LUCY BURDETTE: I lost a week while we made our way north from Key West to Connecticut (not complaining after the winter New Englanders suffered), but gosh it’s chilly! Other writers manage to keep writing while on the road, but I’m not one of them. It took a few days to get reoriented to my draft and figure out what to tackle. So as of now, I’m back with Natalie (the protagonist of The Paris Recipe) in Paris. She’s temporarily staying on another Chef’s houseboat and trying to find her place in the fancy kitchen at Chez Cassan, as well as in her heart. It isn’t going well…
When Natalie woke early the next morning, the sky was only marginally lighter than black. All night she’d dreamed of the zucchini flowers and goat cheese. It felt like forever since she’d cooked anything, and she missed it so much. She loved that first spark of delight when she read a recipe that she thought would turn out so delicious that her stomach rumbled before she’d even set foot in the kitchen. She loved to read about food too, even though that was one step away from eating. She couldn’t imagine being a critic for her life’s work, prepared to take down a chef and his recipes as she went into the evening. What a waste, a tragedy almost, if you weren’t enjoying the food as you ate it, savoring each bite in the moment. Instead, everything had to be dissected, compared, contrasted, and possibly condemned. She could still recite a line she remembered from the movie Ratatouille, which she’d watched many times. The movie starred a rat who was a chef and managed to win over a food critic, who’d finally admitted: "But the bitter truth we critics must face, is that in the grand scheme of things, the average piece of junk is probably more meaningful than our criticism designating it so."
She could lie here for another hour and a half until the light expanded, ruminating about the fact that she’d heard Giselle come onboard the houseboat late last night. She’d heard them arguing again, followed by the enthusiastic noises of their lovemaking, which bothered her more than it should have. Natalie’s presence on this houseboat was not Didier’s choice, and Giselle had clearly been identified as his girlfriend. Why would she allow herself to think that her dinner with him was anything more than a small kindness to a lost soul who’d suffered a shock?
She could waste time waiting while the sun rose and then walk to the restaurant to begin her day, or she could go now and use their kitchen to try the recipe that she couldn't get out of her head. She had the cheese and the honey, and she knew there was a farmer's market that opened at 6:00 AM. She also knew that the exact chives she needed to tie up her little squash bundles were growing in the backyard of Chez Cassan. She glanced at her watch. If she hurried, she could prepare the dish, take some practice photos, and get everything cleaned up before anyone else arrived. The only evidence that would remain in the kitchen would be the slight scent of fried flowers. Hopefully no one would notice, and that lingering scent would soon be overtaken by the sauteing of onions and simmering of stocks.
I wish I could show you the real kitchen at Chez Cassan, but I've made it up this time. There won't be a bar with seating as in this photo, but there is a big stainless steel island. Are you a big fan of settings that are real places, or are you happy to go along wherever the writer takes you?
