As the maître d’ led them to a table next to one of the large windows, Maris had her first good look at the view. It was spectacular. The restaurant was perched on the edge of giant rough boulders, the surf seemingly just outside the window. From its vantage point midway on the semi-circle of the bay, she could look south and see the lighthouse and also north to the pier.
“What a stunning view,” she said, as Mac held her chair for her and she took a seat.
“It’s amazing,” he agreed and seated himself.
The maître d’ handed her a menu and then gave one to Mac. “Your server will take your order when you are ready, but may I get you something to drink?”
“Sparkling water for me,” Maris said. The maître d’ inclined his head to her.
“I’ll have coffee,” Mac said, “and regular water.”
“Very good, sir,” the man said with a little bow, before he left.
For several moments, neither of them looked at their menus, but instead gazed out at the bay. The wind must have been up since the azure blue of the waves was capped with tiny peaks of white. Two small sailboats leaned over at acute angles, cutting through the chop and leaving small wakes behind them. Occasionally a large enough wave would crash against the rocks just below the window and send up a fan of spray. Maris could have watched the scene forever.
“Maris Seaver,” said a familiar voice. “What a pleasure.”
Etienne Fournier, in his chef’s hat and white uniform, was approaching the table. He carried a long, slim white platter with what appeared to be different pieces of sushi in a line down the middle.
He smiled as he set it down between them. “Compliments of the house.”
“Oh how lovely,” she said. She regarded the French owner of the restaurant and a former Cordon Bleu instructor. “Etienne Fournier, I don’t know if you’ve met our county sheriff, Daniel McKenna.”
The chef turned to him. “I have not had the pleasure,” he said, extending his hand. “Sheriff, welcome to Plateau 7.”
“Chef Fournier,” Mac said. “The pleasure is mine.”
As the two men shook hands, Maris glanced at the long tray and realized it wasn’t sushi at all. The chef must have seen her surprised expression. He smiled, which brought up the small points of his mustache.
“A petite sampler,” he said, indicating the first hors d’oeuvre, which looked to Maris like a glistening, little, ruby red log. “Sweet lobster in a Madras curry oil.” He moved on to the next. Like the first, it was also a cylinder but standing on end with a rounded top. “Roasted fingerling potato, filled with Greek yogurt and topped with caviar.”
“Wow,” Maris muttered.
“And finally,” the chef declared, “the fish taco bite with creamy salsa drizzle.” This last piece had the tiniest tostada shell Maris had ever seen, filled with a breaded cube of fish covered with white and red sauces. There were two of each of the small works of art.
“A masterful presentation,” Maris said.
“Thank you, Chef,” Mac added.
At that moment their server came to the table with the waters and Mac’s coffee. Etienne stood aside.
“Would you like to order?” the young man said, smiling pleasantly.
“I’m afraid we haven’t even opened the menus yet,” Maris said.
“Of course,” he said. “Please take your time.”
When he’d departed, the chef said, “If I might make a suggestion?”
Though Mac had been opening his menu, he paused and looked at Etienne. “Yes, please.”
“My signature dish is the salmon in sorrel sauce.” His dark eyes glinted, and he pinched the air in front of him. “I use the thickest filets in the fish, baked with sorrel, finished with a shallot and white wine sauce. On the side is my award-winning pomme puree made from Yukon potatoes that are whipped until silky smooth.” He looked at them both. “The fish was delivered two hours ago.”
Mac closed his menu with finality. “How can I turn that down?”
The chef took his menu and Maris offered him hers as well. “That sounds perfect.”
“Bon,” he said, with a little nod, before departing for the kitchen.
Maris decided to sample the little potato with yogurt and caviar first. “Oh look,” she said. “It’s garnished with potato skins that have been fried.” She popped the little delicacy in her mouth. The tang of the yogurt and the salt of the black caviar combined perfectly with the mild starch of the potato. “Mmm,” she muttered.
Mac decided to try the lobster with Madras curry oil. “Just a little spicy,” he said, “and a lot good.” He looked out at the bay, a tranquil smile on his lips. “The best that small town life has to offer.”
As Maris picked up the other lobster hors d’oeuvre, she said, “As I recall, you’re from a little town up north called Pine Ridge.”
He arched his eyebrows at her. “What a memory you have. Yes, that’s right.”
“But you’d worked in Los Angeles, before coming here.”
He nodded, as he picked up the fish taco bite. “That was the last big city for me. I’ve sworn them off.” He looked out at the panorama of the bay. “Too many people, too many cars, and not enough space. Crazy hours too. It was burnout, pure and simple. I saw this position come up, and jumped on it.” He smiled at her. “Best decision I’ve made in my life.” He popped the fish bite in his mouth, and Maris decided to try the lobster.
The chef and owner had really outdone himself. The flavors of each appetizer were incredibly different. She recalled how he’d explained the origin of his love of fresh seafood while teaching in Australia. He’d certainly found a way to express it here in Pixie Point Bay.
“As I recall,” the sheriff said, “you
