Diane Davidson - Prime Cut

“André, listen, you’re not supposed to make a cake in an off-site kitchen—”

“Phh-t.” His chin trembled dismissively. “This, must be fresh. And do you want to hear about the first boy? A very juicy story—”

“Well—”

“I had to listen to him. He is extremely immature, cannot even cook for himself.” He glanced at his row of utensils, then commanded: “Please put away the first stirrers and hand me my candy thermometer.” I did as directed. “His name is Bobby Whitaker, and he is the young half-brother to Leah Smythe, who feels sorry for him. But not sorry enough to teach him to make low-fat turkey loaf.” André dramatically poured sugar into a cast-iron pan and set it aside. “Bobby has started to peddle real estate. He must attend many fattening luncheons, he says. He finally had his first sale last night and celebrated. He was hung over, he wanted to go back to bed. But he claims his true love is modeling, not being the salesman.” André checked his recipe in his notebook, then pushed his thumb into wrapped butter sticks to make sure they were soft. “All this I had to hear while Bobby drank cup after cup of my coffee. He asked me if I’d been to Milan. He said he did his book there. I told him I was the pastry chef for a huge celebration outside the cathedral. At another cathedral, I made my crème brûlée for a hundred clergy. Where was that, he asked. In my town of Clermont-Ferrand, I told him, where, when I was eleven, I helped smuggle a Milanese Jewish woman and her French husband, also Jewish, out of the town. They went to Switzerland and then America. Do you think Bobby cared about my stories? No. He asked me if it was hard to make pastry and custards for so many people, and had I ever catered a lunch for top producers. I said, what is that? A meal for hens?”

“I care.” I smiled. “I love your stories.” Early on, I had learned the habit of nodding seriously while appearing to listen to Andre’s tales of his culinary history, his dessert-making ability, the many well-heeled clients he’d had, or even his childhood capers during the war. I was convinced these tales were all exaggerated. But if you ignored André, you had a short career in André’s kitchen. I asked thoughtfully, “What book did Bobby have made in Milan?”

André sniffed. “His portfolio. All the models have them. Hanna and Leah have to look at it first to see if they like the look of the model in different clothes.” I tapped the counter and shook my head. “Goldy. Remember when I taught you to inspect meat? It is the same.”

Assessing cuts of steak was like judging people’s bodies? Was that where they got the term beefcake? I asked, “If Bobby is Leah’s half-brother, why didn’t she stick up for him out there?”

He paused over a cardboard box of eggs and grinned. “She tries, I think. Leah is the longtime lover of Ian,” André announced. This tidbit I already knew—from Marla, of course. “Although,” André continued thoughtfully, “those two don’t seem to be getting along very well.” The kitchen door opened; he scowled. “What pig wants something now?”

Models’ Mushroom Soup

5 tablespoons butter, divided

1 large carrot, chopped

1 large onion, chopped

2 celery stalks, chopped

8 ounces fresh mushrooms, thinly sliced

4 tablespoons all-purpose flour

6 cups homemade chicken stock (preferably the low-fat chicken stock made from the recipe in Killer Pancake)

2 tablespoons chopped fresh thyme

1 tablespoon chopped fresh marjoram

2 tablespoons whipping cream

6 tablespoons dry white wine salt and freshly ground black pepper

In a large skillet, melt 2 tablespoons of the butter and cook the carrot, onion, and celery, covered, over medium-low heat for 15 to 25 minutes, until the vegetables soften. Set aside to cool.

In a small skillet, melt 1 tablespoon of butter and sauté the mushrooms briefly until they are cooked through and begin to yield some juice. This takes less than 5 minutes. Set the mushrooms aside.

In a blender, puree the carrot, onion, and celery. In a large skillet, melt the last 2 tablespoons of butter, stir in the flour, and cook this paste, stirring constantly, over low heat until the flour bubbles. Slowly whisk in the stock. Cook and stir over medium heat until hot and thickened, about 10 minutes. Stir in the thyme, marjoram, whipping cream, mushrooms, wine, and pureed vegetables until hot and bubbly, about 5 minutes. Salt and pepper to taste. Serve immediately.

Makes 6 servings

“Help me,” pleaded a female whisper from the doorway.

“Pah!” howled André, without pity. He slid the sugar-filled iron pan to an unlit burner. “Go away!”

“What do you need?” I said quietly to a russet-haired woman whose large brown eyes glowed from within a gaunt, high-cheekboned face. She was stunning as well as very thin and tall. Despite the season, she was dressed in an oak-brown cashmere sweater, a long clingy brown wool skirt, and gleaming brown leather boots. She teetered precariously on the boots’ stiletto heels.

Her cocoa-colored lower lip trembled. She drew her haunting face into an expression of intense pain. “Please—”

I said, “Are you okay?”

“Coffee,” she whispered. She grinned uncertainly, affording a glimpse of brilliant teeth. “I just need a tiny sip. If you don’t mind,” she added.

André hrumphed and shrugged. I reached for the glass pot, but it held only an inch of metallic-smelling brew. My next job after heating the savory cheesecakes, laying out the spring rolls, mixing the vinaigrette, and arranging the buffet, would be to brew a fresh pot of coffee. I wondered vaguely how André would have managed if I hadn’t agreed to help today.

“Do you have powdered nondairy? Nonfat, that is?” the young woman inquired. Under the thick makeup, I figured she was about nineteen.

“Well, André keeps cream in his cooler—”

“No! Just give me that.” She wobbled across the uneven floor toward me, eyes fixed greedily on the coffeepot. I sighed and poured the viscous liquid into a foam cup, which the model immediately grabbed, along with ajar of powdered creamer from a wooden shelf abutting the plywood over the sink. André frowned. The model ignored him, shook a dusty layer of creamer across the surface of the murky liquid, swirled it with a polished green fingernail, and took a noisy slurp.

“I’m Goldy.” I kept my voice low in the hope that André would go on with his work and ignore us. “And you’re—?”

“Rustine,” she whispered over her shoulder as she clutched her cup and swayed toward the wooden door. She turned and gave me a vaguely flirtatious look. “Goldy? You’re the famous caterer, right?”

“Uh,” I said, mindful of André’s ego, “not exactly.”

Rustine mock-kissed the air. “I can’t wait for lunch.” She raised the coffee cup in salute. The door swooshed shut behind her.

Great, I thought as I turned back to André. Instead of continuing with the burnt sugar cake, however, he was penning another sign: DO NOT DISTURB OR YOU WILL NOT EAT!

“Put this on the door!” He thrust the sign at me. “Then we will make our syrup!”

I reluctantly thumbtacked the sign to the outside of the heavy kitchen door. In the cabin’s small foyer, a dozen handsome young people huddled mutely, waiting to be called. Rustine put her cup to her lips and avoided my eyes. In the bright sunlight, her hair shone like an orange-gold cloud around her face. I nodded at the models and quietly shut the door.

“All right, we are ready. You must watch.” André moved the iron pan back to the burner and adjusted the flame. “Sugar can kill you,” he warned in a low voice. His very blue eyes, slightly bulbous above reddening cheeks, concentrated on the heating pan. He clutched the padded handle in a death grip. I stepped up beside the cabin’s ancient stove and dutifully watched. Andre’s wooden spoon moved rhythmically through the white crystals as they turned to slush.