Клео Коул - French Pressed

I nodded. “My mouth’s already watering.”

“Or…” Janelle searched the ceiling, “what do you think of a tartelette of framboise and chocolate ganache with a pistachio crust? Wouldn’t that be delicious served with fresh raspberries and a French-pressed pot of your Kenyan?”

“It would, but I’d want to give the Kenyan to you in a French roast for that pairing. The darker roast carries a bolder flavor that will stand up better to the chocolate ganache. A darker roast also changes the flavor profile of the Kenyan beans so the fruity notes you tasted in my medium roast will become caramelized. Then you’ll have a cup with flavors closer to a chocolate-covered cherry.”

“Excellent! I can’t wait to try it. And how about this pairing with the Purple Princess? I could do those little ol’ beignets after all, but keep them small, about the size of a profiterole, inject each one with a filling of lavender-ginger-plum crème pâtissière and on the plate drizzle a bit of plum coulis—”

“Janelle,” a voice interrupted.

The pastry chef and I looked up to find Tommy Keitel looming just a few feet away, legs braced, arms crossed. It was clear he’d been standing there, quietly listening to us.

Janelle tensed a bit. “Yes, Chef? Did you have any problems with what we were discussing?”

“No.” He stared at us for a silent moment. “Have you taken Ms. Cosi downstairs yet?”

“No, Chef.”

“I’ll do it.” Keitel said, then abruptly turned and began moving toward the back of the kitchen. “Come with me, Ms. Cosi!”

Janelle shot me a glance, but I couldn’t read it.

“Where am I going?” I whispered to her.

She arched a dark eyebrow. “Oh, you’ll see…”

“Clare!” the man called, his legs continuing to stride toward the stairwell doorway. “Come see what’s in my cellar!”

Chef Keitel led me down a set of creaking wooden steps and into the restaurant’s dim, cluttered basement. With my high heels and skirt, I had to step carefully. Extra tables and chairs were stored here along with boxes of dry goods and cleaning supplies. There were four doors along one wall: three wooden and one metal. He waved me over to the metal door, pulled a ring of keys off his belt, and unlocked it.

“Come in…” he said, moving into the shadowy room.

I took one tentative step, a little wary about sharing the small space with such a monumental ego. On the other hand, I knew this could be the best chance I’d ever have to speak with Keitel in private, talk to him about Vinny’s death and his relationship with my daughter.

“Come all the way in and close that door,” Keitel said. “The temperature and humidity are kept at a constant level in here, and I’d like to keep it that way.”

I shut the door. The second the steel handle clicked, he hit the light switch. A single bare bulb provided a golden illumination to the interior. Standing wooden shelves lined the walls, each one stacked with large and small wheels of white and yellow.

“Welcome to my cheese cave.”

I couldn’t believe it. Keitel had actually led me into the very room where he’d started his flirtation with Joy. That thought alone made it difficult for me to concentrate on the patter of words flowing out of the man’s mouth.

Take it easy, I told myself. This isn’t Bluebeard’s secret room. It’s just a stupid closet full of cheese.

He’d already started talking about the imported dairy products in the refrigerated space—from France, Spain, Switzerland, and Italy. Clearly, the man was proud of the collection, and he selected a few to sample, bringing them onto a small butcher block table set up against one shelf.

“So, what do you think? Are you game?”

I cleared my throat. It was very humid in here; warmer than a fridge but still downright chilly at fifty-seven degrees, if I could trust the thermometer hanging by the chef’s head.

Keitel was in a nice, thick chef ’s jacket. I was in sheer stockings and a skirt. I’d left my matching green jacket upstairs, and my silk, lace-edged blouse only had half sleeves. I wasn’t freezing yet , but I wasn’t exactly comfortable, either. And I suddenly recalled what I’d said about Janelle’s ball of sweet pastry dough. It’s so much easier to work when it’s cold.

“Sorry, Chef Keitel?” I said, folding my half-bare arms. “Game for…?”

“Taste the cheese and tell me what you think it should be paired with. Nappy can do it blindfolded with his wine list. You claim coffee and cheese can be paired, too. If you really do have the palate, I’d like to see what we’re paying for.”

“Not all cheeses go with coffee,” I warned. “Blues and runny cheeses, anything with strong ammonia notes, won’t work. But there are plenty of fresh cheeses that will pair fabulously.”

“So you are game?”

What is this? Some kind of test? Who does he think he’s dealing with?

My eyes narrowed. “Bring it on.”

From my work in catering, I knew plenty about cheese plate presentation. A proper plate positioned the portions in a circular pattern, starting with the mildest cheese at twelve o’clock, then moving around the plate with increasingly stronger flavors, the final cheeses being the most pungent. As a world-class chef, Tommy was well aware of how to handle a palate, and he started me with a mild one.

“What do you think of this?” Keitel had sliced a wedge of semisoft cheese onto his wide-edged, bell-shaped cheese knife—a knife with a silver handle, I noticed, like the ones Joy said Keitel had imported from Thiers. Like the one found inside of Vinny Buccelli’s corpse.

I moved to take hold of the knife’s silver handle, but he pulled it high, out of my reach. “Close your eyes, Clare. I’ll feed it to you.”

I folded my arms, already not liking the direction of this little tasting.

“What?” Tommy smirked. “You’re not afraid of the challenge, are you?”

The man’s condescension was absolutely infuriating. “I hate to burst your bubble, Chef Keitel, but I’m not intimidated by you.”

“Then close your damn eyes.”

With an aggravated sigh, I did. And Keitel fed me the first cheese. “All right. Talk.”

I let the soft morsel pass over my receptor cells, and I had to admit it was pretty amazing. “This product has an almost unctuously creamy mouthfeel, like a rich piece of cheesecake—without the sugar and eggs, of course. There’s a thin rind and a mousselike interior. It’s very seductive, this cheese. Voluptuous…”

“Have another bite.”

I savored and swallowed once more, my eyes still closed. “It comes into the mouth like a dense cake then dissolves into a creamy liquid without any trace of ammonia. It’s obviously very high in butterfat, definitely a triple crème, and that’s very good for a coffee pairing. I’d put this with the Ethiopian Yirgacheffe or the Purple Princess. The bright acidity of those coffees would cut the heavy fat of the cheese and make the gastronomic experience balanced and absolutely delightful.”

I opened my eyes. Chef Keitel was staring at me with a veiled expression. “That’s good,” he said simply. “What you were tasting, by the way, was a Brillat-Savarin from îlle-de-France. It’s one of my favorites.”

“Brillat-Savarin? That’s the name of the cheese ? Isn’t that the name of the eighteenth-century French food writer?”

Keitel regarded me. “You know, most of my line cooks didn’t even pick that up.” He winked. “But I let them work for me anyway.”

“So it really was named after the writer?”

“The cheese maker who conceived the product back in the 1930s was a big fan. His son Pierre carries on the tradition.”