Excerpt

“Ginger? Do I taste ginger?”

“Uh—yes, that’s right, sir…”

“Ginger in coq au vin? That’s practically sacrilege, Ms Wong.”

Etienne Duvalier fixed me with a look that would have withered spinach. I straightened my spine, smoothed my apron and attempted a placating smile.

“It’s good, though—isn’t it? One of my signature dishes at Le Belvedere.” It had come out perfectly, the succulent meat melting off the bone at the first touch of a fork. I held out another portion, my own mouth watering at the rich, complex aroma. I wasn’t about to mention the hint of cloves to a traditionalist like Etienne.

He shook his head and wagged his finger at me like some cartoon schoolmaster. “A French restaurant in Hong Kong! Not exactly the place I’d recommend for the experience of classic Gallic cuisine.”

“A restaurant with three Michelin stars.” I wanted to go on, to cite the awards we’d won since I’d taken over as head chef, the praise heaped upon us by the local media, the favourable review in last month’s Gourmet magazine. But what was the point? He’d seen my résumé. Indeed, he’d signed the letter inviting me to the U.S. for a series of guest appearances on his precious Taste of France channel. Now that I’d arrived, was he having second thoughts?

My silence must have recalled him to some sense of etiquette. He leaned toward the morsel I offered, sniffing it before taking it into his mouth and chewing thoughtfully. His full attention appeared to be focused on the flavours unfolding on his tongue. I shifted my weight from one foot to the other and swept a stray lock of hair back under my cap, awaiting his verdict.

I’d known what I was getting into. Etienne Duvalier was legendary as much for his perfectionist dedication as for his culinary prowess. He took a purist’s approach to French cooking. As far as Etienne was concerned, fusion was a dirty word. He eschewed the creative syncretism practised by the latest generation of chefs, preferring to stick with the time-honoured recipes that had made French cuisine arguably the most famous in the world.

Given his conservative attitude, I’d been surprised to learn he was so young—barely forty, I guessed. And I definitely hadn’t expected him to be so devastatingly good-looking. After the letter had arrived, I’d watched a few clips from his Toutes Saveurs Francaises show on YouTube. I’d been too distracted by his lean form and expressive face to concentrate on his ingredients or procedures. And yes, I admit that I’d agreed to travel halfway around the globe to take up his invitation at least in part because I wanted to find out if he was really that dreamy in the flesh.

Alas, he was. This was going to complicate my career ambitions considerably.

At last he swallowed the savoury bit of stewed fowl. He licked his lips. My breath hitched at that brief flash of tongue. A bit of warmth softened his wintery blue-grey eyes.

“Quite delicious, I agree. However, it doesn’t taste like coq au vin.”

His accent set up disturbing flutters in my stomach, with its echoes of Jean Paul Belmondo and Vincent Cassels.

“It doesn’t taste like your idea of coq au vin, perhaps…”

“This is my channel. Therefore, my standards, my notions about taste, carry more weight than your quest for novelty.”

His smile was dazzling, despite its hint of superiority. His prominent Gallic nose and cleft chin formed a luscious contrast to his ripe, almost boyish mouth. Spotlights hanging above the studio kitchen glinted in his meticulously groomed auburn hair. The open collar of his fitted Saint Laurent dress shirt—black like the rest of his clothing—drew my eyes. My fingers itched to undo another button or two and check for matching fur on his chest.

It was no wonder his show had the highest ratings of anything produced by the Foodie Fans Network. I was pretty certain this popularity wasn’t entirely due to his famous cooking expertise.

“Do we understand one another, Ms Wong?”

Maybe this was a big mistake. How was I going to make a name for myself if I couldn’t act on my culinary inspiration? Unless I could soften him up a bit, it seemed I was doomed to frustration here at the Tastes of France channel. Frustration in more than one sense.

I placed a casual hand on his arm. His muscles shifted under the silky fabric. “Please—you should call me Emily. After all, we’re going to be working closely together.”

His brows drew together in a frown, as though my familiarity bothered him. Meanwhile, the heat seeping through his expensive shirt had me close to melting.

“Very well—um—Emily. I’d like you to do your boeuf bourguignon for me next. Genuine beef burgundy, understand? None of your Asian flourishes.”

“Yes, Etienne.”

He cocked an eyebrow. We both knew he hadn’t invited me to call him by his first name.

To sack a city takes a whole regiment, my Hokkien grandmother would have said. In for a penny, in for a pound. I didn’t doubt he’d let me know if I’d offended him.

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