Chambers Veronica - 32 yolks: from my mothers table to working the line

T wo things happened the year I turned eleven: my father died and I became friends with my first professional chef, a guy named Jacques.

My mother, distressed at my sadness over the loss of my father, tried to cure it with the one thing she knew I still loved: an extraordinary meal. One day, after she closed her shop, she announced that we wouldnt be going home to have dinner with her new husband, Hugo, and my baby sister. Instead we were going to the restaurant in the same complex of shops as her own, Chez Jacques.

It is almost impossible to get a table, my mother said, smiling conspiratorially. But why dont you and I go, just the two of us?

I smiled for the first time in weeks. A night out alone with my mother? At an exclusive restaurant? It was like Christmas had come early.

As we approached Chez Jacques, my mother whispered, Let me do the talking. They say the chef is a lunatic.

We were greeted at the door by Mercedes Quillacq, a voluptuous blond Spanish woman in her midforties. I had never met her but she greeted my mother as if they were old friends, and she seated us with a flourish that implied we were honored guests. The restaurant was rustic and simple. I would later learn that Jacques had built the entire establishment himself and that the dining room was actually the first floor of the family home. There were maybe twenty seats and an open plan kitchen, which was unusual for the time. There was no menu, just a set meal for the night. You ate what Jacques prepared, and you paid a hefty price for the pleasure.

From my seat at the table I could see Jacques at work in the kitchen: short and muscular, he wore a white chefs jacket with short sleeves and sweated with the force of a man who was all at once chef, sous-chef, and dishwasher. In one pot, he cooked pasta. In another, he made green beans. The industrial oven churned out culinary masterpieces, seemingly on its own. Now theres a platter of caramel pork. Look, theres a camembert en chemise (a version of brie en croute). And is that a roast duck? Watching Jacques cook for an entire restaurant, alone and happy in his kitchen, was like going to the circus and watching a master juggler spin a hundred plates. I was mesmerized.

I quickly learned that while the food was indeed legendary, part of what kept Chez Jacques packed was the show he put on. You did not choose to eat at Chez Jacques. Jacques chose you.

Ten minutes after we sat down, the door opened. A well-dressed man walked in and greeted Jacques, whose eyes immediately narrowed.

Get out! he snarled.

The man was understandably startled and tried to politely introduce himself. Uh, je suis Monsieur Veysette.

Who sent you?

Uh

Get out! Jacques yelled, and so the man did as he asked and left.

My mother and I sat in silence, watching the drama unfold with both amusement and awe. My pleasure in being there grew, just knowing that we had been lucky to be let in the front door.

A few minutes later, another couple arrived.

Who sent you? Jacques barked.

No one. We saw

Welcome, welcome, Jacques said, suddenly switching to the warm tone of a mitred in a famed Parisian bistro. Mercedes, please see to it that they get the best table!

My mother whispered to me, Chef Jacques is known for kicking even the most elite residents of Andorra out of his restaurant. He takes great pleasure in telling the richest people in town to go screw themselves, but the food is so good, they always come back. She went on to explain that Jacques was exFrench Legion and he wasnt impressed with power. Hed survived the Battle of Dien Bien Phu; he didnt care about the vice-president of the local hydroelectric company or a retired British footballer. Naturally, the spectacle only made Chez Jacques more of a destination. Whatever you do, my mother warned, dont ask for salt.

When the dishes arrived, it was clear that we were being presented with more than a meal: this was a gift. The salad was composed as if Jacques had spent the afternoon in the garden, picking each green leaf himself. The coq au vin was so rich and satisfying that I had to resist the urge to lick the plate when I was done. When the meal was over, Jacques sent over not two small bowls of chocolate mousse, but nearly a tub of the stuff. My eyes widened at the heft of it; then I quickly and happily polished off the whole dish.

Jacques walked over to the table just as I was shoveling the last heaping spoon of mousse into my mouth. He looked pleased.

The young man has a good appetite, he said, winking at me.

Cest trop, Monsieur Jacques, I replied, respectfully. And it wasthe very best meal Id ever had.

Do you want a tour of the factory? Jacques asked, gesturing for me to follow him to the kitchen.

My mother nodded her permission and I eagerly followed Jacques back to the kitchen and propped myself onto a barstool for a better view. I pointed at the salads Jacques was making.

How did you get the vinaigrette so creamy? I asked.

He smiled at the question. Thats a secret, he said. Come back one day and Ill show you.

The next day after school, instead of heading to the stockroom above my mothers boutique, I went to Chez Jacques. I sat on the same barstool, eating bowl after bowl of