Inferno Anthology (5 page)

Taryn licked her fingers as she finished her last bite. “Sure. Everything is pretty much in the same area.”

“Don’t get lost. I told my editor I finally found someone to test my recipes; I can’t afford to lose you now.”

His statement was pure business and held no trace of the erotic proposition he’d made the night before.

“When do you want me to get started?” She hoped she sounded as businesslike as he did.

“I’ll give you a few more days to get settled, to get accustomed to your surroundings. I’ll be busy at the Institute, preparing for the upcoming classes – which start Monday, by the way. I want to give you a chance to come down here by yourself, test out the produce, maybe make a few meals on your own to get to know my kitchen.”

“Which is really fabulous, by the way.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.” He entered a small, dark store. “What is a great meal without a great bottle of wine?”

The long, narrow store had floor to ceiling bottles neatly tucked away into hundreds of cubby holes. As if knowing the place by heart, Errol pulled a bottle out. “Chateau Pepusque of the Languedoc region. One of my favorites. The 2007 is exquisite; the flavor is well-rounded and full. I think you’ll enjoy it.”

“I’ll have to trust you on that. I hardly know anything about wines. I know white goes with fish and red with beef, but other than that…”

He waved the bottle at the owner, who duly jotted down the purchase. “That school of thought has long been followed my many wine drinkers,” he said as he led the way out, “but the rules of the game have changed. There are some wonderful juicy reds that can accompany fish, while some whites are perfect for certain cuts of beef.”

Their arms laden with packages and bags, they returned to his apartment. They spent the morning preparing a more elaborate lunch than Taryn had prepared the day before. Shoulder to shoulder with such a master, Taryn was even more impressed with his talent.

He minced onions in a flash, crushed a few garlic cloves and diced carrots, a red pepper and some celery.

“Learned anything yet?” He flashed her a proud grin as he sautéed the onions.

“I think I’m holding my own so far.” Busy whipping a salad dressing to creamy perfection, she glanced at him and smiled.

They brought their meal out to the sun-filled terrace. Like a true gentleman, Errol pulled a chair out for her and gently pushed the chair in. He poured them each a glass of wine before taking his seat.

“A toast,” he said with his glass in the air. “To a profitable, successful and delicious relationship.”

Tapping her glass to his, she noted the absence of words like passionate, erotic or sensual. Had his come-ons simply been a way of flirting with her? Or had she imagined it all?

“I read in your résumé that you didn’t go to college.”

“Money was a bit tight and Mom needed a hand down at the restaurant.”

“Are those the reasons or the excuses?”

She laughed. “A bit of both, I guess. I’ve never been academically talented. You have no idea how arduous it was getting through English classes; all that mumbo-jumbo about objects and verbs and proper nouns, not to mention prepositions and pronouns. Math wasn’t so bad, so, yes, I can split a recipe in two or double a recipe without messing it up. Science was so-so and history had a few interesting moments, but not enough to warrant me a grade I can boast about. All in all, I really wasn’t the best student, no matter how hard I tried.”

“Should I be concerned?” He cocked a mocking brow.

“This isn’t the same thing. I’m hungry to learn everything about cooking. I promised my mom I’d turn our little family restaurant into a four-star gem. Instead of just offering deli food and a hodgepodge of international dishes, I want to serve gourmet French cuisine. That’s why I’m so eager to learn everything I can here. This is everything high school never even touched on. You know, it’s one thing to have to sit and try to absorb what others tell you you should know, and quite another to have the desire to know everything about a subject that interests you. My brother is the complete opposite. He can’t get enough of learning about anything and everything. He’s eighteen and in college, and he has that endless curiosity that keeps him wanting to learn more. If it were up to him, he’d be a lifelong student.”

“You come from a big family?”

“No. Just the one baby brother… Bobby, though he hates it when I call him my baby brother. He considers himself the family protector.”

“Protecting you from big, bad men who would take advantage of you?” A hint of teasing playfulness came to his eyes.

“Not only me,” she said matter-of-factly. “He’s always checking in on my Mom and he guards her parents, my grandparents, with his life.”

“I take it your father isn’t around.”

“You take it right. I never really knew my father. He stuck around long enough to conceive Bobby and he was there, on and off, after he was born, but then he disappeared… something about another calling.” She rolled her eyes and waved her hand to indicate she no longer wanted to talk about him. “What about you? I think I read somewhere that you had family here in France.”

He nodded heavily. “Nana. Ninety-seven and still kicking butt.”

“Are your parents back in the States?”

He snickered and waved his fork around. “They’re probably off with your father somewhere.”

“Oh,” she murmured. “Sorry to hear that.” She’d read that his grandmother was immensely important to him and that she’d had a hand in raising him, but had never known what had happened to his parents. Somewhere in the fantasy of it all, she’d imagined they’d had an accident and died. It was troubling to consider they’d abandoned him.

“Don’t be. If my parents had no desire to stick around to raise a kid, I was probably better off without them. Besides, I think Nana did a pretty good job raising me.”

“Did she influence your love of cooking?”

“Influence? She is single-handedly responsible for where I am today. She seemed intent on turning me into a culinary genius. When I was six, she taught me how to make a perfect omelet. At eight I was already surprising her with my own take on a
croquet-monsieur.
For her eightieth birthday I prepared the entire menu for the whole party – forty-five guests;
hors-d’oeuvres, pot-au-feu, crème brulée.”

“Hold on,” Taryn said as she put her hand up. “You did all this for her eightieth birthday?”

He nodded. “Planned, prepared and helped with the service.”

“You’re twenty-seven.”

A curious frown furrowed his brow. “Yeah?”

“You said your grandmother is ninety-seven.”

“Yeah.”

She looked up to the sky and pointed her finger in the air as she counted. “That would mean you were only ten years old when she turned eighty.”

“I told you… she wanted to turn me into a culinary genius.”

“You mean to tell me that you prepared a whole menu, for forty-five people at only ten years old? Come on. I’m naïve, but…”

“Okay, the truth?”

“Come clean,” she dared.

“The butcher helped by pre-cutting all the pieces of meat I needed for the
pot-au-feu
. Nana always gave me plenty of freedom, but working with large, sharp knives when I was alone was a definite no-no. I was able to manage the dicing of the vegetables on my own though. Nana did give me a helping hand with the crème brulée.”

“And a chef was born.”

“I have to admit I’d been bitten by the cooking bug. Everyone there gushed over the quality of the meal and I knew I wanted to feel that sense of victory again.”

Taryn looked at him and noticed for the first time the man he really was. She’d heard so much talk about him… how tough and brutal he could be, how unforgiving. Many rumors circulated about the number of sous-chefs he’d fired, all for minor offenses.

But as she looked at him now, she saw the little boy who’d found a passion thanks to the loving hand of a sweet old woman he called Nana. Maybe he wasn’t so bad after all. Maybe he was just one of those horribly misunderstood celebrities.

She looked into his brilliant blue eyes, eyes made all the more intense by the dark waves of hair that framed his face. As much as she enjoyed the thought of ending up in his bed, she was pleased with this side of him. Maybe it was for the best.

The week continued with the same leisurely and casual pace as that quiet and intimate lunch. Taryn and Errol discovered each others’ little quirks, their strange idiosyncrasies and one or two neurosis.

Errol had an almost military discipline when it came to keeping his kitchen clean. No sooner was a dish no longer needed that it was cleaned, dried and put away. Taryn tended to leave things lying around until her space was a tad crowded then she would rush to clean everything at once, something Errol told her to correct.

“I know,” she had said. “Clean as you go. My mom has told me often enough.”

Errol counted out every chop as he cut any vegetable, while Taryn always chimed
one potato, two potato
.

As they worked on a variation of a gazpacho, Taryn leaned against the counter and looked at Errol. “What’s your take on molecular cooking?”

“A silly, modern trend.”

“Did you ever try it?”

“No, but I’ve tasted the results of a few who have. Either they didn’t have the technique down or the desired result was not what I want when I sit down to a meal.”

“So, I guess then that we won’t be touching on that in class.”

“Not in my class.” He threw three zucchinis into a food processor and pressed the button until they were pureed.

“Tomorrow, right?”

“Yep. You ready?”

“I’ve been ready for the past week. I’ve been ready from the very moment I learned I’d been accepted here.”

“You know, the Institute must have seen real talent in you. Few applicants are accepted.”

“I know,” she gushed.

The next day, Taryn sat front and center in the class of eighteen.

“Today,” Errol said after everyone had introduced themselves to the class, “we’re going to start with a basic run through of different cuts of beef; which cuts to use in soups, which to grill, and which to roast.”

With the help of a PowerPoint presentation, he showed the class the various cuts and gave examples of the best ways to prepare each.

“When preparing a sauce to accompany this cut, what base can you start with?” Errol asked.

“A roux,” Taryn said as she shot her hand into the air.

“Interesting, Taryn…. And how would you prepare your roux?”

“I heat up a saucepan and melt a few tablespoons of butter then add the same amount of flour. Then it’s just a matter of adding a sufficient amount of liquid, like a really strong tea.”

He nodded his acceptance of her answer. “How many of you have attempted to string up a top blade chuck roast?”

A few students tentatively raised their hands, including Taryn.

“How many of you have prepared a rack of lamb?”

Again a few tentative hands rose.

“Okay, so I’m going to have you guys pair up. We’re going to put a few quick skills to the test.”

Taryn turned to the fair haired young man beside her. His eyes lit up when he noticed she was looking his way.

“Henri, right?” she said as she remembered his introduction.

“Oui,” he said. “Yes. We work together, no? Umm… Taryn.”

She instantly fell in love with his French accent and his charming manner. Though she estimated he was a year or two younger than her, he seemed strong and capable. “That’d be great, and you can call me Taryn.”

“Very good, Taryn. You have
la passion
for
cuisine
like me,” Henri said as the remainder of the students tried to find suitable companions.

“I can’t imagine myself doing anything else.”

“Just like me. I come from a small town. A bit far from
Paris.
I think my father would have preferred I stay on the farm and tend to his herd of cows. Thankfully my mother had bigger plans for me.”

“I hope your father wasn’t too upset.”

“He wanted me to stay, but I think, deep down, he’s happy for me.”

The class finally settled down and Errol shouted out a series of demands, all to be precisely executed within the shortest amount of time. Several students seemed completely befuddled by the string of requests, while others cursed at their inability to execute properly.

“A
mirepoix
,” Errol called out.

Taryn grabbed a handful of carrots and celery while Henri reached for the onion. They chopped madly for sixty seconds then tossed everything into a hot saucepan.

Grinning, they silently congratulated one another. They finished every task first while one other pair was often a close second. On more than one occasion, Taryn caught their glare of open disdain.

“I don’t think they like us,” Henri noted as Errol barked out another order.

Taryn began trimming the cut of beef they’d been assigned. “I didn’t come here to be liked,” she said with a shrug.

“I think I’m going to like working with you,” Henri said with a playful grin.

“Good,” she said. “I like working with you, too.”

“Tomorrow we’ll take a look at haute cuisine terminology.” Errols words sounded unusually harsh. “I thought we could by-pass that, but seeing the looks on your faces when I mentioned a few terms today, I’ve reconsidered.”

Errol watched Taryn and Henri with keen interest. While he tried to make it look like it was their work he scrutinized, he became aware of staring at Taryn on more than one occasion and quickly averted his gaze.

Her skilled hands impressed him, working with surprising dexterity and speedy precision, but it was the warm and engaging smile she offered Henri that continually caught his attention, stirring something hot and possessive in him.

As soon as they’d paired up, Errol had mentally gone through the young man’s résumé. From the region of Pays de la Loire, Henri Boisjoli was the son of a dairy farmer… hardly competition for a top chef.

Forcing himself to scan the room, he nonetheless brought a fleeting glance back to Taryn before continuing his scan. Every pair of students cleaned up their stations and prepared to leave. When he heard Taryn laugh, he turned to her and was surprised to see Henri, the innocent young man from the country, brushing a wisp of long blond hair off Taryn’s face.