Provence - To Die For by Jessica Fletcher

on the stove.
    “We’re going to put the meat in the oven, and take a short tour of the hotel kitchen,” he said. “Are you up for it?”
    Mallory nodded, and we joined the others.
    The hotel kitchen, half as wide as it was long, was empty. “They don’t serve luncheon in the winter,” Guy explained, opening the top oven in a stack of three gas ovens and sliding in the roasting pan, “although Room Service can put together something for guests who don’t want to go out.” He knocked on a door. “This is the office, where the chefs plan menus, order supplies.”
    The narrow room had a small desk at the end, piled with papers, under which could be seen the curled cord of a telephone and the side of a laptop computer. Sitting at the desk was a handsome man in chef’s whites who looked up from his book.
    “Ah, Guy. Is this your class?” the man asked.
    “ Oui .”
    The office was cramped and messy. A battered file cabinet leaned against one wall. On the other was a long row of bookshelves filled with cookbooks, more piles of paper, and various kitchen implements, some still in their packaging. The untidy office was diametrically opposed to the kitchen with gleaming stainless-steel cabinets and counters.
    Guy introduced Daniel Aubertin, the hotel restaurant’s chef and director of the cooking school. “Daniel will give you a short tour of the kitchen,” he told us, “while I keep an eye on the rabbits.”
    Daniel rose from his seat and treated us to a captivating smile, shaking hands with each student as he exited the office, and seeming pleased to meet us. Curly haired and clean shaven, he had the dark good looks of a movie idol and the confident, slightly bored manner of a man who has done this many times before. The kitchen tour must be a standard part of the class, I thought, as he walked backward down the aisle, speaking in English to accommodate the foreigners, and pointing out the four separate work areas used for preparing fish, meats, cold dishes, and desserts.
    “For garnishing,” he said, pointing at a rolling cart at the end of one counter near the door. Its top was covered with bowls, bottles, and canisters, the little containers filled with different sauces, spices, herbs, seeds, crumbs, chopped nuts, dried fruits, olives, miniature pastries, wafers, and other items used to garnish the food and decorate the plate.
    “What time do you have to start cooking for the dinner guests?” René asked, his pen poised above a small notebook.
    “The chef and his staff plan the menu after the market in the morning and then go their separate ways. The dinner chef returns at about four-thirty. That would be me. The pastry chef comes in a little later. And the kitchen closes at midnight.”
    “How do you choose the menu?” Jill asked.
    “The full menu changes each season,” he replied. “At the hotel restaurant here, certain specialties we will make every day, but half the menu depends upon what we find in the market in the morning.” He went to a large double-door locker and opened it. We crowded around the opening to peek inside. The shelves were filled with a variety of fruits and vegetables bought that day. Several crates of squash were stacked on the floor. Daniel walked in the locker and picked up a squash. “These were plentiful in the market this morning. From this, we will make a wonderful cream soup. It’s one of our signature dishes. It will also be caramelized to accompany the roast lamb. Later we will add it to our vegetable terrine. Perhaps we will also dry thin slices in the oven with salt and pepper for tomorrow’s garnish. Everything we serve is fresh. We must use what we buy imaginatively and efficiently or the customer will become bored, and our business will fail.”
    “How do you know how many customers you’ll have?” Jill asked.
    “They take reservations, of course,” Mme Poutine told her crisply.
    “Yes, of course,” Daniel said, nodding at her. “But reservations tell