The Spice Master at Bistro Exotique - Softcover

Vérant, Samantha

Softcover

ISBN 10: 0593546008 ISBN 13: 9780593546000

Verlag: Penguin Publishing Group, 2022

Inhaltsangabe

A talented chef discovers how spices and scents can transport her—and, more importantly, how self-confidence can unlock the greatest magic of all: love—in this perfectly seasoned new novel by Samantha Vérant.

Kate Jenkins doesn’t believe in fate. She believes in a clear vision, meticulous planning, and hard work in order to achieve her culinary dreams. On the cusp of opening her own Parisian restaurant, Bistro Exotique, she isn’t even concerned when her standoffish—and annoyingly sexy—neighbor dismisses her as a crazy American tourist or when she meets the wildly eccentric Garrance, the self-proclaimed Spice Master of Paris, who ominously warns her of the previous owner’s failures.

Confident and optimistic, Kate keeps calm and cooks on. Until a series of unfortunate events derail her plans and her entire staff quits.
 
Kate is about to throw in the kitchen towel on her lifelong dream when Garrance offers to use her mastery of scents and spices to help her, but it comes at a price: Kate must work with Garrance’s son, Charles, a world-class chef and total jerk. After Kate hesitantly concedes to the deal, she slowly learns to open her heart and mind to new concepts, not quite sure if the magic she’s experiencing comes from Garrance’s spices, from within herself, or from the growing chemistry with Charles. One thing is certain, though: her kitchen is getting increasingly hot.

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Samantha Vérant is a travel addict, a self-professed oenophile, and a determined, if occasionally unconventional, at-home French chef. She lives in southwestern France, where she's married to a sexy French rocket scientist she met in 1989 (but ignored for twenty years), a stepmom to two incredible kids, and the adoptive mother to a ridiculously adorable French cat.

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chapter one

A Temporary Distraction

Dreams manifest with a vision and obtainable goals. And mine have always been clear. Food is my life-my calling, my raison d'�tre-better than sex, better than anything.

I get lost in sensual experiences when I prepare a meal-the way the juices run all sticky and sweet on my hands as I cut fresh fruits like an orange or a fig, the way the flavors dance on my tongue when I taste my fingertips, the way salty and sweet fresh oysters kiss my lips at first, followed by a lustful intoxication when they slide down my throat, or the way a fragrant soup heats up my entire body, my soul.

Foreplay is the preparation, and the climax comes with the finished recipe, bringing all the senses together while balancing flavors. Food is passion in its purest form and one of the reasons I became a chef.

As I tenderly fold the dough for my sourdough bread, my hands caressing the slick and smooth form much like a lover would, I look up, taking in my pristine kitchen-the polished prep station, the stoves, all my tools of the trade-and I can't help but to let out a proud squee.

Holy guacamole-preferably hand-crafted tableside with a mortar and pestle-I am actually opening up my own restaurant in Paris, and my culinary offerings are going to rock people's minds and taste buds. Bistro Exotique-my restaurant-will finally unlock its doors to the public in four short days and I'm going to share my passion with the world, satisfying the most discerning of palates while invoking all the senses.

I huff out a laugh, hoping my neighbors didn't hear my cries and moans for more garlic last night. More! More! Garlic! Or when I'd gasped out "Pound it" and "Harder," as I smashed whole peppercorns with a mallet. At the very least, nobody would have heard anything unsavory and, surely, they'd understand that dreaming up recipes keeps me tossing and turning with unbridled inspiration all night.

I've been in the kitchen since 6:00 a.m., the dough is on its final rise, which gives me half an hour to get to MarchŽ Saint-Martin-one of Paris's last historical covered markets, with its original stone entries from the late 1800s still remaining. I lightly spank the mound, loosely cover the beauty with a kitchen towel, and then wash my hands before heading to the front door and locking up. Meandering slowly, it will take me eleven minutes to get to the market, but I push myself into speed walking, wanting to be the first in line when the doors open at nine.

On the way, I'm reminded of how much I love this neighborhood and the location, with its lively cafŽs, cheaper rents, and the canal-a haven in the summer, boasting dances on its banks, festivals, and cultural cruises for Parisians and tourists alike. Add in the poets on their box stands, the fishermen, and the picnickers-it's people-watching galore. Although there is a ton of foot traffic with les fl‰neurs (people wandering and observing), this haven is surprisingly calm.

Not in the best of shape, I'm breathless when I reach my utopia-my playground of seasonal delights, immediately running up to Fabian, my fish vendor, panting heavily. He loops his thumbs into the straps of his denim overalls and rocks back and forth in his thick black rubber boots.

"Kate, are you concerned about the delivery?" he asks, his caterpillar-like eyebrows raised. "Don't worry. It's all good, and we're all crossing our fingers for the success of your restaurant. You don't have to check in."

"I'm not worried. I want to test out a new recipe. I dreamed about it last night. A ceviche." Pant, pant. "Do you have sea bass?"

"I do."

"Is it fresher than fresh?"

"Of course. Practically off the boat. How many?"

"Just one for now," I say, catching my breath. "But I may need more on Friday if the recipe works out."

"Should I empty it? Filet it?"

"Yeah, that would be great, save me some time."

"Give me a few minutes," he says.

"Fantastique! Formidable! Thanks and I'll be back." I pull out my list, holding it up. "More fresh ingredients to catch."

Fabian grins and turns to take care of my order, knife in hand.

Being in the market always transports me to another dimension, another time and place-each ingredient conjuring up memories. For a moment, I stand in front of the glass, staring at the fish, breathing in the briny and salty scents of the ocean, and I'm back to my roots in California, bodysurfing the waves in Malibu and feeling the sand sticking in between my toes as I walk back to my towel, the frothy water lapping and crashing on the shore. I'm suddenly licking my lips and craving fish tacos covered in a Baja sauce. So many fish in the sea, so many ways to prepare them.

Too bad I haven't been by the ocean in years, but I chose cutting blocks over surfboards. Such is the life of a chef. And I have no regrets.

At least I live by Canal Saint-Martin, a glorious 4.5-kilometer-long waterway lined with ancient chestnut trees. I'd never risk jumping in it-who knows what kind of diseases lurk under the surface? But I have skipped stones into the water like the character AmŽlie did in the movie of the same name from the safety of its elegant iron bridges.

A woman passes by me, saying "Excusez-moi," and I come back to the present.

To clear my head, sometimes I try to guess who would eat what. What would she eat? Meat? Vegan? Vegetarian? Pescatarian? More important, would her taste buds be open to spices? I call this research ocular reconnaissance. The woman meanders toward one of the butchers and points to a goliath-sized leg of lamb-definitely a carnivore. I wonder how she'd prepare her meal-perhaps with slices of garlic stuffed into the meatiest parts of the top, slow roasted with rosemary, with potatoes on the side, the juices, the herbs, infusing into everything. Served with a mint sauce? Or is she the type who colors outside the lines and does something less traditional? The woman pays for her purchase, tucks the large package into her polka-dotted wheeled shopping caddy, and catches me gaping at her. With a visible shudder, she shoots me a death glare, understandable since we're not at a cafŽ where it's okay-even expected-to people watch.

Sometimes my research puts me into uncomfortable situations.

I offer an awkward smile and turn on my heel, racing around the stalls, from the stinky cheeses to the produce, inhaling every scent, falling in love with all the colors, picking up the ingredients I need along the way for my dish-namely juicy mangoes, succulent limes, and enormous avocados I can barely fit into my palm.

Finished hunting and gathering, I make my way back to Fabian. He hands over a butcher paper-covered package with a wink. "I'll put it on your account."

"Merci," I say. "You're the best."

I stuff the fish into my now full wicker basket and speed walk back home, hoping I don't trip. Yoga and swimming I can handle. Running? Not so much. I've fallen a few times, plus the jiggling hurts my boobs-my chest is a blessing and a curse. On that, I should probably stop humming I'm bringing booty back while skipping my way through the maze of stalls.

I'm in a great mood-giddy, hopeful, and optimistic. The sunlight filters through the trees, illuminating the sidewalk in a hazy, golden glow and reflecting on the wicker basket bursting with the colorful ingredients now resting by my feet.

Although I'm eager to create the dish, testing this recipe will have to wait a few more minutes. It's the end of May, and, for once, the rain has subsided, the sky is clear, and I want to get a photo of the restaurant, capture the magic of the moment for posterity.

I stand across the street from my future, gazing at the crisp charcoal-gray awning, hung up a few days ago. Emblazoned with the logo a...

Details zur Ausgabe

• Verlag: Penguin Publishing Group
• Erscheinungsdatum: 2022
• Sprache: Englisch
• ISBN 10: 0593546008
• ISBN 13: 9780593546000
• Einband: Taschenbuch
• Anzahl der Seiten: 352
• Kontakt zum Hersteller: Nicht verfügbar
• Verantwortliche Person: preigu; mail@preigu.de; ; Lengericher Landstr. 19; Osnabrück; 49078; Deutschland