“Oui, Chef.”
“Your assessment of last night. Your station had some serious trouble.”
“The squab,” said Jean-Luc. “Didier, he know now what he did wrong.”
“Didier,” said Laurens, “was not in charge of cooking perfect squab. You were. What happened?”
“Squab,” said Jean-Luc with hatred. “Didier overcook it. C’est simple. Now he know not to do that.”
“Anything else?”
“I would like to do the flambé of the steak Diane on the floor individually. It is impressive and also, the steak is better.”
“Talk to the waitstaff, see what they think.”
Jean-Luc opened his mouth to launch into something about tableside pyrotechnics, Mick was certain, and he also knew that the waitstaff would comply with whatever the chefs wanted them to do, they always did.
“Lobster thermidor,” said Laurens.
Jean-Luc shut his mouth. Blinked. “Excuse me, Chef?”
“How do you make it? All three of you. I want to hear your preferred method and recipe.”
“Lobster thermidor,” said Kenji. “Yes, I know it. It was invented in France in a theater restaurant. Lobster steamed, de-shelled, packed into the clean shells and covered in a cream sauce with sherry and mustard, then grated Gruyère on top, then broiled.”
“Nothing else?” said Laurens.
“That is how I would make it, but I have not ever had to.”
“You never made it out of curiosity? It’s a classic.”
“No, Chef,” said Kenji coolly. “I would welcome the opportunity.”
“Beh,” said Jean-Luc, “it’s too much work for what you get, it’s too rich, and very expensive. In Paris we did a version much easier, much faster. We make the sauce ahead of time, no shells, plated the lobster meat, et fini, but it’s not a good return. You cannot taste the lobster under all the sauce. It’s a waste of money and ingredients and time, Chef.”
Laurens held Jean-Luc’s gaze for a couple of beats, during which Mick gathered himself, thinking.
“Mick, anything to add?”
“I made homard thermidor in Budapest at the restaurant where I learned to cook. It was a three-step process for the sauce, and it was excellent, delicious, and worth the trouble.” He paused and added pointedly, without looking at Jean-Luc, “Expensive, yes, but not more than filet mignon. We made the custard separately in a bain-marie, then folded it into the sauce, tempering it, very slowly. For the sauce we did not use cream; we made a roux as for a béchamel and then added to it a glaze of lobster stock, wine, and sherry with a sprig of tarragon, a pinch of nutmeg. Then you slowly temper together the béchamel and glaze with the cream custard, adding a little dry mustard, until it is very glossy, thick, then pour just the right amount, not too much, over the tender lobster meat. And broil with a little grated Gruyère to finish, then a hit of paprika, and finally, we served it over buttered egg noodles with a small pitcher of the sauce on the side.”
“I’m hungry,” said Laurens with a half-smile so faint, Mick was sure he’d imagined it. “Can you make me one for lunch?”
“Oui, Chef,” said Mick.
“Also,” said Laurens. “One more thing. Mick, you’ll replace Jean-Luc on the meat station for this cruise. Jean-Luc, you’re running the buffet galley now. I think that is a better use of our resources.”
“Oui, Chef,” Mick said. “I’d like to bring Consuelo over too.”
Laurens flashed a look at him. Mick knew he’d stuck his neck out too far now with Chef, but he held his eye contact without wavering; he had just learned from Kenji’s example that holding Laurens van Buyten’s gaze was the way to impress and disarm him. Of course: he was a bully, and like all bullies, he could be disarmed only with fearless strength. Any emotion on the part of his prey, any sign of weakness, and he smelled blood.
“She’s tough,” Mick added after a beat or two went by without a firm no. He guessed that this was one of the highest compliments in Laurens’s lexicon. “Her sense of timing is good, she knows the recipes of this era.”
“Well then,” said Laurens. “Consuelo can switch with Didier. Okay?”
“Oui, Chef,” said Mick calmly. His second promotion in three days, and he’d secured a place for his underling.
“Is this clear, Jean-Luc?”
“Oui.” Jean-Luc swallowed a toad in his throat. “Chef.”
chapter eight
The main galley roared and clanked, the air vibrated with heat. In the midst of the controlled chaos, Mick wrestled a gigantic tray of briskets into an oven and turned to a forty-quart pot of simmering beef stock. Nearby, Consuelo braised duck legs. She looked neat and calm, swathed in an apron, her dark hair tucked under a scarf, focused on her work. After last night, Mick was now very aware of her. He found himself watching her, studying her. She was slender and strong and had a flat, moonlike face with full lips and almond-shaped eyes and a high, pale forehead. Her face wasn’t beautiful, but she had a macho samurai-like implacability alongside a Hispanic formality and, he thought, an underground sensuality. He imagined that softening her would be a challenge, but once you had her, she would surrender all at once. He thought of the way a mushroom resisted, sliding drily in the hot pan in clenched refusal until all at once it ran with juices and went limp and rich and fragrant.
Mick recalled his promise to himself that he would make it a point to get laid on this cruise. Of course he could not have anything to do with Consuelo—never someone who worked with him, especially an underling in such close proximity all day—but the fact that he was allowing himself to think about her in this way only proved how much he needed it. He imagined himself in that parallel, luckier life he would have been leading right now if things had gone as planned: in Paris, in Suzanne’s bed drinking red wine, naked, smoking, talking about where to go for dinner, or should they stay in… and then he stopped thinking about Suzanne altogether.
There were no windows in the galley. Giant vents sucked up the smoke and circulated the air, but they couldn’t do much when the kitchen was in full swing. Around him, the huge stainless steel room was all monochromatic hard polished surfaces, some fogged with steam, some bright with reflected light from the red-hot electric burners, some gleaming. The air was so thick and wet, Mick felt as if he were breathing hot seawater. He remembered his dream of swimming below the ocean with big friendly fish; had that been only two days ago? That was what he felt like now, shoulder to shoulder with his fellow cooks, no one saying much, everyone fierce and intent, staying out of one another’s way with practiced expertise and finesse. He knew this work, he knew exactly how to take charge of a meat station, although he had never run one before. He had been in Consuelo’s place for years. He had observed. And he’d been very keen to get a chance to prove himself. And the fact that Laurens van Buyten of all people had put him here… He could not fuck up, could not distract himself by imagining himself eating coq au vin with Suzanne at a table outside somewhere, licking the meat juice off her fingers, gathering his forces to fuck her again when they got back to her small aerie in the Marigny on a quiet, twisting lane, with its billowing curtains and high ceilings and the tiny kitchen he loved to fill with provisions he didn’t have to cook and could heap on a board after sex to eat picnic-style on her enormous platform bed, peaches and tomatoes, boules and cheeses, charcuterie with cornichons and grainy mustard, chocolate and pastries, and wine, always wine…