While he was cooking, Marie explored his bookcase. She’d offered to help with the meal. Chris had shooed her away, softening the rejection by handing her a glass of white wine and an invitation to make herself at home.
‘This won’t take long,’ he said, chopping an onion with a chef’s professionalism.
Perhaps that’s what he did for a living. Marie hadn’t been able to get that piece of information from him in three dates. Mystery man, she called him – to his face – and said she would bide her time. She liked this man. He had a sense of humour, could string two words together and, most of all, listened. Like, listened properly as if taking notes when she laughingly related tales of everyday life in her drama-ridden office.
He quizzed her about her childhood and her family, his eyes lighting up at certain moments – like when the dog went missing and the search turned into a literal police hunt when the dog eventually reappeared carrying what suspiciously looked like a human bone …
Marie wandered to the bookcases (two, she was impressed, and a glance through his office door showed a whole wall of books – he must work from home, which hardly narrowed things these days). She eyed the titles, an eclectic selection but with a heavy predisposition to thrillers and crime, many by famous authors, a handful by writers Marie had not heard of. One shelf was dedicated to classics, including a full set of Jane Austen.
She glanced toward the kitchen where the aroma of onions frying in butter emanated like a summoning spirit. And then to the office door. He’d said to make herself at home, right? Marie sauntered in. A spacious room, with a desk facing a large window, a coffee table and a sofa. Bookcases lined two walls, a third had storage units. Definitely the look of a work-from-home office.
Marie regarded it enviously. She could spend happy days in here, pootling on that big-screened computer, writing her silly stories as she called them. Something about one of the shelves of books caught her attention and she went closer. Some twenty novels lined up with matching spines. She took two out – the covers showed they belonged to a series.
She gasped then at the author’s name. Chris Miller … the famous thriller writer, his success illustrated by his name on the covers being three times as large as the titles.
Marie giggled. Of course her thrice date worked from home. No wonder he loved the dog tale.
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WHILE HE WAS COOKING
While he was cooking, he was also shouting orders to those around him.
Head chef Antoine Burgundy ran the Moulin Rouge kitchen like a military operation.
Had to – just to keep pace with orders from the hundreds of patrons who each night filed into the famous burlesque show in Paris’s Pigalle district on Boulevard de Clichy, in the heart of the city’s 18th arrondissement and visible for miles around because of the red windmill on its roof.
Tonight was no different to any other – meal orders pouring in as his army of chefs battled to keep pace with the combined local and tourist crowds seated at intimately lit tables throughout the venue.
“Come on,” Antoine implored. “Vite, Vite. We must go faster.”
One of his charges complained loudly in response.
“We are going as fast as we can, maestro. There are just too many orders.”
“No excuse,” replied Antoine. “You knew the challenges of this place when you applied for the job.”
If the truth be known, even Antoine had not realised the enormity of running the kitchen of one of the world’s most famous venues when he applied some ten years earlier for the head chef position.
By that stage, the then 35-year-old had accumulated significant experience working at large restaurants throughout the world – from London to New York and Munich, and even a stint in Sydney and Melbourne.
However, nothing compared with the sheer volume of Moulin Rouge meals – largely because patrons rushed to eat their meals before a bevy of young beauties began their performance.
The simple explanation for this was that nobody wanted anything to detract from concentrating on the reason they had turned up in the first place.
Which meant that all meals had to be served in an hour and a half before the dancers appeared on stage at 8pm.
“So,” continued Antoine, “you know the conditions. Cut those vegetables quicker. Bring those sauces to the boil now. Flame the steaks.” Orders flew from his mouth.
Suddenly, a commotion interrupted proceedings. One of the young chefs had fainted, the kitchen heat and pace of preparation too much for him.
“Quickly, get him up,” barked Antoine. “Outside with him, some fresh air will revive him.”
Two of his colleagues picked up the young man and dragged him outside where he slowly came to his senses.
“I don’t know,” opined Antoine. “These young people today. Just can’t handle anything.” And he tut-tutted his way into slicing the next large piece of broccoli with exaggerated vigour.
In the main venue, a hubbub of conversation, eating and drinking continued among patrons totally unaware of the dramas unfolding among those charged with providing their sustenance on a nightly basis.
Great story. Did he not tell her his surname when they met. Or is Chris Miller a nom de plume?
Chris Miller is a pretty common name!