Cooking for Picasso (34 page)

“
C
AN YOU BELIEVE THIS IS
our last day of cooking class?” I heard my group echo to one another. Everyone was getting sentimental, now that the end was nigh. But I was on the verge of a small panic, still trying to complete Mom's mission before the clock ran out on me.

I'd shamelessly rummaged around the women's bedrooms, even though I was pretty sure that Grandma Ondine hadn't slept up here. Nothing turned up. Now I'd have to find a spare moment either today or tomorrow to search for her Picasso in the last possible place it could be—the old kitchen of the
mas
. However, I could only do this at night when the construction workers weren't hammering and sawing. If I didn't find the painting there, I would be going home empty-handed.

“I'll do it tonight,” I vowed to myself.

Meanwhile, Gil's son, Martin, had been given the entire run of the
mas,
and he apparently decided that all the nicely kept paths were a perfect runway for his skateboard, which he maneuvered with both surprising skill and yet frightful daring. Gil's serene French staff was being severely tested as Martin whizzed by and literally ran circles around them.

“C'mere, kid,” Aunt Matilda said finally, catching Martin during one of his rare pauses to make him sit with her while we were waiting for Gil. She was shuffling a deck of cards like a pro.

“Céline told me about you. You like cards? Well, I'm going to teach you how to play ‘Spit'. Pay attention if you want to win.” Martin heard the voice of schoolteacher authority, so he sat down, meek and intrigued. Aunt Matilda said crisply, “Okay, podner, cut them cards.”

Despite his hyperactive nature, Martin was, like most young kids, thrilled when adults paid him any attention. He had a sweetness and intelligence that made us all develop a soft spot for him; we enjoyed feeding him treats from the kitchen after we'd been cooking. Gil had taught his son discerning taste, so Martin let us know immediately if our efforts had resulted in good food or bad. And today, just before we left him to go to our last class, he even gave us a few tips about how to please Gil.

“Dad hates using parsley as a garnish,” Martin told me, then added in his little grown-up way, “but I personally like parsley anywhere, even on the plate.”

By now, miraculously, after days of feeling helpless and clumsy, my classmates found that Gil's rigorous teaching was finally paying off, and everyone was suddenly cooking competently and confidently.

All except me. Oh, I was improving, but I never quite seemed to acquire a knack for gauging just the right moment to stop whisking a sauce, or browning a cutlet, or sautéing a steak.

“You just don't have a red thumb,” Gil finally admitted today.

“I do so!” I retorted, holding up a burnt finger. “Look at that blister,” I said, aggrieved.

In reply, he held up his palm against mine. “Feel that?” he said, showing me a roughened hand that was a landscape of craters, cuts, blisters, scars, and black-and-blues under his broken nails. “You're a makeup artist. You deal with color and texture, wet and dry. That's what cooking is all about,” he said, genuinely trying to be helpful. “You mingle your ingredients to create something new.”

I returned to vigorously pounding garlic cloves with basil and olive oil for a Provençal specialty condiment called
pistou,
but he stopped me. “Most people misunderstand garlic,” he said, taking the clove and holding it in his fingertips. “Treat it like a delicate flower. Crush gently. When I use garlic for salads, I only rub a whisper on the salad bowl and then I save the actual clove to throw in my stockpot. And I
never
fast-fry-brown the garlic on high heat. That is like rushed sex.”

I glanced at my elder classmates but they were accustomed to Gil's sensual metaphors. They just chuckled to themselves, enjoying his provocative exuberance, because it was so evident that he passionately meant it when he exhorted them to handle chicken and fish cutlets “as if it were your lover's body”. He really, truly loved to cook and was particularly smitten with Provençal cuisine, so I scored a few points today by letting him use one of Grandmother Ondine's recipes for our class, a
daube à l'orange
.

“
Daube
is thought to come from the Spanish word
dobar,
which means ‘to braise' and that is exactly what we will do,” Gil told the class. “We're following Céline's Grandma's recipe, which is to braise the beef in red wine with Provençal herbs (
not
lavender, thank you), tomatoes, onions, black olives, mushrooms, the special ingredient of orange peel—and this, a calf's foot.”

“Oh, God,” I said, actually feeling faint. “The poor thing.”

Gil looked at me and said seriously, “Steady on! Yes, we cook and eat things that were once alive—be they vegetables or animals—in order to stoke the fire of life in us; but in return, we must keep our end of the bargain, which is to handle them humanely with great respect; and when it's our turn to die, we should do so gracefully and willingly, so that we, too, feed the fiery furnace of the earth's future plants and creatures. So today, let's celebrate life while we're alive and cooking, okay?”

A thoughtful hush fell over us as we continued working. Gil just had a knack for creating a sacred workspace. But just as we were getting lulled by the meditative atmosphere, we discovered that Gil had something else up his sleeve for this evening.

“Today, boys and girls, YOU are going to work in my restaurant. This is a comparatively quiet weekend, so you won't be subjected to the worst trial-by-fire. Each of you will pair up with one of my professionals, but remember, these people helped
Pierrot
win its first Michelin star—and we aim to win a second one this year! So my staff will brook no trouble from anyone. Do not argue. Do not ask
why
you are doing things. Just follow their instructions to the letter, and most importantly, keep your focus. Got it? Here are your assignments.” He handed out strips of paper as if we'd drawn straws.

“Shoot, I thought you said we're having a party at the end of this boot camp,” Lola's brother Ben objected. He looked so woeful standing there, a big Texan in an apron, that Gil had to smile.

“Tomorrow's your party. That will be your reward. But tonight you have to earn it,” Gil replied. “Okay, I will now hand you over to my assistant, Lizbeth, and to our concierge, Maurice.”

We discovered that Gil had given us the most improbable assignments for our personalities: the languorous Lola was to become a welcoming hostess; the buttoned-down Peter was tending bar; and the rough-and-tumble Joey and Magda were working in Heather's delicate bakery section.

“What about us?” Aunt Matilda asked, wide-eyed, as she and Ben and I remained there uncertainly.

“Ye also serve who wait on tables,” Gil responded as he whizzed out of the room.

His restaurant team gave us uniforms and efficiently absorbed us into their impeccable routine. The morning of “prepping” flew by. Gil popped in and out of each station—watching, tasting, ever on the lookout for errors. Then suddenly, it was as if a flag had dropped.

“Ouvert!”
cried the maître d'.

“What'd he say?” Magda hissed to me.

“We're open,” I said, and I actually felt goosebumps on my skin.

The well-dressed diners for the first seating came strolling in, laughing and chattering in happy anticipation. Some paused for drinks at the bar, but many were seated immediately at the prized tables on the terrace, overlooking the fragrant gardens of the
mas
and the serene view of fields and vineyards.

“Céline, Table Two is yours. Tilda, Table Nine,” said the French headwaiter, who spoke impeccable English and helped us with the other languages of the diners as well. He handed us the menus.

“Onward,” he commanded.

“All in the valley of Death rode the six hundred,”
Aunt Matilda quoted under her breath.

Our first seating was mostly elegant French couples dining in groups of four and eight; they were amazingly quiet and dignified as they conversed in low murmurs. Even the black poodle who accompanied a party-of-eight behaved well, situating himself under a chair where he politely gnawed the biscuit his mistress had surreptitiously taken out of her Hermès handbag. There was also a scattering of British and American couples, middle-aged and decorous; and later, we seated some German and Russian families who each occupied an enormous round table headed by a proud silver-haired matriarch.

But then an overly made-up woman in a tight red dress and spike heels, loaded down with jewelry, walked into the bar and sloshed down a few drinks before teetering behind Maurice as he led her to her table-for-one. Even before she opened her mouth, I sensed the bad vibes building up in her.

As I handed her a menu, she looked up at me and asked, “So. Has Gil remarried yet?” I shook my head and she nodded sagely, smirking. When I returned to her table with her appetizers and wine, she asked how long had I been working for “the big maestro”. Finally, she put her scarlet-polished, long talons on my arm and asked slurrily, “Where the fuck
is
Gil? Does he even
know
that I'm here?”

“He's in back of the house,” I said automatically. “He'll be out front shortly.”

She gave me a steady stare, though she swayed in her seat. “Do you know who I am? No? Well, let me enlighten you. Gil used to cook for
me
in
my
husband's restaurant,” she said thickly. “But he
uses
people, you know. Women especially—oh, he likes the ladies. But he only dates the ones with money. His whole career was built on exploiting a long line of generous gals”—she walked her fingers across the surface of the table—“like a frog hopping from one lily pad to the next. And once he gets his chef's fingers on your money, well, honey, he's gone, baby, gone.”

As her voice rose in volume, I shot the headwaiter a frantic look. He hastily took over, soothing her with his French charm, helping her select the “best” main course, then telling the kitchen to rush her order; after which he escorted her to “Gil's private library” where, he later told me, Gil “personally served her a hazelnut caramel
crêpe,
then packed her off into a taxi.”

Amid the hubbub of the guests' excited chatter, Aunt Matilda and I struggled to keep up with the waiters' shorthand:

“Seat that deuce at Table Five!”

“Where's the dupe for Table Three?”

“Bottled water
gazeuse
!”

“Jeepers, what's
gazeuse
?” Aunt Matilda wailed.

“Gas,” said a waiter as he flashed by.

“Sparkling water,” I translated.

Rushing back and forth from the serene terrace to the hot kitchen was like going from Dante's paradiso to his inferno, with an occasional stop at the purgatorio of the bar to pick up a tray of drinks. It was on one such run that Aunt Matilda, of all people, spotted a well-known food blogger who'd booked a table for three
incognito
. He was informally known as the Butcher of Bloggers because of his formidable influence. It was even said that he had some sway with Michelin judges, although this was never proven.

“Go tell Gil,” Aunt Matilda whispered to me. “I'll keep the Butcher busy with cocktails.”

I hurried into the kitchen, but at first I couldn't find Gil anywhere. Finally I spotted him, pacing back and forth in his walk-in freezer. The door was not quite shut; he must have rushed in there for privacy, yet even so, I could suddenly hear his raised, desperate voice as he spoke into his mobile phone.

“Fuck this, you tell Rick he must be joking!” he exclaimed vehemently. “On the eve of signing a contract, he's now going to dick around with it one more time? Have you read this shit? It gives him complete ownership of the entire
mas
—the new hotel
and
the restaurant. That makes me nothing more than a hired cook! Bloody hell, you're
my
lawyer, don't tell me about future net percentages as bonuses!”