Read Online Lovers and Madmen(Sasha McCandless 4.5) by Melissa F Miller - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Melissa F Miller
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French Cooking , allegedly written
for the home cook, had resulted in an embarrassing visit from the condo board
president regarding the frequency with which her smoke detector sounded but no
apparent mastery of cooking techniques.
So she’d turned to her mother. Valentina
McCandless had approached the task with gusto. But after giving her daughter a
grand total of two cooking lessons, she declared her in need of professional
help and referred her to the executive chef at Pittsburgh’s most expensive
French restaurant.
This pretentious idiot was her last chance.
Finally, she said, “Please, Chef Rouballion. Give
me another chance. Valentine’s Day is tomorrow and I really want to get this
right.”
He eyeballed her in a very un-French-like manner
then sighed and released her wrist. He reached into the colander and slammed
another bunch of fresh spinach onto the cutting board.
“Very well. Again. You must stack them. Neatly
this time, please.”
She arranged the greens into something resembling a
pile.
“Good. And now we roll them up tightly.”
As precisely as she could, she rolled them into a
small bundle.
“And ribbons, please. We cut the thin ribbons.”
She hacked at the roll with the blade, and slivers
of spinach fell to the board. She smiled up at the chef.
“That’s pretty good, right?”
He took his time responding.
“It is acceptable for a hobby cook. For you, it is
astounding,” he said.
Equally astounding was the fact that Rouballion
hadn’t yet been attacked by some culinary student or prep chef who had tired of
his constant snarking about poor knife skills.
“Great,” she said, shrugging off the jab.
She’d set her mind on preparing a classic,
five-course French meal as part of her Valentine’s Day surprise for Connelly,
and she was going to do it—even if meant she had to put up with Rouballion’s
almost comically stereotypical haughtiness.
“This man, he’s special, yes?” Rouballion remarked.
“What?”
“The friend you are preparing this meal for—he
means a lot to you?”
As much as she wanted to, she wasn’t going to stab
the arrogant chef; but she certainly wasn’t going to engage in personal chit
chat with him either. Connelly wasn’t just special; he was extraordinary. He
understood her in a way no one ever had, and she needed him in a way she had
never needed anyone before. He was a true partner. But that was none of
Rouballion’s business.
“Yes.”
“Hmm.”
“What?”
“Then you should make a superior dessert, too.
This tarte you have planned is too bland for a romantic meal. I will teach you
my recipe for pots au chocolat ,” he said.
Sasha’s face must have betrayed her dismay at
having to learn yet another recipe and at the eleventh hour, no less, because
the chef laughed.
“It is decadent but facile. Even you can do it. I
assure you,” he said.
She bit down hard on her inner cheek then said,
“Great.”
She couldn’t wait to get out of Chef Rouballion’s
kitchen and take out her aggression on Daniel.
~
~ ~ ~ ~
Sasha
had learned after her first two French cooking lessons that it would be best to
follow each lunchtime cooking class with Chef Rouballion with a sparring
session. She’d convinced her Krava Maga instructor to meet her three afternoons
a week for a private hand-to-hand combat class. By the time she’d drained
herself of her built up aggression and irritation in a flurry of jabs, punches,
blocks, kicks, and takedowns, she usually felt positively Zen.
“Do
you feel plucky?” Daniel cracked, by way of greeting. “Today, we’re going to review
defending against chokeholds.”
She
rolled her eyes at the pun but said, “Sounds good.”
She
rolled her shoulders and stood facing Daniel.
For
the next forty-five minutes, he choked her—from the front, from the back, from
the side, while she was prone on the ground; he choked her one-handed and
two-handed. And each time, she plucked at his hands to free herself
for the home cook, had resulted in an embarrassing visit from the condo board
president regarding the frequency with which her smoke detector sounded but no
apparent mastery of cooking techniques.
So she’d turned to her mother. Valentina
McCandless had approached the task with gusto. But after giving her daughter a
grand total of two cooking lessons, she declared her in need of professional
help and referred her to the executive chef at Pittsburgh’s most expensive
French restaurant.
This pretentious idiot was her last chance.
Finally, she said, “Please, Chef Rouballion. Give
me another chance. Valentine’s Day is tomorrow and I really want to get this
right.”
He eyeballed her in a very un-French-like manner
then sighed and released her wrist. He reached into the colander and slammed
another bunch of fresh spinach onto the cutting board.
“Very well. Again. You must stack them. Neatly
this time, please.”
She arranged the greens into something resembling a
pile.
“Good. And now we roll them up tightly.”
As precisely as she could, she rolled them into a
small bundle.
“And ribbons, please. We cut the thin ribbons.”
She hacked at the roll with the blade, and slivers
of spinach fell to the board. She smiled up at the chef.
“That’s pretty good, right?”
He took his time responding.
“It is acceptable for a hobby cook. For you, it is
astounding,” he said.
Equally astounding was the fact that Rouballion
hadn’t yet been attacked by some culinary student or prep chef who had tired of
his constant snarking about poor knife skills.
“Great,” she said, shrugging off the jab.
She’d set her mind on preparing a classic,
five-course French meal as part of her Valentine’s Day surprise for Connelly,
and she was going to do it—even if meant she had to put up with Rouballion’s
almost comically stereotypical haughtiness.
“This man, he’s special, yes?” Rouballion remarked.
“What?”
“The friend you are preparing this meal for—he
means a lot to you?”
As much as she wanted to, she wasn’t going to stab
the arrogant chef; but she certainly wasn’t going to engage in personal chit
chat with him either. Connelly wasn’t just special; he was extraordinary. He
understood her in a way no one ever had, and she needed him in a way she had
never needed anyone before. He was a true partner. But that was none of
Rouballion’s business.
“Yes.”
“Hmm.”
“What?”
“Then you should make a superior dessert, too.
This tarte you have planned is too bland for a romantic meal. I will teach you
my recipe for pots au chocolat ,” he said.
Sasha’s face must have betrayed her dismay at
having to learn yet another recipe and at the eleventh hour, no less, because
the chef laughed.
“It is decadent but facile. Even you can do it. I
assure you,” he said.
She bit down hard on her inner cheek then said,
“Great.”
She couldn’t wait to get out of Chef Rouballion’s
kitchen and take out her aggression on Daniel.
~
~ ~ ~ ~
Sasha
had learned after her first two French cooking lessons that it would be best to
follow each lunchtime cooking class with Chef Rouballion with a sparring
session. She’d convinced her Krava Maga instructor to meet her three afternoons
a week for a private hand-to-hand combat class. By the time she’d drained
herself of her built up aggression and irritation in a flurry of jabs, punches,
blocks, kicks, and takedowns, she usually felt positively Zen.
“Do
you feel plucky?” Daniel cracked, by way of greeting. “Today, we’re going to review
defending against chokeholds.”
She
rolled her eyes at the pun but said, “Sounds good.”
She
rolled her shoulders and stood facing Daniel.
For
the next forty-five minutes, he choked her—from the front, from the back, from
the side, while she was prone on the ground; he choked her one-handed and
two-handed. And each time, she plucked at his hands to free herself
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