, she opened the bottle of molasses.  “Just a soupcon,” she said
as she poured a small dollop in.

“Why
do I have a feeling you're about to ruin the last batch?”

“Because
you're a cynical old man hiding in the body of…”  She caught herself and looked
sheepishly at him.

“The
body of…?” he said as he rolled his hand in the air, urging her to continue.

With
a nonchalant shrug she dipped her pastry brush into the now black butter.  “The
body of a young guy.  That’s all.”

“Hmm.”
He watched the workings of her brush.  “I’m not really sure that’s the look I
was going for.”

“Once
it’s cooked, it won’t look that bad.”

“We’ll
see.”

With
a very Parisian ‘voila,’ Taryn opened the oven, popped in the cookie sheet and
shut the door.  “In eight minutes you’ll have your crispy goo.”

Facing
one another, they leaned against the counter, waiting.

“You
know, if this doesn’t work out, I have half a mind to shower you with the
remainder of that molasses.”

“In…”
In dramatic fashion, Taryn raised her wrist to her face and looked at her
watch. “Four minutes,
mon cher Errol
, I’ll make you eat your words.”

“Of
course you will.  I’ll have nothing else to eat because you’ll have ruined my
last batch.”  Grinning, he drummed his fingers on the stovetop. 

“Why,
the nerve…”  She pushed the rolling pin aside and picked up a fistful of flour.

“Ah,
ah, ah,” Errol chanted as he waved a finger at her.  “I wouldn’t do that if I
were you.”