The in-flight movie was a thriller and, to my relief, a long one. Afterward, I again talked with Vachon about every subject that would interest him — but one — until the plane touched down at Kennedy International at 2:59 P.M.
“Jean-Louis,” I said as we walked off the flight, “it’s nine o’clock in Paris, we’re both hungry, and New York has a thousand restaurants. Let’s find a good one and have a great meal.”
“Ahh, my friend, I like the way you think. You make time for life’s pleasures. How fortunate that we share the same tastes.” His words were filled with self-amusement.
A car and driver were waiting for Vachon and, during the ride into the city, we discussed our restaurant options. We each suggested a dozen names and considered Bartolo’s, Sierra Leone, and Jacquie M. before Vachon finally offered the compliment I was waiting for: “Edward, your restaurant is better than any of those.”
“Then it’s decided,” I said. “I will make the food, and we will drink Vachon wine.”
“The perfect meal,” he agreed.
I leaned forward and told the driver, “Fifty-fourth and Lexington, please.”
When we walked into Les Mirettes, I was reminded again how much a restaurant, in its off-hours, feels like an empty theatrical set, waiting for the actors to arrive. Here, it would have been performers in a French play, for the restaurant’s high ceilings, tall paintings, and cream-colored walls with gilt touches have elicited more than one mention of Versailles.
It was not yet four o’clock; even the earliest dinner customers wouldn’t arrive for another two hours. One of my instructions was for the kitchen staff to complete today’s prep work by three-thirty, then take a break away from the restaurant — mandatory.
Vachon followed me from the luxury of eighteenth-century France into the stainless-steel, operating-room cleanliness of the kitchen, where pots hung overhead, the floor was easy-on-the-feet rubber, and the refrigerators and freezers hummed together.
I exchanged my clothes for chefs whites, then from the temperature-controlled wine cellar at the back of the kitchen took out a bottle of Vachon wine. While the original owner opened it, I set up two wineglasses on the metal counter between us.
From the walk-in refrigerator, I took a flat, plastic Lexan box that had two loops of clear tape around it. My name was written in block letters on a piece of paper that I crumpled and put into my pocket. I sliced the tape, appreciative of how well my sous-chef followed orders.
“Jean-Louis,” I said, “have you ever tried amontillado?”
Vachon did not look up from the glass he was pouring. “That little sherry from Spain? I choked a glass down once because the silly woman who gave it to me was pretty. Why do you ask?”
“I remember reading about it once,” I said, “but I’ve never tried it.”
I took the glass of Syrah that Vachon handed me, swirled the wine in the small bowl, then brought the glass up to my nose. The aromas of fruit and earth triggered my salivary glands; I was tasting the wine before it reached my mouth.
“Outstanding,” I acknowledged, enjoying the wine’s long finish. I took a second sip, savored its three distinct stages of taste, then put the glass aside. From the Lexan bin, I removed several smaller, plastic containers and a package wrapped in wax paper.
“Jean-Louis,” I said, “you’ve always succeeded in enjoying life to the fullest.”
“Life is for the living,” he replied, holding the glass of wine up to the overhead light and studying its reddish-plum color. “I want to die with a smile on my face.”
I’d be surprised if you did, I thought.
“But, Edward,” Vachon continued, “you, too, are living well. After all, you are the best chef in America. What did that food critic write? That you cook like someone who ‘knows twelve languages and can mix the words together into a new language that only he can speak, but everyone can understand’? With you, every meal is like a trip around the world.”
Vachon, the master complimenter, I thought. And so I stole his tactic.
“Jean-Louis,” I said, “sometimes I think that before people sit down to dinner, they should be required to sing at least a chorus of ‘La Marseillaise.’”
Vachon’s eyebrows rose in question.
“After all, it is France that gave us all the great sauces, pastries, bouillons, and stocks. And, after doing that, France gave us the best wines to go with every dish. Without your country, there would be no great food.” Someone once told me you’d probably get physically sick before the recipient of a compliment thought you were being too effusive.
“Ah, Edward, what can I say?” Vachon replied, as if my praise had been given directly to him, instead of three centuries of chefs and vintners. “The French just know how to live. We appreciate the best things in life.”
While Vachon talked about his country’s magnificence, I began cooking. I opened one container, poured the pork and noodle broth, with shrimp, into a saucepan and turned the stove’s burner to a low heat.
The second container held leeks and mushrooms. I stripped the leaves off a sprig of thyme, mixed it with ground mustard seed and Szechuan peppercorns, then added these seasonings. I put the completed dish into a saucepan and set the heat at simmer.
From overhead, I took down a low, wide pan, put in olive oil and turned on the flame. I prepared and added, in order, garlic, onions, bell peppers, eggplant, zucchini, tomatoes, herbs, saffron, and finally pignoli. Vachon nodded in approval. “Ratatouille,” he said. “Provence’s other great export.”
I pulled out a knife, checked the sharpness of its point and edge, unwrapped the wax-paper package, and took out the wide, flat fish. I sliced off the head and tail and dropped them into the shiny trash bin below the cutting board. I gutted, skinned, filleted, and panseared the fish, brushed on a hot-ginger glaze, and put it into the oven for a few minutes to caramelize.
From the shelves near the dining-room doors, I took two large plates, two soup bowls, two linen napkins, and a handful of silverware. I served the broth, then the food. The aromas were as good as I knew they’d be.
Vachon took his first taste of the soup, closed his eyes, and said. “Amazing!” After another few spoonfuls, he could not wait any longer for the food. With almost gluttonous speed, Vachon picked up a fork and tried the fish, then moved on to the leeks and mushrooms, and finally the ratatouille. He was torn between savoring each bite and hurrying to the next one. I enjoy watching people eat what I’ve prepared; this time more than ever.
In just a few minutes, Vachon was halfway through each dish. That would be enough.
“You know, Jean-Louis,” I said, as if a thought had just come to mind, “a beautiful woman is a remarkable creation, and there is nothing like the effect she has on a man.”
Vachon, between bites, grinned at me.
“After all,” I continued, “that’s why you’re still a bachelor, because of all the beautiful women. Every man who marries wants to marry a beautiful woman — but he forgets that after he walks his wife out of the church, she’s still beautiful to other men, and jealousy is a terrible thing.”
An uneasiness entered Vachon’s eyes.
“In fact, I’ve wondered what’s at the core of that emotion for men, and I think that jealousy goes back to something very basic.”
I paused, considering for a moment whether Vachon would ever love any woman enough to be jealous.
“And what is the reason for men’s jealousy?” Vachon was trying for a casual, amused tone, but his voice had moved up half an octave.
“Over the centuries, before the scientists and their laboratories, how many men looked into their children’s faces, searching for any resemblance, wanting to ask. ‘Are you mine?’ ”
I now had Vachon’s full attention. He had forgotten about the fork that his right hand was still holding.
“Now, if a husband found out that his wife was having an affair, I wonder how he’d react,” I said. “First, he might ask himself whose fault it was. Who was the pursuer, the wife or the lover? Or was the lover the kind of man for whom women were just a game? Could he make any woman feel beautiful and desired — make her feel as if she had found the perfect, romantic lover?