Page 194 of Boss of the Year

Evening’s dream indeed.

39

TARTE TATIN

*It looks burned until you flip it upside down.

“Stop, stop, ohmygodSTAHP! I told you, the Degas sketch should go by the window where the light will catch it right.”

“Putain, non.How many times must I tell you, it’s not a Degas print; it’s just a charming little rip-off from the flea market. And it looks best by the fire, since it goes with the garland and thesapin de Noël.”

I paused in my whisking of a balsamic reduction and popped my head out of the kitchen just to make sure the bickering between my sister Kate and Louis was firmly in the friendly banter range and not in the “I might rip your head off” realm. The line, I had learned over the past week since they had both arrived to help with the finishing touches for the grand opening of Chez Songe du Soir, was quite thin. Although the two of them had gobs in common as artists and fashion connoisseurs, Kate’s sharp, no-nonsense sensibilities clashed with Louis’s sense of drama.

At least it was entertaining.

“The garland is too much anyway,” Kate argued as they both charged into the kitchen. “This isn’t Santa’s workshop. The point isn’t to make more work for my pregnant sister immediately after we leave.”

The two of them, along with Nonna, had come for two weeks, for the opening of the bed and breakfast through Christmas, so they could help me host my first guests. When they learned of my condition, the Zola clan had all fought vociferously against my staying in France and starting a bed-and-breakfast while having my first child. Every one of my siblings had encouraged me to come back and take refuge at their homes.

I understood why. Our family had more than enough experience dealing with young single mothers. When Frankie had had Sofia at only twenty-three, Matthew had shared his house with her. Lea, of course, was now a widow and continued to depend on everyone still left in New York.

Maybe I would regret it.

Maybe here I would end up feeling alone, isolated with a child and just my cooking for company.

But I didn’t think so.

Every day of the last two months that I had spent in Saint Cyprien felt like another step in the direction my life was supposed to take. The villagers were kind and welcoming. Through Sandrine, the café owner, I’d already made acquaintances with several local food artisans, including a truly masterful pastry chef named Alain and a couple who produced some of the finest foie gras in the region. Xavier’s friend in Sarlat and I traded recipes whenever I came into town to see my doctor, and he had assured me there was still a place in his kitchen if ever I chose to go that direction again. I had made friends at the market, through the library, and even just sitting and drinking café at the square, even as winter arrived in the Dordogne River valley.

In two months, I was already building a community in Saint Cyprien that was stronger than any I’d found in New York. And although I missed my family—Joni, especially—the fact that at least a few had come to share my first Christmas here only made the opening that much more special.

“Excuse me, that garland is made from pine boughs I cut myself from the forest and vintage silk ribbons that perfectly match the dining room palette,” Louis retorted, his thick curls and typically immaculate appearance disheveled from the day’s work, complete with a smudge of dirt over his left cheekbone. “It’s sophisticatedNoël, not gaudy American mall Christmas. We will have no Santa Claus here.”

“Did you just call my aestheticmallChristmas?”

I put down my whisk as I heard Kate’s tone cross into the “tear your head off” category.

“Children, can we stop, please?” I turned to face both of them across the broad soapstone counter that now made up the pride and joy of my kitchen. “Louis, I actually prefer the painting by the window. It brightens up the room on cloudy days. Kate, there are no malls here, so it can’t be mall Christmas. It’s gorgeous.”

I turned back to my whisking, but not before seeing Kate stick her tongue out at Louis, who just rolled his eyes and loudly muttered while he took the sketch back into the main hall.

I turned off the reduction and let it cool. “Nonna, how do the tarts look?”

My grandmother, wearing her favorite plum tracksuit with gold hoops and her black helmet-like hair, turned from where she was clipping herbs at the counter and monitoring my signature desserts for the evening. “Almost perfect, I think. This oven, it knows how to bake. Much better than those modern things that cook too fast, too even. This has soul.”

At seventy-nine, Nonna had made the journey from Rome specifically for tonight, claiming that no granddaughter of herswas opening a restaurant during the Christmas season without proper family support. We’d practiced these recipes at least five times since her arrival last week. Her advice had been critical in designing tonight’s final menu.

“You have the technique,tesoro,” she’d said after tasting one of the first batches of my duck course. “Better than me now, I think. But you cook like a chef, not like anonna. And this is a place you want to feel like a home too, no?”

So, I’d adjusted my approach, adding touches that came from the heart rather than the textbook. Herbs from the kitchen garden I’d pruned and brought back to life. Wine from the local vineyard that tasted like the valley. Recipes created from my life’s experience, not the sterile halls of the Institute.

I’d chosen to create a family-style meal for thirty, taking a page from a marketing plan Xavier had sent me for one of his first, much smaller restaurants. Invites had gone out a month ago to friends in the area, a travel writer from Toulouse, and a few influencers the Sarlat chef had recommended. The evening would begin with a small buffet of hors d’oeuvres on the covered patio, which would be warmed by space heaters and a local jazz trio, followed by a five-course dinner in the main hall.

I’d hired a few of Sandrine’s café employees to help me serve through the night, but the goal was cozy. Comfortable. The kind of meal that people would linger around until the early hours of the morning.

I nodded to Nonna now. “Okay, take it out when it’s bubbling in the center. I want to look over everything in the hall with Kate.”

“Certo.”