Gina’s grandfather was a French chef whose life was cut short by a robber’s bullet. The only lasting legacy he could leave his family was his passion and talent for cooking.
Growing up poor but with a mother who is a gifted cook. Gina learns cooking a great meal is an act of love. An art that sustains and enhances life.
A world of new challenges, new friends, and new loves opens up for her when she’s chosen to cook for a Michelin-starred restaurant.
But danger lurks where one never expects it.
Can her passion for cooking help Gina survive and thrive in this world of privilege, pleasure and menace?
Evy Journey, writer, wannabe artist, and flâneuse (feminine of flâneur), wishes she lives in Paris where people have perfected the art of aimless roaming. Armed with a Ph.D., she used to research and help develop mental health programs.
She's a writer because beautiful prose seduces her and existential angst continues to plague her despite such preoccupations having gone out of fashion. She takes occasional refuge by invoking the spirit of Jane Austen to spin tales of love, loss, and finding one’s way—stories into which she weaves mystery or intrigue.
Excerpt 2:
At this restaurant, the
second one I’ve worked for, the clientele comes from the moneyed class.
Privileged with money to spare. Money to put aside for a full-course dinner
costing hundreds for two people. And that’s without the wine. I could never
dine here unless I gave up my apartment, banked all my earnings, and slept in
my car or a homeless shelter for a whole week.
Our regular customers are
often fifty years or older and established, and come twice, sometimes thrice a
year for special occasions. Dining here twice a month? The guy at Table 29 must
be worth diamonds to the restaurant.
I get shivers in my spine
entering the dining room. I’ve only been in it when it’s empty, quiet, and
bright from lights and white tablecloths. This evening, the lighting is subdued
and—yes—romantic, warmed by candles and small vases of bright yellow
chrysanthemums on tables. Nonintrusive, soft music plays against the hum of
voices from every table.
Table 29 usually sits
four, but tonight it holds only two people. I’m surprised to see that they’re
quite young. Maybe about my age or a little older. And attractive. Now I’m even
more curious. And intrigued. Mature and rich or nearly rich, I’ve seen a lot
of. But filthy rich and young? Well, I must at least sneak a peek at what this
priceless diamond looks like.
For now, though, I’m a
willing peon, as grateful as strawberry blond is when I started learning the
ropes in this exclusive eatery. So, I focus on the course I’m serving Table 29.
How I perform at this restaurant decides whether my career goes haute cuisine
or a la Burger King. But that last choice is really no choice at all. I’ll work
my butt off to make sure it stays that way. It’s my future, after all, that I’m
slaving for.
I recite to myself the script
we’ve been trained to deliver. The script is quite simple, but this is my first
foray into a dining room full of privileged clients. And hives are sprouting on
my arms just thinking that I’m serving my creation to the restaurant’s most
valued client. If this guy doesn’t like my dish and blabbers to Laure about it,
I can kiss my future in haute cuisine goodbye. Laure is well-loved and
well-known, and a word from her can make or break culinary dreams.
I quickly glance, first at
his date then at him, vaguely taking in how they look. I take a deep breath,
smile at neither one in particular and say, “Medallions of raw ahi, wasabi
hollandaise, on a bed of diced cucumbers, vernissage cherry tomatoes, and
capers, finished with a sprinkle of toasted nori. Bon appetit!”
Distractedly, my fixed
smile still on, I wonder if “filthy rich” Table 29 guy holds my cooking future
in his manicured hands—or, more likely, on his pampered taste buds. I take a
couple of steps back, so they can start eating. Maybe I can catch a glimpse of
whether he likes my dish or not before I go back to the kitchen. I’m also
waiting for that “buzz” I’ve been made to expect. Nothing yet. Anything to say
about my creation? Maybe that’s what it takes.
But I’m new in this game
and still a coward, so I chicken out as he picks up his fork. I control the
urge in my legs to run backward to the kitchen. Be at your best, Gina. Be cool.
But my ego will be in tatters if Mr. Filthy Rich doesn’t like the dish.
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