Short Story Wednesday
Chez Phillipe
Dear Readers,
Welcome once again to A Weekly Dose of Fiction. This time, you get the entire story in one post. It’s a short and very new piece, so if it develops into a longer tale, there will probably be edits to follow. I hope you enjoy it.
Chez Phillipe
What a day. The three-million-dollar house sale fell through, so there went my shot at a nomination for the Women of Influence Award, my commission, and my summer vacation. I was still reeling from that when Sophia called. My sister never contacted me with cheerful news; this was no exception. She was leaving for an extended cruise and renting the house, so Dad could no longer live with her. It was my turn again.
I love my dad, but he comes with complications, like he can’t remember who I am most days. And then there’s Aggie, his caregiver with severe rules, and Rudolph, Dad’s Schnauzer. Rudolph has memory issues of his own. I have to remember when he needs to pee.
After canceling my lobotomy, I decided to treat myself to a real dinner and skip the takeout boxes at least one night. A French restaurant opened in my neighborhood last month, and every time I pass their window, it’s full, so it has to be good.
“Madame.” The maître d anticipates my entrance and sweeps open the door. I already feel special. “Table for one?” He asks.
I hate to think how he guessed I’d be dining alone. A glance in the mirror behind the reception desk doesn’t help bolster my spirits. There’s a tight look around my eyes and mouth, the signs of the perpetually unwed that I remember from Great Aunt Lucia.
He gestures for me to follow and glides ahead. “Will this do?”
I nod and take the chair he pulls out.
“Henri will be your server tonight.” He tucks me neatly up to the table and snaps his fingers.
Henri magically appears with a crystal pitcher and fills my water glass. “Tonight’s special is the Ragout of Lamb. I suggest a pinot and the escarole salad.”
I glance at the menu and have a small heart seizure. Monsieur Phillipe must have a sizable mortgage and some unpaid credit card debt. The prices are double what I’m used to paying for a dinner out. The ragout is in the mid-price range, and I might get two meals out of it, making tonight’s splurge more reasonable.
I order it, say to hell with my budget, and take Henri’s suggestion for the wine and salad. Next week, I’ll have Dad, his daytime caregiver, and Rudolph in my apartment. This is my farewell to living on my solo schedule, but not the farewell I’d planned.
Once upon a time, I thought I’d be married by now. He was supposed to be a lawyer, maybe a doctor or a CEO was also acceptable. I’d have my house in the Hamptons or Key West. I’d consider San Diego. But I was now thirty-eight and the lawyer, doctor, and CEO had come and gone.
I sit back and sip the pinot. I figure each taste is about ten dollars, so I plan to savor every one. When the salad comes, I nibble on the prickly but tender greens, taking my time. It’s a small portion, but delicious.
“Your ragout, Madame.” Henri sweeps in, removes my empty salad plate, and sets the smallest portion of stew I’ve ever seen in front of me. I’ll have this gone in three bites.
I look up at the waiter, but he doesn’t seem to notice that the forty-two-dollar dish is about the size of a teacup. I must register disbelief in my expression because he gives me a Gallic shrug and leaves.
I’m not one to create scenes. I hate people who do, so I suck it up and spoon a mouthful of lamb and vegetables into my mouth. Not bad, but a little cool in the center. So now, not only is this overpriced and pitifully small, it’s not hot. I wave to catch Henri’s attention, and after ignoring me twice, he finally arrives at my table.
‘“Madame?”
“This isn’t hot.”
“No? I will see that it is.” And he’s off, carrying my plate and ramekin as if it were the queen’s crown.
No one has noticed my complaint, and I’m grateful. All I want to do now is eat and leave, never to enter Chez Phillipe’s again.
When the kitchen door opens, I expect Henri with my ragout; instead, a man the size of a Wolf range fills the doorway, his hands braced against each side of the jamb. His chef’s hat touches the top, and the neatly buttoned white apron expands and contracts across his heaving chest. He’s glaring at me. His nostrils are flared. All I see is a large white bull about to charge.
I’d run except I’ve frozen into inaction—a novice matador facing an experienced adversary.
In a very few long strides, he’s at my table, quivering with what I’m guessing is controlled rage. His chef’s hat quivers like a tall jelly. “You do not like the ragout.”
He hasn’t asked. He’s told me.
“No. That wasn’t why I sent it back. It just wasn’t hot enough.” I want to add that the portion would be suitable for a doll party, but I’m not by nature a brave woman. I come down more on the practical—do what you must do to survive—side.
“Come.” He pulls out my chair with a vigorous tug and helps me up, more like lifts me by the arm. His grip is firm, but not painful, and I don’t fear for my life. There are twenty pairs of eyes on us. I have witnesses.
In the kitchen, he removes the lid from a simmering pot. “Hot,” he says. “No one complains but you.”
I spy my minuscule serving next to the stove, dip a spoon into it, and hold it out for him to taste.
He does, then with a slow, deliberate swipe of his mouth, sweeps his hat off and bows. “I stand corrected, Mademoiselle.”
Mademoiselle. Hmm. “Well, then...all right.” It’s impossible to stay upset when confronted with an apologetic bull who also, now that I’ve calmed down enough to notice, happens to be stunning in a pugilistic way.
He escorts me back to my seat, personally serves the ragout--hot this time--and then tears up the check Henri has in preparation for my departure.
“May I know your name, Mademoiselle?”
“Ma..Ma..Madeline.” It takes a couple of false starts to get that out. I feel as if I’m seventeen and on the verge of a prom date.
“Phillipe Moreau.” He kisses my hand. “You will dine with me Monday, s’il vouz plaît?”
I don’t reply--speechlessness brought on my heart palpitations.
“Coq au vin. It will be delicious and hot when served.”
“Uh. I guess.” I’m more articulate if I’m not nervous.
“Here. Six o’clock.”
I’m able to nod, able to find the door, and walk to my apartment. I think I have a date. That’s something I haven’t had in three years. I unlock my door, humming. Mademoiselle. That has such a lovely melody. But then Madame Moreau does as well.
The End
My vision is that a lovely romance blossoms between Chef Phillipe and Madeline. His restaurant is a smashing success, and he likes Schnauzers and extended families.
The Princess of Las Pulgas was my second book, and this week it got a boost from a professional reviewer when he mentioned Princess as one of his top 20 favorite reads. Here’s how his original review in 2014 began:
I have a confession to make. I am NOT a 16-year old girl. And, yet, I absolutely loved C. Lee McKenzie's The Princess of Las Pulgas, which IS about a 16-year old girl. I have read and enjoyed several YA books in the past that had teenage female protagonists - Truly, Madly, Deadly by Hannah Jayne and Wyndano's Cloak by A.R. Silverberry (his was a fantasy to boot) come to mind. So I'm not a novice when it comes to YA's. You can add this one to my recommend list. It's absolutely terrific.
I loved how Madeline’s tough day turned into something sweet and unexpected. Would love to read more about her and Phillipe.
I am a new writer for fiction and I would love to ask some few questions and advice if you don't mind. I just inboxed you, when you get time you can reply and we can have a chat.
H.G. Well's Moreau was an unsavory character that you seem adamant to move into a savory domain. But I have reservations. Many decades ago, my wife, Sharon, was talked into doing restaurant reviews for Chicago Magazine, an assignment she undertook on condition that I accompany her. Now Chicago is a rough town and its chefs even rougher. Sharon has the unfortunate reputation for honesty and a broad command of international culinary arts. In anticipation of a questionable meal I would order the best wine I could find and seat us for a hasty exit. That you would expose your heroine in such manner without escort or defensive weaponry is foolhardy. But maybe the coq au vin and a promise of romance will be redeeming.