14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14

Olivier

Cooking has always been my passion. It started when I was five, getting my little hands full of flour in my parents' kitchen, and I never stopped. But cooking today with Hazel? That was different. It was fun . Pure and simple. Those hours reminded me so much of the first times I stepped foot in a kitchen as a kid, making a mess of everything. Back then, what mattered was the act of cooking. The joy of spending time with my dad or my mom making all sorts of goodies. Of course, eating it was the cherry on top, but I've always wanted to be the one behind the stove.

As I grew up and went to school, then started working, the dynamic shifted. Today, there's so much at stake. People to please, groundbreaking ideas to discover. I always have to be at the top of my game as I chase Michelin stars. But today with Hazel, I wasn't thinking about techniques or what I could add to turn a good dish into a mind-blowing masterpiece. We just cooked. And that felt incredible.

We ended up making only three dishes, but I don't mind. We still have two prep days before the festival. Plus, I needed this.

After dropping off the day's cooking at the shelter, we went into town. Tonight, we're eating at my friend Gabriel's restaurant near the Champs-Elysées, and he reserved us his best, most intimate table that's set in a little alcove.

Hazel looks stunning as always in a simple black dress that showcases her luscious curves.

"The menu looks great," she says, putting it down. "After the deliciousness we made today, I didn't think I'd be hungry, but I underestimated my appetite. My mouth is already watering. "

"You don't need to be hungry to enjoy a fine-dining restaurant. Gabriel's cooking is like art," I reply, adjusting my napkin on my knees. "It's more than a meal, it's a treat."

She giggles. "Now, I'm even more excited. So, you and Gabriel went to school together?"

"We did," I say, taking a sip of my champagne. We're doing a champagne-pairing dinner tonight, my favorite. "His dad was great friends with mine, so we met when we were young kids. Later on, we went to cooking school together. We even worked together in Tokyo for a few months."

"That's wonderful. His dad is a chef too?"

A chill creeps up my spine, like it does whenever I think about Marcel. I nod weakly. "Yes. He was one of the greats, but being a chef isn't always easy . . . When he lost one of his stars, he took his own life."

"Oh my," she says, a hand over her mouth. "I'm so sorry. That's awful."

Her hand settles on mine, and I close my eyes. "The dark side of high gastronomy, and why some chefs don't even want to gain a star in the first place. Being awarded one feels great, the biggest accomplishment, but when you lose one . . ."

She squeezes my hand. "Yeah, I can imagine."

"And when the restaurant you work for loses a star right after you arrive, that's even worse." I release a heavy breath. "It means you weren't able to maintain the standards set by your predecessor. There's no greater demise."

She furrows her brows. "Wait. The stars are given to the restaurants and not the chef."

"Right, but every restaurant is reevaluated every year, so it doesn't matter if the chef leaves."

"Talk about pressure," she says, leaning back in her chair.

"And that's just Michelin. There are other organizations who give us ranks and grades—in France and around the world. Basically, we're being judged all day, every day. And if the critic happens to come to the restaurant on a bad day, you're screwed. Bad days are not acceptable in gastronomy."

She swallows hard, looking away. "That's harsh."

"It is. But I understand. Guests come to our restaurants with certain expectations. Having these prestigious stars and grades makes our reputation, so it doesn't matter if someone comes on a bad day. They should have the same experience everyone else had."

"Is it the same in the other countries you've worked in?"

"Yes and no. Food is at the heart of French culture, and the competition is fierce with so many decorated restaurants here. I also feel they might be a little tougher on us here," I say with a weak chuckle. "I guess I'll know soon enough."

Her eyes soften. "You're scared of losing a star. You have three, right?"

"Yes, the restaurant does. My dad earned them over the years, and he never lost one during his tenure. Hopefully, the guide came early in the year when my dad was still there. Even if he was starting to decline, his odds would have been better than mine," I say, bile rising in my throat.

She tilts her head to the side. "Oh, come on. You're a fantastic cook."

"That's not what you said in my restaurant," I half-joke and instantly regret it. Now, my insecurities are on full display, and I don't want her to feel like she has to compliment me to make me feel better.

She blushes until her cheeks are the same shade as her pink lipstick. "You've been cooking for me for days. I'm pretty sure I can attest to your talent, but why not try some of those dishes for the restaurant? Sure, it wasn't high gastronomy, but there were some great ideas there."

"Ah," I say, forcing a smile. "You've hit the touchy subject. I might be the chef of the kitchen, but I'm not the boss, and there's a tremendous difference. I work in a palace, and palace guests have certain expectations. My boss asked me to follow my dad's recipes for each season to the letter."

She shakes her head. "But why hire you if they just wanted someone to execute the old recipes?"

"My guess is the name I bring to the restaurant. I might be wrong, but it feels like that was the driving factor."

"Oh." She wrinkles her forehead. "But I'm sure if you showed your boss what you're capable of, he'd give you a chance to express yourself."

A loud sigh escapes my chest. "I already tried that. He doesn't care about my cooking. All he wants is plain execution to ensure we keep our standing, but I know we won't, because cuisine without passion doesn't win awards."

"How can he be so closed minded? Doesn't he see that a stance like that is bad for the restaurant? "

I stiffen in my chair. "I'm not sure why he's like that. I'll keep trying, though. Maybe with time, things will change." I trail off on my last words.

"You should open your own restaurant," Hazel suggests, clasping her hands. "That way, you're the boss and the chef."

I offer a side grin. "Oh, yeah. Easy peasy, right?"

"It doesn't have to be hard. Sure, the administrative part won't be a breeze—I don't think it is in any country—but think of what you could do. You have so many great ideas, and you're passionate about your work. You're incredible, Olivier. People should have the chance to know that. "

Her eyes sparkle when they meet mine, and I'm drawn into a surge of emotion.

My heart leaps at her genuine confidence. "Do you really think so?"

She places her hand over mine. "Of course I do."

Never before has someone believed in me like this. Especially not a new acquaintance who's eaten only a few of my regular meals. A picture forms in my brain. Hazel and me standing in front of my new restaurant, full of joy.

Our eyes meet, and I turn my hand over to hold hers. Tingles envelop my heart as the picture becomes clearer in my head. I'm so happy. We're so happy. She's smiling from ear to ear and—

Clearing her throat, she removes her hand and takes a sip of water. Just like that, the picture fades.

Swallowing, I look down and pick at my napkin. "I can't. It's just too much, and I'm not ready. Plus, I can't do that to my dad. He retired knowing I would be there to take over. I can't hand his legacy over to someone else."

"Even if staying there makes you unhappy?"

I remain silent.

"Your dad would understand, Olivier. You have real talent. You should showcase it, not hide behind your dad's legacy. Plus, as you said, the customers can feel the lack of passion. So in the end, it's a lose-lose for everyone."

It all sounds so easy and rational. I know she's right, and I'd be lying if I said I didn't think about it myself. "Maybe one day," I rush out in a curt voice. "Right now, I just want to focus on the festival."