conversation and her firm belief in her parents’ fidelity.
“Spoken like a man who’s never had, or even wanted, a child,” she snapped. Then took a deep breath.
One thing at a time
. And right now her bastard husband’s unwillingness to have a family wasn’t an issue on the table.
“My mother first brought me to spend days at my family’s restaurant in Umbria when I was an infant,” she said. Again repeating what she’d told him whenever the subject of children had come up. “I grew up there. I did my homework in the dining room before the restaurant opened for dinner. I spent most of my waking hours until I was thirteen years old at Trattoria Gabriella, and all I ever saw was love and respect. It was obvious to anyone who ever saw them together that they were soul mates.”
Hadn’t her mother always said that Nikos Galinas, Maddy’s Greek father, had taught her mother to cook with passion, while her father, in turn, claimed that his dazzling Gabriella had taught him to cook with soul?
“Do you know the trouble with you, Madeline?”
“No. But I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”
“You’re a romantic.”
“Guilty as charged.” Madeline was annoyed at how he made it sound like a flaw. “Which is why I cook from my heart instead of creating flashy, pretentious dishes designed to impress magazine critics and self-important foodie bloggers.”
Bull’s-eye.
His brows lowered above narrowed eyes. “Is that what you’re accusing me of doing?” He splayed his hand across his chest.
“
Moi
?”
“How long has it been since you’ve actually prepared a meal, or even a single dish, at any of your restaurants?”
He looked at her as if she’d gotten her degree not from the prestigious Culinary Institute of America, but from an online correspondence course. “We’ve been through this before, Madeline. I’m a visionary.” There it was again. That condescension she’d grown accustomed to hearing in his tone. “I create the concept, then hire people to carry it out for me.”
Madeline wasn’t totally naive. She knew many chefs who’d built careers these days doing that same thing. But it was still so foreign to the way she’d grown up. The way she’d always thought she’d run her own restaurant. Someday. Marrying Maxime had sidetracked that dream.
“People always loved it when my parents greeted them when they arrived. Or at least came out of the kitchen at the end of the meal. It made their experience more personal.”
And if there’d been a problem, like overcooked scallops, they would have damn well known it immediately and made things right.
“So you’ve said. Time and time again. And as I’ve tried to explain it to you, time and time again, as impressive as their personalizing the diners’ experience was, and as much as they undoubtedly enjoyed greeting their guests, their restaurant was much smaller. More intimate. And undoubtedly run at a slower pace.”
“Italians enjoy savoring their food without having to feel they’re being chased off so the chef can turn over tables faster.”
He sighed. Heavily. As only the French could do. How was she suddenly the one defending her position?
“Times are different now,” he insisted. “People who buy an Armani suit don’t expect Giorgio Armani to be toiling away in some backroom sweatshop, personally sewing all the seams. Diners today are seeking a star-power experience in a fabulous environment that they can brag about to all their friends. They don’t care who’s actually preparing the food.”
He was right about one thing: They’d had this conversation too many times to count. And it was more than obvious, even apart from his infidelity, that they’d never reach agreement.
He’d steamrolled over her, as he always did. By their second anniversary, which she’d spent alone, he’d opened restaurants in Miami, Washington, and Chicago.
Fortunately, there’d been the whales to keep the Durand restaurant empire
“Spoken like a man who’s never had, or even wanted, a child,” she snapped. Then took a deep breath.
One thing at a time
. And right now her bastard husband’s unwillingness to have a family wasn’t an issue on the table.
“My mother first brought me to spend days at my family’s restaurant in Umbria when I was an infant,” she said. Again repeating what she’d told him whenever the subject of children had come up. “I grew up there. I did my homework in the dining room before the restaurant opened for dinner. I spent most of my waking hours until I was thirteen years old at Trattoria Gabriella, and all I ever saw was love and respect. It was obvious to anyone who ever saw them together that they were soul mates.”
Hadn’t her mother always said that Nikos Galinas, Maddy’s Greek father, had taught her mother to cook with passion, while her father, in turn, claimed that his dazzling Gabriella had taught him to cook with soul?
“Do you know the trouble with you, Madeline?”
“No. But I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”
“You’re a romantic.”
“Guilty as charged.” Madeline was annoyed at how he made it sound like a flaw. “Which is why I cook from my heart instead of creating flashy, pretentious dishes designed to impress magazine critics and self-important foodie bloggers.”
Bull’s-eye.
His brows lowered above narrowed eyes. “Is that what you’re accusing me of doing?” He splayed his hand across his chest.
“
Moi
?”
“How long has it been since you’ve actually prepared a meal, or even a single dish, at any of your restaurants?”
He looked at her as if she’d gotten her degree not from the prestigious Culinary Institute of America, but from an online correspondence course. “We’ve been through this before, Madeline. I’m a visionary.” There it was again. That condescension she’d grown accustomed to hearing in his tone. “I create the concept, then hire people to carry it out for me.”
Madeline wasn’t totally naive. She knew many chefs who’d built careers these days doing that same thing. But it was still so foreign to the way she’d grown up. The way she’d always thought she’d run her own restaurant. Someday. Marrying Maxime had sidetracked that dream.
“People always loved it when my parents greeted them when they arrived. Or at least came out of the kitchen at the end of the meal. It made their experience more personal.”
And if there’d been a problem, like overcooked scallops, they would have damn well known it immediately and made things right.
“So you’ve said. Time and time again. And as I’ve tried to explain it to you, time and time again, as impressive as their personalizing the diners’ experience was, and as much as they undoubtedly enjoyed greeting their guests, their restaurant was much smaller. More intimate. And undoubtedly run at a slower pace.”
“Italians enjoy savoring their food without having to feel they’re being chased off so the chef can turn over tables faster.”
He sighed. Heavily. As only the French could do. How was she suddenly the one defending her position?
“Times are different now,” he insisted. “People who buy an Armani suit don’t expect Giorgio Armani to be toiling away in some backroom sweatshop, personally sewing all the seams. Diners today are seeking a star-power experience in a fabulous environment that they can brag about to all their friends. They don’t care who’s actually preparing the food.”
He was right about one thing: They’d had this conversation too many times to count. And it was more than obvious, even apart from his infidelity, that they’d never reach agreement.
He’d steamrolled over her, as he always did. By their second anniversary, which she’d spent alone, he’d opened restaurants in Miami, Washington, and Chicago.
Fortunately, there’d been the whales to keep the Durand restaurant empire
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