Perfection
The dinner rush at La Ratatouille rivals the grand stage show at the Follies Berger. Waiters rush across the floor shouting for their orders by number, straightening their white sleeves and black bow ties; chefs craft meals of delight under the piercing bright glow of white lights and the red glow of heat lamps, smiling and cursing at their delicate creations.
Colette is beside an oversized pot of bouillabaisse, stirring it clockwise with a large wooden spoon as she inhaled the herbed, fishy bouquet steaming up from it. A smile tilted her lips as she took a quick sample.
Then frowned at the taste that greeted her.
"Alfredo!" she shouted over the din of crashing silverware and clinking dishes, drawing his attention away from a steaming rack of Coq au Vin, "did our supplier bring fresh fennel?"
It took Linguini a few seconds of thinking to remember the morning's deliveries. "I think he brought it with the kale and radicchio." He pointed at a small pile of vegetation he'd taken out of the refrigerator a few minutes before
Colette took one look at it and cursed, a blistering, creative bit of invention that made Linguine gawk at her for just a moment. "It's two days old," she declared, seizing the pot of bouillabaisse from the stove and dumping it down the drain. She called for Remy to alert him to the problem, then rinsed the pot. "FRESH BOUILLIBASSE!" she shouted, toward the dining room.
"Can I help?" Linguini asked.
Her smile was thin as she pulled several large quarts of fish stock from the freezer. "Butcher the eels," she requested. "And the hake- we have fresh monkfish on the sideboard." Collete's eyes sparkled as she started pouring the stock into the large, fresh pot.
Linguine did as she requested, successfully butchering everything in short order. Then he started washing and shucking mussels. "Let me help," Collette requested - Linguine washed out each sandy interior and she dumped them, handful by handful, into the pot. She seemed quite lively, her eyes sparkling and a huge smile on her face. "Does it not take you back to school, n'est-ce pas?"
"I never made bouillabaisse in school," Linguini replied, mopping his brow with the back of his sleeve. He started in on the clams, their fingers brushing. He blushes and she smiles.
"Ah - it is different with the French," she declared, picking up a cleaver. "We teethe upon baguettes." Quick as a wink, she liberated the salmon of its head. "Hand me the onions, cher."
Linguini still isn't used to Collette's abrupt moments of affection. He hands them over, and as she splits them into whisper-thin ribbons he starts hulling the garlic.
"We still need the fennel," she reminds him.
"I think I know what to do," he says. Crouching down until he's face-level with the mousehole, Linguini called for Remy. It took longer to get a message to his friend nowadays than it used to, but eventually he stood in the doorway, wearing an exhausted expression. "Can we borrow some fennel, little guy?"
There was a nod, a squeak, and ten minutes later Linguini was chopping fresh fennel on the sideboard. He heard Collette cracking and slicing more fish, then the sizzle of the bits of fish being perfumed in a roasting pan of olive oil - Linguini kept chopping herbs, carrots, and tomatoes, taking extra care with the saffron - then he got to work on the rouille while Collette stirred the mixture of fish into the stock. Another touch of the hands and blush from him as they put the potatoes to boil. She added the herbs and made loud note of the time. It would take twenty minutes for everything to be ready, and she rushed back into the rear of the kitchen, where their pastry chef was having a lemon coulis - related disaster. It was Linguini's job to watch the pot and make sure it didn't boil over.
It took several swirls of his spoon to carefully distribute everything. Keeping an eye on that while he sliced up his country bread. He got to the tedious work of opening the sea urchins before dumping them in within the last ten minutes of cooking.
Collette was back, with two large, empty bowls and a large metal ladle. He didn't need further direction - he spooned the rouelle into the bowl, followed by several ladlefuls of broth, potatoes, vegetables and fish. He arranged the sea urchins around the rim of each.
She smiled as she placed the spoons beside each bowl, inhaling the bouquet, enjoying the warm, earthy, fishy scent of the broth. "Perfection," she remarked, stacking the bread on the saucer beside each bowl. "The butter, s'il te plait?"
That takes a bit more searching, but somehow Linguini finds it among the gigantic pints of cream and mild in the walk-in refrigerator.
"Merci." Says Collette, dotting the side dish with two artistically formed lumps of butter. Then she places two spoons to the right of each pile of bread and butter.
They put the bowls on a tray headed to the dining room and return to their different corners of the kitchen, the warmth of having prepared that meal together still echoing in the small gestures and grace notes of the day.
Finally, it's time to lock up the restaurant. Linguini is exhausted and hungry, doffing his torque to slip on a warm jacket. Collette has a surprise for him in the kitchen - candles glowing, two bowls of bouillabaisse steaming in delicate porcelain bowls and a stack of day-old bread with fresh butter beside it.
Linguine fell to the meal like a starving man. Hours later, he thought to ask, "did you throw the other pot away just so we'd have some left over for dinner?"
"I don't believe in wasting food," Collette reminds him, dipping her spoon into the thick, creamy stew. "Tell me, is it as perfect as it seems, cher?"
He took another decisive spoonful. The broth was velvety, creamy, with notes of saffron and herb. He looked across the table at Collette's knowing grin and suddenly understood just what made it so special.
"It is."