afloat.
The little-known secret of the culinary world was that high-end restaurants such as Maxime’s—with its enormous fresh floral arrangements, heavy silver cutlery, and white tablecloths—had relied on the “whale” customer, regulars who thought nothing of ordering a thousand-dollar bottle of wine to go with their hundred-dollar dinner, and putting the tab on their overblown expense accounts.
Then, seemingly overnight, the stock market plunged; 401(k)s turned into 201(k)s; the rich became if not poor,then a lot less rich; and the testosterone-driven whales, who for so long had seemed driven to outspend one another, stopped coming. In droves.
When television news cameras showed you getting called before Congress to explain your business practices, being seen eating at Chez Maxime’s on Columbus Circle wasn’t exactly in your best interest while you were trying to dodge indictment.
Nearly overnight, receipts at Maxime’s New York and D.C. restaurants plummeted fifty percent. Along with a thirty-percent dive in Chicago.
While many chefs were forced to close their doors and others slashed their prices or offered two-for-one specials, free wine, and even early-bird specials, Maxime insisted gourmands who appreciated and understood great food would continue to pay for quality.
“Being a four-star chef is like being a shark,” he said, adding Los Angeles, Dubai, and Miami to his empire. Since building the overpriced, money-devouring Maxime’s Las Vegas, their bank account had begun bleeding so much red ink, it looked as if someone had spilled a barrel of pinot noir on the monthly statement. “If you don’t keep moving forward, you die.”
“Now you’re moving on,” Madeline said flatly.
He did not deny it. “It’s for the best.”
Tears she’d refused to shed stung her eyes. Looking at this man she’d thought she’d spend the rest of her life with was like looking through the rain-blurred window.
“Do you love her?”
He lifted his shoulders in that Gallic shrug she’d once found so sexy. “We suit each other.”
“Meaning she’s buying herself a stud to service her in bed and to show off at her society parties, and you hit the jackpot.”
“We suit,” he repeated evenly. Madeline knew it was truly over when he didn’t rise to the bait. “She enjoys thespotlight, which being married to that so-called author didn’t provide. Everyone longs for celebrity.”
“I don’t.”
“You’re an anomaly in the culinary world. Even your own network is turning more and more to reality programming.”
Which wasn’t her favorite topic of conversation, either. Even as much as they needed her income, she’d recently turned down a chance to host a reality program her producer had in development—
So You Think You Can Cook?
“Why else do you think I came to America?” he asked.
“To cook.”
“Darling, I could have cooked in France. Run a charming bistro somewhere in Provence like your parents’ quaint little trattoria. But would Barbara Walters and Oprah invite me to appear on their programs? Would I be asked to collaborate with the White House chef on a state dinner? Would I—”
“I get it.” Unfortunately, she did. Too late. “Without all those restaurants, you lose your celebrity status.”
“Which is why I must keep them alive. Whatever the sacrifice.”
“Wow. What you were doing with Katrin looked like one hell of a sacrifice.” She welcome the renewed burst of anger that scorched away a bit of the pain.
“I may have overstated that,” he admitted, looking slightly chagrined for the first time since she’d entered the apartment. “But do you have any idea how many young, talented chefs have put a target on my back? Also, Katrin’s closer to my age. She’s more experienced.” He paused. “More open to adventure.”
It took a minute for that innuendo to sink in. When it did, Madeline felt as if her head might explode.
“You’re not talking about rafting down
The little-known secret of the culinary world was that high-end restaurants such as Maxime’s—with its enormous fresh floral arrangements, heavy silver cutlery, and white tablecloths—had relied on the “whale” customer, regulars who thought nothing of ordering a thousand-dollar bottle of wine to go with their hundred-dollar dinner, and putting the tab on their overblown expense accounts.
Then, seemingly overnight, the stock market plunged; 401(k)s turned into 201(k)s; the rich became if not poor,then a lot less rich; and the testosterone-driven whales, who for so long had seemed driven to outspend one another, stopped coming. In droves.
When television news cameras showed you getting called before Congress to explain your business practices, being seen eating at Chez Maxime’s on Columbus Circle wasn’t exactly in your best interest while you were trying to dodge indictment.
Nearly overnight, receipts at Maxime’s New York and D.C. restaurants plummeted fifty percent. Along with a thirty-percent dive in Chicago.
While many chefs were forced to close their doors and others slashed their prices or offered two-for-one specials, free wine, and even early-bird specials, Maxime insisted gourmands who appreciated and understood great food would continue to pay for quality.
“Being a four-star chef is like being a shark,” he said, adding Los Angeles, Dubai, and Miami to his empire. Since building the overpriced, money-devouring Maxime’s Las Vegas, their bank account had begun bleeding so much red ink, it looked as if someone had spilled a barrel of pinot noir on the monthly statement. “If you don’t keep moving forward, you die.”
“Now you’re moving on,” Madeline said flatly.
He did not deny it. “It’s for the best.”
Tears she’d refused to shed stung her eyes. Looking at this man she’d thought she’d spend the rest of her life with was like looking through the rain-blurred window.
“Do you love her?”
He lifted his shoulders in that Gallic shrug she’d once found so sexy. “We suit each other.”
“Meaning she’s buying herself a stud to service her in bed and to show off at her society parties, and you hit the jackpot.”
“We suit,” he repeated evenly. Madeline knew it was truly over when he didn’t rise to the bait. “She enjoys thespotlight, which being married to that so-called author didn’t provide. Everyone longs for celebrity.”
“I don’t.”
“You’re an anomaly in the culinary world. Even your own network is turning more and more to reality programming.”
Which wasn’t her favorite topic of conversation, either. Even as much as they needed her income, she’d recently turned down a chance to host a reality program her producer had in development—
So You Think You Can Cook?
“Why else do you think I came to America?” he asked.
“To cook.”
“Darling, I could have cooked in France. Run a charming bistro somewhere in Provence like your parents’ quaint little trattoria. But would Barbara Walters and Oprah invite me to appear on their programs? Would I be asked to collaborate with the White House chef on a state dinner? Would I—”
“I get it.” Unfortunately, she did. Too late. “Without all those restaurants, you lose your celebrity status.”
“Which is why I must keep them alive. Whatever the sacrifice.”
“Wow. What you were doing with Katrin looked like one hell of a sacrifice.” She welcome the renewed burst of anger that scorched away a bit of the pain.
“I may have overstated that,” he admitted, looking slightly chagrined for the first time since she’d entered the apartment. “But do you have any idea how many young, talented chefs have put a target on my back? Also, Katrin’s closer to my age. She’s more experienced.” He paused. “More open to adventure.”
It took a minute for that innuendo to sink in. When it did, Madeline felt as if her head might explode.
“You’re not talking about rafting down
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