Provence - To Die For by Jessica Fletcher Page A

only half the story,” he added, looking at Jill. “The rest you learn by being in business. We keep an eye on the weather. Here, for instance, rain will keep the hotel guests in house, and if occupancy is high, that is good for the restaurant. If it is not ...” He shrugged. “We read the newspaper to know what groups are in town and likely to fill our seats. We know what festivals are on the calendar each year, and keep a log of how they affect our tables. We plan, we track, and we market ourselves; a good review can generate reservations for months at a time. But you must always be prepared for fewer guests as well as more guests than you expect. We cannot waste food or we lose money. And we must have enough or our diners will be disappointed.”
    “I never realized how complicated it was,” Jill whispered to me.
    “We’ve had fresh rolls and bread every morning,” Craig put in. “Do you make them, or is there a bakery service that supplies the bread?”
    Daniel put his hand over his heart and feigned an attack. “My baker would be stricken to hear you,” he said. “Everything you eat here is made here. Come, I’ll show our little secret.” He led us to a steel cabinet with glass doors, near where Guy stood opposite the ovens. “This wonderful machine helps make the bread,” Daniel said. “One puts in the shaped rolls and breads. The machine lowers the temperature to keep the dough from rising; it can stay that way for hours. In the morning, it is timed to turn on automatically, warm up the dough for the last rise, and bake the bread and rolls just in time for breakfast, and again in the afternoon in time for dinner. C‘est magnifique, n’est-ce pas?”
    “Bravo!” said Craig. “I’d like to get one of those for home.”
    “So would I,” his wife deadpanned.
    Guy looked at his watch. “Merci, Daniel. The rabbit should be ready now. We don’t want to overcook it.”
    “No, we probably want it all bloody and rare,” Mallory muttered under her breath.
    We trooped back to the dining room with Guy leading the way, the hot roasting pan on a folded towel in front of him like a crown on a pillow. Chef Bertrand was waiting in the kitchen. “Now we will see how well we have done today,” he said. He had eight plates set out on the table and proceeded to fill them with sliced rabbit, chestnut blini, and sautéed wild mushrooms. Over the meat, he poured a sauce made from the strained marinade. While Guy took the quince charlottes to the hotel kitchen to bake, we removed our aprons, picked up our plates, and carried them to the medieval dining room next door, lining up at that table in the same places we’d occupied in the school kitchen. Several bottles of red wine had been set out, along with a basket of sliced bread. René began filling our glasses.
    Bertrand, minus his toque and bloody apron, but still in a white jacket, joined us in the dining room, carrying in a platter with the remains of the rabbit, blini, and mushrooms, which he set on the table. He picked up his wineglass. “Bon appétit!”
    “Bon appétit!” we chorused back.
    The meal was consumed along ethnic lines. The two Americans and the British couple reached for the bread, and pushed the meat around the plate, nibbling on blini and mushrooms that had escaped the sauce. The four French ate everything on their plates, and sopped up the leftover sauce with the bread. The quince charlottes, however, were a complete success. Covered with a sauce made from frozen berries—“red fruits,” Bertrand called them—they disappeared off everyone’s plate, and afterward were followed by tiny cups of very strong coffee.
    Conversation during the meal followed a similar pattern. Mme Poutine attempted to engage René Bonassé in a discussion of Paris theater, angling her body toward him and pointedly away from Bertrand. The young man listened politely, but had little to say. Bertrand spent the meal sorting through a stack of papers he’d drawn