He kept circling back to the dish pit, back to the locker, back to the leatherbound journal he had called a cookbook for housekeepers. He decided to clean house. On a Friday afternoon at 4:48, Tobias called Grace into his office. Hayden Brennan stood by the door. The front of house manager, a woman named Diana Ashford, held a folder.
Tobias did not look up from his desk. We're missing a tin of black truffle salt from the dry goods inventory. $480. The lockers were inspected this morning. Yours had irregular contents.
Grace said nothing. I'm terminating your employment for theft. Out of courtesy to your service here, we won't be pressing charges. Your final check will be mailed. He pushed a single sheet of paper across the desk, a non-disparagement agreement.
Grace read it. She did not pick up the pen. Tobias finally looked at her, the cold smile. You can sign it or you can walk out without your last paycheck. Your choice, sweetheart.
Grace stood. She did not sign. She did not argue. She walked out of the office and down to the locker room. She emptied her locker into her canvas knapsack, apron, knife roll, a spare pair of socks, the journal.
She walked out the service door at 5:06 p.m. That night, on the fire escape outside her fifth floor window, Grace sat on the iron grate with the journal on her lap and the cream colored card in her hand. The November wind moved her hair. Below, a delivery truck reversed into a hydrant on Dykeman Street. She turned the card over. She turned it back.
She dialed the Paris number. It rang once, twice, three times, four times. A voice answered, calm, lightly accented. The voice of a man who had been expecting this call for three weeks. Henri Bowmont.
Grace's voice did not shake. This is Grace Thornton. I'm ready. There was a pause on the other end. Not surprise, recognition.
Madame Wiselle Thornton, where can I meet you tomorrow morning? Grace looked at the journal on her lap and at the November sky over the Hudson and at the city she had washed dishes in for 8 years without ever once standing at a stove in front of pain strangers. She smiled, the first smile she had smiled in 3 weeks. Anywhere there's a stove. The next morning, Henri Bumont sat across from Grace at a stainless steel countertop in a small test kitchen in Brooklyn.
He had flown in on the redeye. I cannot invest in you, Madame Wiselle Thornton. Michelin does not allow it. The night I tasted your consume, I became an inspector who has identified a chef. Any direct financial stake from me would end my career and would frankly end your future star.
Grace nodded once. She had assumed nothing else. I have a friend. She lives 12 blocks north of where we sit. Her name is Camille Dufour.