Guy said, “He only ever wanted the freshest of vegetables, prepared in the simplest of ways, so that they retained the essence of their true flavours. Which, of course, he enhanced with the herbs and wild flowers that only grow in these parts. The vegetable sauces and reductions and purees with which he decorated his plates were not just for presentation. They brought unique flavours to the plate to complement the meat or the fish. Of course, he was inspired by others, like Michel Guerard and the brilliant Michel Bras down in the Aveyron, but his cuisine was very much his own, developed from that wonderful palate of his.”
“And the herbs and flowers from his potager,” Marc’s widow added. “We’ve developed and expanded the kitchen garden that Marc started all those years ago. He would have loved what we’ve made of it. We have a gardener who looks after it full time now.”
“But, of course,” Guy said, “most of what it produces is not available in the winter. Which is one reason we never opened a restaurant in Paris. It would have required too great a compromise to the style Fraysse.”
Following a selection of local cheeses, washed down with the last of the DRC, desserts freshly prepared by the chefs of the patisserie arrived at the table. Wisps of steam rose from a cylinder of fondant chocolat placed in front of Enzo. A boule of creamy home-made vanilla ice cream sent rivers of molten heaven down its sides to marble the hot chocolate that oozed from its interior as Enzo broke into it with his spoon.
As he savoured its understated sweetness, he once more caught the eye of the blond girl behind the stainless steel. This time she was plating up perfect moulds of steamed chou fleur on pools of a syrupy mushroom and herb reduction. The evening service was in full flow, and Enzo was struck by how smoothly it was all going, each of the chefs contributing his or her own part to the well-practised choreography. Servers drifted in and out, food wafting past on steaming plates on their way to the dining room. Requests for service, or orders called, were delivered with impeccable politeness.
Trois foies gras, s’il vous plait, greeted by a chorus of oui ’s.
Service, s’il vous plait, answered by the unhurried arrival of a black-shirted server. Nobody seemed rushed, or stressed. It was not like any kitchen Enzo had ever been in.
The girl was still smiling at him, and Enzo stole a glance at Guy and Elisabeth Fraysse to be certain they hadn’t noticed. He reached into his satchel and took out a small notebook, and began scribbling in it, as if he were taking notes. He smiled at Madame Fraysse. “There’s a lot to take in on my first day. I don’t want to forget anything.” On the facing blank page he wrote in large numerals the number 23. And as he slipped the notebook back into his bag, he tore out the page, covering the sound of it with a theatrical cough. “Excuse me.” He put his hand to his mouth and crumpled up the page in his fist so that it was well hidden. Then he secreted it into his pocket.
He sipped his coffee, barely listening to the conversation at the table, which was desultory now, the subject of Marc Fraysse exhausted for the moment. He made eye contact with the girl several more times before refusing Guy’s offer of an eau de vie, and rising stiffly to his feet.
“It’s been a long day,” he said. “And I had an early start this morning. I think I’ll head for bed now, if you don’t mind. Thank you so much for a wonderful meal.”
Guy and Elisabeth rose, too. “It was nothing very special,” Guy said. “Except for the wine, of course.” He shook Enzo’s hand. “See you in the morning.”
Elisabeth offered him a cool handshake. “Goodnight, Monsieur Macleod. Why don’t you join me for breakfast in the dining room tomorrow?”
Enzo was slightly surprised. “I would like that very much.” He nodded. “Goodnight.” And as he passed the stainless steel counter where the blond girl was still working, he dropped the scrumpled up page from his pocket on to the floor, catching her eye one last time to direct her toward his note. As the sliding glass doors opened to usher him out of the kitchen, he glanced back to see her stoop quickly to recover it and slip it into a hidden pocket somewhere beneath her apron.
Chapter Five
Enzo stepped from the shower, drying himself with a big, soft, warm towel before slipping into his robe and rubbing his hair with a hand-towel. He ran his hands through it then, sweeping the thick strands of it back from his brow to fall in ropes across his shoulders.
He looked at himself in the mirror as he brushed his teeth, lips pulled back to reveal a row of fine, white upper front teeth, the buzz of his electric toothbrush filling the bathroom. He had been blessed with strong teeth that had required little dental care over the years. But the years had been less kind in other ways. He could see the crows’ feet gaining definition as they fanned out from the corners of his eyes, the deepening crease down the right side of his forehead and upper cheek where he slept on it. Some mornings before movement brought blood back to his face, it looked almost like a scar.
He could see the faintest discoloration now in the whites of his eyes, but he had long stopped being aware of the contrasting colors of his irises, the genetic inheritance of Waardenburg Syndrome. His jawline was holding up well, but there was a certain lack of definition now about his neck, and if he failed to shave for a few days he could see that his bristles were starting to silver, like the hair on his head. One day, he guessed, his distinctive white stripe would be lost forever.
He rinsed his mouth and padded bare-foot back through to the living room. A comfortable three-piece suite was arranged around a widescreen LCD TV, and the late evening news was playing on FR3. Thick-piled carpet led through an open arched doorway to the bedroom where the covers on his king-size bed had been turned down by the maid sometime earlier in the evening.
A soft knock at the door startled him, although he had been expecting it for some time. His heart beat a little faster as he crossed to the door and opened it a fraction. Out in the darkened hallway, he saw the pale, nervous face of the blonde. She glanced anxiously back along the hall before he opened the door wide to let her in.
She hurried into the room, bringing with her cold air from somewhere outside. As he closed the door behind her, she flung her arms around his neck and reached up to kiss him. He kissed her forehead and took her face in his hands, turning it up toward him to look at her. “What on earth have you done to your hair?”
She pulled away. “Oh, papa! It’s obvious, isn’t it? If I hadn’t dyed it, they’d have seen my white streak, and they would have known I was your daughter the moment you arrived.” It was the one symptom of Waardenburg that he had passed on to her.
He took her hand and led her to the settee. “Come and sit down, Sophie, and tell me all about it. Do you want a drink?”
She flopped into the soft embrace of the settee’s upholstery. “Oh, God, yes! I could murder something with alcohol in it. I’ve hardly had a drink since I’ve been here! Four weeks, and it feels like four months. Peeling bloody vegetables and washing floors. This is the last time I ever go undercover for you.”
Enzo smiled as he opened the refrigerator and took out a bottle of chilled Chablis. “It’ll do you good. You’ll find out what real work’s all about.”
Sophie glanced around the suite. “I see you’re really slumming it.” She watched him uncork the bottle and fill a single glass. “Are you not having one?”
“Just brushed my teeth.”
She pulled a face. “Yeh, toothpaste and Chablis. Doesn’t really go, does it?” She took the glass from him and he dropped into the armchair opposite.