Jean-Rémy stared straight ahead, then slammed his hand down on the table in fury at himself. Marianne gave a start as she saw the chef grab his bleeding hand. He’d slammed it down on the edge of a knife that was lying on the surface. Her handbag fell to the floor.
In the hospice kitchen, the first-aid box had hung in an obscure place behind the door where no one could see it because the door was always open. It was the same here. She took out a gauze bandage, a compress and an elastic plaster, gently cradled Jean-Rémy’s hand in hers and examined the wound—a deep, clean cut just above the ball of his thumb. Jean-Rémy had closed his eyes. She pushed back the red bandanna, which had slid down over his forehead.
She placed her left hand on Jean-Rémy’s palm. She could feel his pain in her own hand, in her arm.
“It’s nothing serious,” she murmured.
Jean-Rémy relaxed and started to breathe more deeply while she skilfully bandaged his wound. She ran her fingers softly over his head, as she would have done with a little boy, although this particular boy was a good foot taller than she was.
“Merci beaucoup, Madame,” the chef whispered.
Marianne turned the largest empty cooking pot upside down and motioned to him to sit on it. She lowered herself onto a smaller pot opposite him. She made an attempt to speak.
“I don’t know why I’m here,” she began, leaning against the cool tiled wall. “My name’s Marianne Lanz. Bonjour. Je suis allemande.” She thought for a second, but no further French words came to her mind. “Well…au revoir.” She got to her feet again.
All of a sudden, the lid of the pot in which the court bouillon was simmering on the gas stove began to dance and the stock boiled over, causing the flames to spit and hiss. Without thinking, Marianne went to the pot, turned the heat down and lifted the lid.
“Vegetable stock?” She took a spoon, scooped up a little liquid and swirled it around her palate. “It’s…I don’t want to offend you, but…” She found the pot of Guérande salt, gave it a shake and said, “Too much. Dearie me.”
“Dearie me, yes. Laurine. Dearie me,” groaned Jean-Rémy. He felt dizzy.
“Laurine?”
He shook his head, patting his heart as he did so.
“Oh, the salt was because of Laurine…” A pining cook could bring a restaurant to its knees in no time.
Marianne glanced around. She found what she was looking for in the cooler. Raw potatoes. She quickly began to peel and dice ten of them before tossing them into the court bouillon. Jean-Rémy watched from his seat and waited to see the results. After five minutes, she spooned some stock into a tasting dish. He tried it and glanced up at her in surprise.
“Starch. It’s just the starch in the potatoes,” she mumbled awkwardly. “We’ll take them out again in ten minutes, and if it’s still too salty, we’ll throw in five hard-boiled eggs as well. No more dearie me. Dearie me gone. And now me too.”
“Well done, Madame Lance.” An idea began to form in his mind.
“What’s going on here?” Marianne heard the woman’s booming voice before she saw her. Her upright bearing indicated that she was the boss, as erect as a statue, her face lined and weathered by sixty-five years of life.
“Bonjour, Madame,” said Marianne hurriedly. She was tempted to curtsey.
Geneviève Ecollier ignored her and stared at Jean-Rémy instead. He looked like a deer caught in the headlights. “Jean-Rémy!” Her voice rang out like a gunshot. The tasting dish in his hand began to tremble, spilling a little court bouillon. “Oh for heaven’s sake, what have you done this time?”
She ordered him to ladle more of the stock into the dish. Some diners had complained the previous weekend, and even if Geneviève didn’t take these Parisians seriously, she couldn’t stand it when their grievances were legitimate. She had tried the tuna dish, thon à la Concarnoise, after clearing the table, and yes, the sauce was so salty it shivered her timbers.
Court bouillon, made with carrot, shallot, leek, garlic, celeriac, herbs, water and Muscadet, was the heart and soul of Breton cuisine. Langoustines blossomed in it, and crabs drowned in bliss; skinned duck or vegetables simmered in it to perfection. The stock grew stronger with each use and would keep for three days. It formed the base for sauces, and a shot glass of sieved court bouillon could turn a mediocre fish stew into a regular feast. Always assuming, that was, that you didn’t over-salt the base itself, something Jean-Rémy had made an unfortunate habit of doing in recent weeks. Eight liters of court bouillon, good for nothing but tipping into the harbor to poison the fish!
Geneviève tasted the stock. Mon Dieu, praise be to all fairies! He’d kept a steady hand this time.
Jean-Rémy only just managed to catch the tasting dish that Madame Geneiève threw back into his hands. Then he explained to her how Madame Lance had saved them from having nothing but steak frites to serve their guests that day.
“Are you the chef we’re expecting for interview?” said Geneviève, turning to Marianne with a rather friendlier demeanor than before. Oh please let it be her, she thought, please.
When Jean-Rémy realized that Marianne hadn’t understood a single word, he answered for her. “No, she isn’t.”
“She isn’t? So who is she?”
Jean-Rémy smiled at Marianne. One part of her expression begged him to let her leave, but another part—one of which she might not even have been conscious—wanted to stay. “She came from the sea.”
Madame Ecollier studied Marianne: her hands looked as if she was used to working. She seemed to be neither coquettish nor especially worried about dolling herself up. Nor did she avert her eyes when you looked at her, something to which Geneviève Ecollier took exception.
Marianne squirmed under the restaurant owner’s gaze, wishing she could simply disappear.
“All right then,” Geneviève said in a calmer tone of voice. “You seem to have hurt yourself, Jean-Rémy, and anyway, you could do with a helping hand, whether it comes from the sea, the sky or elsewhere. Give her a seasonal contract. Laurine can show her the Shell Room in the guesthouse. We’ll see how things work out.” Then, with a curt nod at Marianne, she said, “Bienvenue.”
“Au revoir,” Marianne answered politely.
Madame Geneviève barked at Jean-Rémy, “And teach her some French!”
With a satisfied grin, he turned to Marianne. “Have you eaten yet?”
“I divide women into three types,” said Paul, brushing his hair out of his eyes, before draining his shot glass and banging it on the table. He moved the glass down beside the others on the backgammon board between himself and Simon.
“I know, you always say that.” Simon pulled a face as the apple brandy burned his throat. “I may be a simple fisherman, but that’s no reason for you to keep lecturing me.” He gave a mere hint of a nod for more drinks when Laurine raised four fingers in query from the restaurant doorway.
Paul continued. “Well listen to this. The first type is the femme fatale. She’s exciting, but she doesn’t distinguish between you, me and anyone else. She’s dangerous. You should never fall in love with that kind, because she’ll break your heart. Got that?”