Page 13 of Buck (Diver Downeast #2)
Monday night’s sleep was great after all the fresh air of her sail.
Tuesday was also proving to be no different than usual. It was always a marathon.
First thing this morning, Bobbie had taken a car she was allowed to use from Monsieur Provard’s multi-vehicle garage, into town to buy the more perishable ingredients which she hadn’t been able to bring with her.
Not that that had been bad.
She’d always liked to source meat, fish, and fowl, locally.
If the vegetable selections she’d packed looked a little suspicious after a full day of sailing, she also always felt free to replace them with something from a farm stand or community plot.
Today, she hadn’t had to bother searching out new roughage. The long-podded cowpeas she’d brought had held up perfectly, and there wasn’t much that could mess up yams until they were deprived of their skins.
Which meant today’s purchases had been all about the main dish, and she’d let her imagination run wild.
Eventually, she’d settled on serving duck confit, and had purchased two birds, which would be more than enough for the number of diners attending tonight.
When done properly—which she most assuredly would do—the finished duck would be incredibly rich and tender, with a melt-in-your-mouth texture you could only get after cooking the birds for hours in their own juices.
Accompanying that centerpiece, she would giddily serve individual foie gras p?té en cro?te; duck liver pastries. They would present beautifully, and surprise the palate of anyone who previously hadn’t thought to revere duck liver.
Bobbie had decided not to do much with the green beans she’d brought besides blanch them and roll them into spirals for a pop of artistic color, but the yams would be a huge hit.
They were going to be boiled, whipped with heavy cream and a few other secret ingredients, then baked into a dinner souffle which would be finished with a layer of crunchy pecans.
She was sure it would be striking on the palate.
For dessert, she’d already been imagining a finished product.
She pictured a towering confection of decadence; every part of it homemade.
She’d layer a rich, coffee sponge with mascarpone cream, frost it with a dark latte glaze, then top it with homemade hazelnut espresso truffles.
The entirety of the dessert would be dusted with unsweetened cocoa powder and edible gold flakes, which would make the lush taupe and brown colors pop, not to mention exploding onto the tongue with a mélange of exquisite flavors.
Bobbie chuckled to herself. The only “normal” thing being served was the fresh fruit and cheese charcuterie board that Monsieur Provard always insisted upon. Was everything else on the menu over-the-top?
Of course. But that’s why he kept paying her the big bucks to come up once a week.
About that, though…
Bobbie still felt guilty at the money she received each week, thinking that her brothers had coerced the man into hiring her.
She was good, but was she once a week, mid-four figures good?
After all, she’d be spending her two days off sailing, regardless, so getting paid to be on the water was… extravagant.
In that regard, Bobbie had, last time she’d been here, initiated a few conversations with Monsieur Provard about the size of her paycheck, trying to be as honest as possible with the man.
She’d argued that for what he was paying her, he could easily find a local chef to cook for him six nights a week, but the man had remained adamant.
He’d said he not only adored and craved her cooking, giving her side-eyes that made her extremely uncomfortable, but that he was equally appreciative of the magnificent homebrew she brought up from her brothers each week. Had he looked…smug?
She wasn’t so sure about the beer being a huge plus.
She’d tried her siblings’ brew once or twice at home, and thought it…mediocre at best, but who was she to judge? Maybe it was something special, and her palate—more used to critiquing foods—simply wasn’t able to pick up the nuances that made it special.
Each to their own.
Monsieur Provard had continued to assure her with a smarmy smile, that he didn’t want to change a thing.
His demeanor had been…oilier than usual, and Bobbie tried to ignore that. But when he’d reached across his desk and thumbed the back of her hand in a possessive kind of caress, alarm bells had gone off in her head and she’d snatched it back to her lap.
Gross.
Bobbie had then judiciously stood up, and taking her leave, she stopped trying to change the man’s mind. She liked the fact that he enjoyed her cooking, but…touching her like that? Creep city.
She hoped he wasn’t going to try anything remotely similar this time around.
Walking into the kitchen with her purchases, Bobbie noted that Allain, per usual, was right behind her, ready to assist. Bobbie donned her apron and with the willing man at her side, they began a long day of prep.
Bobbie had to admit, as the afternoon hours ticked by and the vast, industrially-equipped kitchen began to smell like heaven from all the steaming, baking, and cooking, that this was truly how she loved to cook.
Catering was okay, but in most cases, foods for those functions had to be produced in such large quantities, that nothing could really be considered gourmet.
Not that she didn’t try anyway. Her food was always deemed top-notch, and her clients were invariably pleased, but there were a finite number of things that could be successfully served en-masse, and she was always scrambling for new recipes to fit a big crowd.
When cooking for a small, intimate group, like on Tuesday nights, Bobbie could let her imagination run wild and create from the heart, which was so much more challenging.
Tonight’s meal—she looked around as she put the finishing touches on the truffles she was dipping—would be memorable; one of the best she’d made in the months she’d been working this gig.
Which was saying a lot considering the various incarnations of beef roasts she’d served, the spitted and roasted pig she’d done up, luau style, and the huge, plank-cooked salmon she’d procured right off a fishing boat last week.
Expensive as hell, but she’d been told not to stint.
Which is another reason she really appreciated this job. Monsieur Provard wasn’t afraid to spend money on her or on the ingredients she needed.
And as long as he kept his distance…
She wasn’t ever going to give him cause to doubt her culinary skills, but she also wasn’t going to allow him any handsy-ness. Tonight, as long as he behaved himself, he’d be wowed, for sure. If not, he might end up wearing one of her desserts, and she’d be finding a new gig.
“The pastry crust for the paté en croute is in the refrigerator, chilling.” Allain took her back out of her own head. “Do you need my help with anything else before I check on the staff preparing the table settings?”
“No, Allain,” Bobbie assured him. “I’m more than set here for now. Go ahead and do your thing.”
Indeed, Bobbie noted as she looked at the clock, they were well ahead of schedule and she could probably manage a short break, herself.
Putting the last of the truffles in the refrigerator, she noted the whipped and sweetened mascarpone sitting inside, setting up in its bowl.
The sponge had been cooked previously as well, and waited under a damp towel to keep it moist for cutting, filling, and stacking.
Bobbie wouldn’t put the dessert together until just before it was time to serve.
Otherwise, it would get soggy, and she couldn’t have that.
With each of the components already complete, the final assembly wouldn’t take more than fifteen minutes, and would result in a magnificent cake.
Giving one more walk around the kitchen, Bobbie gave the duck mixture a stir, making sure nothing was sticking to the bottom of the pan.
She then glanced over at all the ingredients for yam souffle, lined up and ready to go into the food processor.
Once combined, they would need to cook for an hour. Which meant…
Yup. It looked like she could afford to take at least a twenty-minute breather, which would provide her with the final burst of energy she’d need to get everything on the table at the proper time.
Removing her apron and washing her hands, Bobbie walked out the back door and into the perfect day.
The sun was lowering in the late afternoon sky, but the rays still gave off a wonderful heat.
Even though it was July, some days on the eastern seaboard of Canada could be chilly, so she relished the warm glow.
She contemplated strolling back to her cottage on the property to get off her feet for a few minutes, but at the last second, she decided that fresh air was better.
She switched directions and headed toward the seawall that stood between the house and the ocean.
The huge rock jetty protected the mansion on two fronts from the vagaries of an oft-times tumultuous sea.
The dock where her boat sat, ran along the third side of the enormous property, and the vast, rolling lawn out front gave the estate almost complete privacy.
Surrounded as it was by ancient arborvitae and an ornate, black fence, the lush barrier gave the property a certain rich, bygone era mystique which would certainly intrigue anyone driving by.
Bobbie knew the house was old. Maybe a hundred and fifty years? She wondered how many children in past eras had scrambled over the seawall as she was doing now, looking for a bit of solitude; hiding themselves from the hustle-and-bustle; from their parents or the ever-present staff.
She felt a bit…naughty. Like she was playing hooky, but as long as she got the meal served on time, Monsieur Provard had assured her she should feel free to walk the grounds whenever she found herself at loose ends.
Like now.