While I dined on a salad of lightly grilled asparagus with lemon pistachio gremolata and fresh goat cheese (paired with a crisp Central Coast Viognier), Derek savored his Bengali potato croquettes with coconut, chiles, and cilantro served with some sort of spicy dipping sauce and mint chutney. They were accompanied by a manly Spanish Rioja that managed to perfectly complement the multitude of strong flavors on the plate.
As we dined, I told Derek the whole silly story of my Paris adventure. He’d already heard about Baxter trying to invade my sleeping bag, so I continued from there. At first, Savannah had blamed me for luring Baxter to my bed. I was appalled! We had a big fight and I was so mad at her and her beastly boyfriend that I almost left Paris.
Derek and I were interrupted by the waiter, who brought us tender cannellini beans in a mild tomato stew, served with orecchiette pasta, sautéed spinach, and garlic.
My main course was wild mushroom raviolis in an amazing green garlic butter sauce and dusted with Grana Padano. Our thoughtful waiter, whom I had begun to refer to as the Enabler, brought me an extra serving of the aged cheese and explained that it was less salty and more delicate than Parmigiano-Reggiano. Good to know when one was bulking up on cheese, right?
My new best friend, the Enabler, also snuck me a second glass of the Russian River Valley Pinot Noir that had been paired with the ravioli. A good thing, because besides its well-known medicinal qualities, the wine helped soak up all that extra cheese.
In between bites, I related how Kevin and Peter had convinced me to stay in Paris. Baxter had made himself scarce, so I finally agreed. Peter and Kevin took me under their wing and gave me their own private chefs’ tour. It was a whirlwind of tastes and sensations and flavors. When we weren’t dining in some hole-in-the-wall bistro in the Marais or stopping to try the French version of a hot dog and French fries at an outdoor counter in the Latin Quarter, we would eat at home with one of the fledgling chefs whipping up their latest creation. They were my new best friends forever.
By the end of that first week, Savannah had come out of her snit and admitted that her now ex-boyfriend was a loathsome bloodsucker. The four of us celebrated her return to sanity by hopping a train to the Champagne region for a weekend of overindulgent fun. I was in heaven. While playing tourist, staring up at the dazzling Chagall windows in the cathedral in Reims, I fell a little bit in love with Peter.
After watching me moon over Peter all weekend, Kevin was sweet enough to pull me aside and quietly inform me that she and Peter were a couple. They’d been so discreet that I hadn’t even realized it! Of course, I’d been too self-involved in my own problems to notice. Kevin was so kind to me despite my lame attempt to steal her boyfriend. Honestly, I was so utterly dim-witted; it still made me cringe to think of it.
After relishing my last bite of buttery ravioli, I shook my head. “The consensus after that was that the Wainwright women weren’t exactly reliable when it came to picking appropriate men.”
“But then you met me,” Derek said easily.
“And you accused me of murder.”
He smiled wolfishly. “Got your attention, didn’t I?”
“Oh, definitely,” I said, laughing.
For dessert, Derek and I had both chosen the bignolès, an Italian version of the French profiterole, those small round pastry puffs that were deep fried and usually stuffed with ice cream and dipped in chocolate sauce. But Savannah had filled her bignolès with an ultra-fluffy custard, then drizzled them liberally with warm, salted caramel sauce.
I almost passed out. “Oh, my God. I love my sister.” Maybe it was the caramel sauce talking, but damn, this stuff was orgasmic. I wondered if it would be too tacky to lick the bowl.
It was after eleven o’clock when the kitchen finally stopped production. Baxter and Savannah came out to take their bows to our enthusiastic applause.
“Isn’t she marvelous?” Baxter gushed. He grabbed Savannah’s hand and thrust it into the air as though they were two politicians onstage. I saw Savannah’s eyes widen as he pulled her arm up higher than she could comfortably reach.
The six other chefs stood behind the two of them and all of them applauded politely. Since several of them had complained to me earlier about Baxter, I knew their approval was forced.
Baxter introduced them all with a brief but animated explanation of their cuisine styles and which night of the week they would be cooking. There were Peter and Kevin, of course, and Raoul (looking as dashing as I remembered), Colette, Margot, and Montgomery.