“Okay, fine.” I had some tinkering left in me. (Maybe fresh mint for garnish? … No, too predictable…. A single, perfect raspberry?) With no time left, I stepped away from the sifter and armed myself with the huge bowl of cream. Walking at a clip, I pushed through to the dining room, Carlo right behind me.
When I’d started, family meal was one of my favorite parts of working at L’Ombre. We certainly did not eat off the menu. Truffles, fois gras, seafood, and caviar for forty-five people exceeded the restaurant’s resources in both finances and prep time. The food at family meal was intended to be simple but tasty. We cooks took turns organizing and cooking for the restaurant staff before the first seating of the evening. In the early years, hand-stretched pizza had made regular appearances, as did roasted chicken, spaghetti and meatballs, and vats of chicken noodle soup. Recently, though, some newer recruits in the kitchen had turned family meal into more of a family feud. Eager to show Alain their individual style and prowess, the newbies had whipped up ten square feet of vegetarian lasagna with made-from-scratch ribbons of pasta, individual Beef Wellingtons with flaky pastry crusts, pillowy gnocchi dunked in decadent Bleu d’Auvergne with a finish of nutmeg grated tableside. Irritatingly good but, in my opinion, completely missing the point. Much preferring the days of yore, I’d rushed to the restaurant that morning, determined to take my turn at family meal dessert with camaraderie and comfort, not flash, in mind.
“Lava cakes?” Carlo had whistled when I’d told him of my plan. “You’ve got moxie, Charlie. The whippersnappers are going to eat you alive, presenting a dish that’s also on the menu at Applebee’s.”
I rolled my eyes. “I’m being ironic. You know, taking back the obvious and making it sublime?”
Carlo’s brow had knit together in worry. “I don’t get it.”
I sighed. “They’ll just need to eat first, speak later,” I had assured him, and now I felt eyes and whispers follow me as Carlo and I made our way through the dining room. We stopped first at the four-top where Felix sat with Alain and the house manager, Richard.
Felix’s bulbous lips pursed when I placed his ramekin on the square white plate in front of him. “Well, this is an interesting choice.” He drew out the words to let me know just how in-ter-est-ing it was.
“Indeed,” Richard agreed, picking up his dessertspoon and pushing gingerly at the crust of the cake. “A humble choice for Savor magazine’s ‘rising star.’” He made air quotations with one hand but kept his other hand busy scooping up a first, dainty bite.
Felix narrowed his eyes at the mention of the Savor piece. He’d been so unimpressed with my first write-up in the press that he’d gone out of his way to make sure I saw his copy of the issue smeared with egg yolks at the bottom of the trash bin next to our station.
I watched as he pushed his spoon through the buttery crust and into the cake, and waited as the lava spilled out of the center, a perfectly slow puddle of chocolate, sugar, eggs, and deliciousness.
I allowed a small smile when I saw Alain close his eyes briefly during his first bite.
“Enjoy, gentlemen,” I said, demure and maybe a teeny tiny bit smug. If Alain’s table could be persuaded, the whippersnappers didn’t stand a chance. As I moved to the next table, Felix stopped me with one hand on my arm. He raised his voice to be heard across the room.
“A humble preparation, Chef Garrett. And I must admit, your little cakes are charming.” He paused, making certain everyone could hear his next words. “But don’t press your luck, my dear. What’s next: Twinkies and Oreos?”
The room erupted in laughter, and I maintained a forced smile as I served up the remaining cakes, table by table. Oh, to be the top dog, I thought for the umpteenth time since signing on at L’Ombre. Oh, to escape the daily hostility of Felix, the rampages of Alain, the snarky comments from the army of egocentric, narcissistic, self-absorbed males in this kitchen. I could feel my neck muscles tighten, and I took a moment to do a shoulder roll.
“Chef Garrett, this is nothing short of perfection.” Danny’s nose was inches from a tuft of whipped cream. I could see his bandages peeking out from the sleeve of his white coat. “Seriously. Ignore those bastards. This cake should be on the menu. Here and every other place where people want to forget their troubles.”
I smiled. This time it was genuine. “Thanks. I’m happy that you, at least, like it.”
He frowned, pausing with his spoon midair. “Look around, Chef. I’m not the only one.”
Sure enough, the staff—the chefs, the porter, the servers, the reservationist, even the line cooks—were attacking their cakes. I smirked when I saw Marshall, the newest and most opinionated of the haters, actually lick the side of his empty ramekin.
“Give me this over a flan parisien any day of any week,” Danny mumbled to his spoon, but then he looked up at me with a panicked expression. “No offense, if the flan was your recipe. I just don’t like custard. Or apricots. Or fussy crap.” He winced. “Not that you’re fussy or crappy or—”