Клео Коул - French Pressed

“Well, I guess a high-fat cheese is appropriate, since Brillat-Savarin was never one to deny himself.”

Tommy grunted, presumably in agreement. “Try another?”

“Why not?”

“This cheese was aged by Hervé Mons outside of Roanne,” Keitel informed me as he brought out a cheese corer to penetrate the wheel for a sample. “Okay, close ’em.”

I dropped my eyelids, and something extraordinary was slipped into my mouth. Oh, my… This product was firmer than the Brillat-Savarin but still mild in flavor. “There’s a nice nuttiness here. But it isn’t overpowering. It’s subtle and amusing…and the caramelized flavor is very delicately handled.”

I paused, thinking it over. “I could see this paired with a fine red wine, so I’d have to go with my Kenyan medium roast, which, as your maître d’ pointed out upstairs, has those umami characteristics of a really good burgundy in the finish. It would highlight but not overcome the flavor.”

Keitel was actually smiling when I opened my eyes this time. “Did you know what kind of cheese you were eating?”

“Wild guess? Petit Basque, but I’ve never had one that good.”

“Of course not.” Tommy snorted. “Most Americans think a Petit Basque is a yellow wedge of industrially produced sheep milk coated in yellow wax.”

“Welcome to my world.”

“What do you mean?”

“Most Americans think coffee is supposed to come pre-ground in a tin can. It’s not always easy persuading people to pay premium prices for a premium product.”

“True.” Keitel paused, considering my point. “But it’s easier in this city, you have to admit.”

“I suppose. Of course, my customers only have to come up with an extra dollar or two for a transcendent experience. They can sip a cup slowly at one of my café tables and spend an hour on a beautiful piece of real estate. Your customers have to cough up well over one hundred to hang out in your house.”

“Spoken like a proud member of the proletariat.”

“I am. The democratization of luxury is my credo.”

“I come from the working class, too, Clare. My father was a Navy cook who bought a diner. My mom worked in a bakery. I get where you’re coming from, but I’m a man who’s learned to appreciate the finer things; not having grown up with them makes them all the sweeter to savor, no?”

The man had a point.

Tommy shrugged. “Anyway, I have no problem with the markups on my menu. My customers come here for a four-star experience, and they get one.”

“Except for the coffee.”

Keitel shook his head. “You’re one pushy female, you know that?”

“You have no idea.”

“And you probably have no idea just how cutthroat my world is. People don’t just want good anymore, Clare. They want new . They want fresh, novel, invigorating experiences. And, you know what? I can’t blame them, because so do I. Solange is going to be five years old in seven weeks, and there are younger, flashier restaurants opening up every season, trying to seduce her customers away.”

I found Keitel’s characterization of Solange as a “her” intriguing. He’d trained for over a decade in France, so assigning a gender to something like a restaurant was understandable. Then again, from what Joy told me, Chef Keitel had acted “married” to the place since it opened.

Given his increasing and unexplained absences, however, I’d have to conclude that Tommy Keitel had been straying, not just on his wife and my daughter, but on his other mistress, Solange. The question was why ? Wasn’t this his big dream come true, the restaurant he’d envisioned over a decade ago on the west bank of Paris?

“Chef, I overheard you speaking with someone named Anton?”

“That would be Anton Wright, Solange’s owner.”

“It sounded like you two were having a disagreement about something.”

“Let’s do two more cheeses,” Tommy said, completely ignoring my query. “Then we’ll have a complete cheese-and-coffee pairings offering to try next week. That’ll give the regulars something new, eh?”

My eyebrows rose at that. “You want to put the tasting we’re doing right now on your menu?”

“That’s what I just said, isn’t it? Now, close your damn eyes.”

And he calls me pushy?

Keitel slipped a Proosdy into my mouth. The cheese was from north Holland and had the characteristics of a really fine Gouda.

“It’s hard on the initial bite, yet soft as the tooth penetrates. The flavor is much stronger than your previous offerings, but I’m a real sucker for muscular cheeses like this one.”

“Really?”

“Yes, my grandmother ran a little Italian grocery, so I grew up on this kind of sharpness: aged provolones, pecarinos, and asiagos. The first taste can be overpowering, but I love a cheese that’s been well-aged.”

“Is that so?”

“I’m tasting some caramelized notes in this product…butterscotch, I’d say…and also some satisfyingly salty bursts—I’m assuming from tiny crystallized curds within the meat. I think that’s what’s so tantalizing about this one. The coarse little bursts provide big surprises. They catch you off guard with these unexpected explosions of intensity. The effect is highly stimulating.”

“Well, then. Open up for more.”

Keitel fed me another slice, and I continued to chew and swallow blindly. “I’d definitely want to pair this one with an espresso.”

“My kitchen doesn’t have an espresso machine.”

“Oh, right. Of course. We’re using French presses exclusively, so I’d fall back on our Italian Roast; that’s the next best thing to an espresso for that dark, caramelized flavor. The Italian is also luxuriously full-bodied.”

“Full-bodied.” He grunted softly. “Now that’s something I can appreciate.”

“And there’s a level of smokiness in the Italian that can take on the power and sharpness that’s present here. Really stand up to it.”

Keitel was quiet a long moment as he fed me another bite. “It’s good to have that bite in there, don’t you think, Clare?” His voice sounded lower and softer all of a sudden. “It’s something I think a woman like you, with such well-developed senses, can appreciate. The pungency awakens that mature palate of yours, am I right? Excites it? Challenges it?”

I swallowed uneasily, my eyes still closed. Up to now, I thought we were talking about cheese . But now I was getting the distinct impression that Tommy Keitel was talking about something else.

I opened my eyes. In this small space, the chef’s larger-than-life presence felt even larger. His muscular forearms appeared sculpted in granite. His confident energy was almost palpable. Without even touching me, I felt an unnerving infiltration of my personal space (but then, of course, the man was hand-feeding me with my eyes closed).

All things considered, I could actually understand why Joy had been so taken with the accomplished chef. He was arrogant, true, but he was intelligent, witty, and extremely magnetic. Unfortunately, he was also completely wrong for my daughter.

“Chef Keitel—”

“Call me Tommy, Clare. You’re not one of my line cooks.”

“Okay, Tommy…I’d like to say something to you that I don’t want you to take badly.”

Keitel laughed. “What? You don’t like my cheese cave?”

“Your cheese cave is magnificent. It’s your taste in young women I’m having a problem with.”

“Oh, is that right?” The chef’s laughing blue eyes suddenly appeared far less amused.

“Joy mentioned to me that you two haven’t gotten together in a while, and I thought that maybe you were having second thoughts about your relationship with her?”