The Esteemed Head Chef (9)
Francois rested a hand on her waist, pondering for a moment before heading into the pantry. Soon after, she dumped an armful of ingredients onto the counter: potatoes, cream, garlic, butter, salt, pepper, and the spice nutmeg. From these, she would craft gratin dauphinois—thinly sliced potatoes layered with cream and baked in the oven. A perfect side for meat dishes or a main when paired with salad, its creamy texture was divine. Simple to make with readily available ingredients, it could also be scaled up in larger dishes to feed a crowd.
To start, she needed to fire up the oven. Francois shoved the stacked firewood inside, lighting it with practiced ease. Soon, the interior glowed with warm crimson light, heat radiating outward. She adjusted the flames with the poker, then turned back to the counter.
She washed the potatoes thoroughly, scrubbing off the dirt, then peeled four or five in a flash and sliced them paper-thin. For a noble lady, her knife work was nothing short of professional. She pushed the slices aside, halved a garlic clove, and rubbed it vigorously along the bowl's interior. This infused the dish with deep garlic aroma without overpowering it. A light coating of butter followed, readying the vessel.
Layering began: a bed of potato slices, sprinkled with salt, pepper, and nutmeg. Nutmeg was essential for potato dishes, cutting through their natural astringency. Once seasoned, she poured in just enough cream to barely cover them, then repeated: potatoes, seasoning, cream. When the bowl reached the right height, it was oven-ready.
Some regions grated cheese on top, but Francois skipped it—cheese dulled the cream's pure flavor. Checking the oven's heat once more, she slid the dish inside with a long spatula. In about an hour, the outside would crisp golden while the inside stayed soft and moist, yielding perfect gratin dauphinois.
Ever diligent, Francois had no intention of idling. She pondered her next practice dish and returned to the pantry. As she rummaged and emerged with more ingredients, a voice called from outside the kitchen.
"Anyone in there?"
Oh no—a servant from the annex must have come down. Panicking, Francois tossed the ingredients onto the counter and bolted for the back door.
"Who's there? Who's sneaking into the kitchen at night?"
She slipped out the back just as a servant entered. The faintly glowing candlestick, cluttered counter, hot oven wafting savory scents—all baffled the servant, who tilted his head in confusion.
The next morning, the manor hall buzzed with people at breakfast. At the head of the long table sat the baron; to his left and right, his wife and Francois, with the manor's retainers filling the rest. For a palm-sized barony, the number of retainers seemed excessive, but the baron refused to cut any. His vanity and inferiority complex drove him to live like a count, craving that recognition from others.
"Report on the local situation," he commanded, puffing up as if he were a grand duke.
The retainers exchanged uneasy glances.
'What would a bunch of nobodies from this shit-hole barony know anyway?'
One quick-witted retainer spoke cautiously. "My lord, Baron Benson's castle has collapsed."
"Benson? That thug's place crumbled? I told him to expand like I did, but he wouldn't listen. Tsk."
Dismissing it without context, the baron twisted it to fit his narrative. For someone dreaming beyond count, his crude speech and narrow mind were pitiful. Retainers coughed awkwardly, avoiding eyes. Who'd want to report to that? Especially his boast about "expanding like I did"—a sore topic locally.
By tradition, castles above count rank were stone; below, wood. Yet the baron overreached, rebuilding his in stone at ruinous cost, nearly bankrupting the domain. Budget shortages left the main keep stone, annex and walls wood—a misshapen eyesore.
"Any news from Count Ainert's lands?"
"Nothing notable so far..."
"Impossible! The wedding's tomorrow—no movement? Do you lot even work?!"
The baron slammed the table, startling a dozing Francois upright. His wife glared at her disdainfully.
"Earn your keep at least! With big expenses looming and my nerves frayed, your half-assed efforts are useless!"
Those "big expenses" were known to insiders: funds for a plot by six local lords. Apologies mumbled mechanically amid his rage. Appetite lost, the baron slammed down his spoon and stood.
"You—my study, now!"
He stormed out. His wife shot Francois a venomous look before following.
"Sigh... what a fucking mess."
With them gone, retainers sighed and muttered curses, barely noticing Francois.
"Tough luck, miss. Congrats on escaping this hellhole tomorrow."
Francois, poking at her food, shook her head with a smile. "Just transferring to another prison. How's that escape?"
Retainers nodded grimly. She rose and headed to the study.
In the study, the baron sat fuming; his wife stood coldly beside him, eyeing Francois. As she entered, he demanded:
"You sneaking into the kitchen again?"
"No, sir. I haven't."
"Look at her—big innocent eyes lying through her teeth. Typical orphan trash."
His wife sneered. Francois met her gaze evenly. "So my eyes should be square?"
"What... what?!"
"Shut it, both of you!" Baron Audrion bellowed. Glaring at Francois, he continued: "A servant reported kitchen activity last night—cooking traces. Who else in this castle would pull that?"
Caught red-handed, she confessed. "Yes, it was me."
"You're an Audrion daughter! Tomorrow, Count Ainert's daughter-in-law! You plan to play scullery maid there too?!"
"Why's cooking lowly?"
"No noble wields a knife on food! Rumors spread, our house's honor hits rock bottom!"
"Really? Then why'd you marry an inn wench, Uncle?"
Infamous rake Baron Audrion had caroused taverns with booze and women until smitten with his wife, then a barmaid.
His face twisted purple at "uncle." "I'm your father now! Years since adoption, still 'uncle'?!"
"Father? Mine died five years ago."
Noble titles passed to eldest sons. Francois's birth father inherited, but five years prior, both parents died inexplicably in bed—no wounds. Title passed to second son, current baron. Rumors of poisoning swirled around the eldest's death, but none dared investigate—the beneficiary held ultimate power.
Insecure about his legitimacy, the baron harbored persecution delusions, squandering wealth on retainers and expansions for prestige. Obsessed with count rank, he groveled to Count Ainert, joining plots against Rosens—and offering adopted Francois to his son.
Adoption was pure political pawn, no affection. At nearly thirty, past marriageable age, she'd wed a fifty-plus invalid, not even the heir. Proof enough of callousness.
Furious, the baron trembled, itching to hurl desk items—but tomorrow's wedding forbade marring her face. Swallowing rage, he yelled for her confinement to quarters. She left without a word.
Back in her room, Francois perched on the windowsill, sighing deeply. Summer sun already blazed high despite early hour post-breakfast, scorching the ground. Serfs sweated harvesting barley below, golden fields shifting hue like custard spread on bread.
Had I been born a son, that barley would be mine.
Yet she felt no regret. Titles and lands meant nothing. Her passions: cooking and her parents' deaths.
As a child, tagging after her nursemaid kneading dough hooked her forever. Father never barred the kitchen; mother shared homeland recipes; family dined on her creations. They hired royal chefs for her, sent her to the capital's Royal Culinary Academy.
She learned of their deaths nearing graduation. Post-funeral, current Baron Audrion detained her return, forcing academy expulsion for absence. Nightly secret practice ensued amid scoldings and week-long confinements.
All from her uncle's greed and vanity. She believed he poisoned them for title and wealth—no evidence, but who else? Powerless now: father's loyalists purged, no allies left. Political intrigue against him? Impossible for her temperament—though she excelled verbally skewering him and his wife.
Words wouldn't topple him. So her revenge: comply with marriage to Count Ainert's son. As daughter-in-law, she'd act outrageously, tarnishing her uncle's name and souring ties.
Of course, success was uncertain—but her few cards were spent.
"If only this place crumbled like Baron Benson's..."
Chin on knee, foot on sill, she murmured. Then she'd be free to roam and cook carefree.
Suddenly, a horse raced along the barley ridge toward the manor, rider waving a red dispatch flag. Gates opened; he charged in, shouting.