French Pressed

Keitel, and I want our relationship to be intact when that happens.”

“In other words, your only reason for agreeing to ‘butt out’ of her business is to make certain that you can be there for her when she really needs you?”

I shifted in my seat, wondering if Madame was about to criticize me. “Truthfully…yes,” I admitted. “That’s exactly my reason.”

“Good,” Madame said with a little smile. “I’m glad to hear it.”

With relief, I leaned back, happy to know she thought I was doing the right thing. Not that I wasn’t confident in my own decisions, but Madame Blanche Dreyfus Allegro Dubois was more than my former mother-in-law. For going on twenty years now, she’d been my mentor and friend (not to mention my employer, since she owned the Village Blend). So, of course, I respected her opinion; I also just plain admired her.

Despite her age and the lateness of the hour, Madame’s effortless elegance was something to which I—at half her years—could only aspire. Her bearing was all the more impressive to me because I knew her background.

The woman had lost everything in her youth, including her mother and sister. Then she’d remade herself in America, only to lose the young husband she’d passionately loved. Antonio Allegro’s death had left her completely alone to raise their son and keep alive the century-old coffee business begun by Antonio’s grandfather.

More recently, Madame had lost her older, second husband, a French-born businessman whom she’d highly esteemed. Yet through the challenges of her life, her outlook remained focused and positive, her bearing invincibly regal.

Tonight, for example, her dress of deep violet draped wrinkle-free on her slender form. Her only jewelry was a tasteful necklace of pearls and platinum. Her shoulder-length silver-white hair was swept into a still neat chignon, and her big blue eyes continued to appear alert and alive, their lids maintaining their stylishly applied hint of lilac.

As for me, I’d managed to dig a cocoa-colored pinstriped business suit out of my usual wardrobe of khakis, jeans, and hoodies. I’d even managed to jazz it up with a necklace that I’d bought from a local street artisan. As cheap as that sounded, the tigereye stones set in distressed gold didn’t look half bad with the cocoa suit. Plus I’d done up my own Italian-roast brown hair into a twist, shoved my hastily shaved legs into sheer stockings, my feet into high heels—at five two I needed all the height I could get—and stuck my lobes with earrings that sort of matched the necklace.

Suffice it to say, I was presentable enough to avoid embarrassing my daughter, who was apprenticing behind the double doors at the back of this très fashionable dining room.

“You go on, Clare,” Madame advised. “Visit Joy at her cook station. New York restaurant kitchens are terribly crowded, busy places. I’ll just be in the way. Besides, there might be a very good reason for me to sit here alone for a few minutes.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yes…there’s an intriguing man sitting alone at a corner table.”

“A man?” I began to turn and look.

“No, no! Don’t do that!”

“Why not?”

“I suspect he may be a bit shy or easily embarrassed. He’s been eye-flirting with me for the past half hour, but he hasn’t acted. I think perhaps, if he sees me sitting here alone for a few minutes, he’ll make his move.”

“On the make already?” I teased, since Madame had just broken up with her last boyfriend, a charming oncologist who’d finally retired at the age of seventy-five.

In Dr. McTavish’s grand plan, Madame was to have married him and moved immediately to New Mexico, where she was to take up golfing, camping, and trail hiking. Madame gently told him that although she cared for him, she had no intention of uprooting herself from her New York life. And since he’d set his plans in unbreakable stone, he should definitely take a hike—with another woman.

“At my age, dear, one shouldn’t waste an opportunity for amour,” she said, pausing to drain her water goblet. “And, quite frankly, I’ve been conjugated too many times to play coy.”

“Uh-huh,” I said, rising. “I’ll be right back.”

“No hurry,” Madame said with a wily smile. “Take your time.”

Resisting the urge to check out Madame’s newest potential flame, I instead sought out the maître d’.

Napoleon Dornier was a tall scarecrow of a man in his early thirties. He had narrow shoulders, a beaked nose, and a large head with short, spiked radish-colored hair and long red sideburns. Clearly a fussy, meticulous manager, he’d been breathing down the neck of the waiters and busboys since Madame and I had been seated. It seemed nothing was quite good enough for him, not even the position of his tie’s knot, which he’d adjusted twice as I approached.

“Excuse me,” I said.

Dornier had been watching a member of the waitstaff deliver a bill to one of the last large tables, a gathering of six businessmen. Behind his catlike amber eyeglasses his dark gaze focused on me.

“Can I help you?” he asked, flicking an imaginary speck of lint from his black jacket.

“Would it be possible to see the kitchen?” I asked.

The man sniffed, the sort of mildly disdainful gesture that I swear every Frenchman learned to master in maître d’ school. “If you’re hoping to meet our renowned chef de cuisine,” he said, “I fear you’ll be disappointed. Chef Keitel is not in the kitchen tonight.”

“Oh, thank goodness!”

My outburst obviously surprised Monsieur Dornier, but I just couldn’t help myself. I’d met Tommy Keitel exactly once, when Joy had brought him to a Village Blend function a month ago. I’d been caught off guard that evening, learning about their affair in the most in-your-face way possible. (The image of that lecher’s fiftysomething arm around my innocent daughter’s young waist made me want to strangle him with my bare hands.)

But how was I supposed to explain that to Dornier? Sorry for the outburst, monsieur. But I’m thrilled to miss seeing a guy I’d like to choke till he turns the color of pomegranate juice.

Clearing my throat, I decided to keep it simple. “Monsieur, I’m not here to see Chef Keitel. My name is Clare Cosi. I’m the manager of the Village Blend coffeehouse in the West Village, and my daughter is one of your interns. Joy Allegro—”

“Mademoiselle Joy! She is your daughter?” Dornier’s demeanor changed immediately. “She is a sweet and lovely addition to our staff.” He glanced at his watch. “Dinner service is nearly concluded, and I’m sure we can take a peek behind the veil without being too disruptive.”

Behind the veil? Good Lord. This guy’s really into the restaurant-as-theater thing. “Uh, thank you.”

“Please follow me.”

As we walked, I made polite conversation, complimenting the food and service, tactfully leaving out the abysmal coffee.

“Here at Solange, we always strive for excellence,” Dornier replied. “Even in the face of our executive chef’s continued absence.”

The critical tone was hard to miss. I decided to probe a little. “Excuse me, Monsieur Dornier? Are you saying that Chef Keitel has been MIA from the restaurant lately?”

The maître d’ scowled. “I am unhappy to say that he has been.”

“It’s, uh…hard to believe. I mean, the meal was so perfect. I could have sworn Chef Keitel finished my plate himself.”

Now, I knew very well that an executive chef like Keitel would not have had to finish each plate to guarantee excellence. Sure, he might have designed the dishes on the menu, but the value of a top executive chef was his ability to reproduce that same dish day after day and teach his staff to do the same.

Whenever Tommy Keitel was absent, his executive sous-chef would be expected to step up and fill in for him. I didn’t recall Joy ever mentioning the name of the kitchen’s second-in-command, so I asked the maître d’ about it.

Dornier sniffed again. “Our executive sous-chef is Ms. Brigitte Rouille.”