Trépidante Génial

A velvet glow emitting from the windows of Trépidante Génial, pulsated against the purple of the dusk filled night. As the golden door swung open, one could catch a glimpse of a moustache and register warm laughter. Smoke billowed, curling against the steaming glass, mnemonic of exotic spices and costly endeavors. The black wrought iron lamps stood at attention and twinkled like the eyes of joyous children, wondering at the contents of this restaurant, the jewel of Calais.

Delicate crystal chandeliers graced the white coffered ceiling, their icy appearance diverging from the amiable atmosphere. Ebony and ivory graced every surface of the ornate rococo eatery, and rigid waiters in crisp suits whisked past purposefully, accompanied by enticing spices. The quaint tables had unapologetic aristocracy clustered around them. Debonair gentlemen wearing disgruntled expressions escort painfully slender women to their tables, pulling out the chair in an old fashioned gesture. The monochromatic nature of wealth was apparent in the garb of the ladies, as red fur and sequined black gowns ran rampant. The women laughed like bells, bending their delicate, slim necks back in amusement whilst their passionate lipstick framed their perfectly straight teeth. Masses of glossy hair were piled up in soft curls atop their porcelain faces, the decidedly rich scent of gaudy perfume permeating the air. Ritualistically the men excused themselves and disappeared into a smoky room, the call of brandy, cards and solace too much to resist. The gentler sex held glasses of excited champagne in manicured hands, secretively shooting disdainful looks at their so called acquaintances. They are, as the French would say, épouvantablement bien nantis - disgustingly wealthy. One has to be in order to dine at Trépidante Génial.

On the opposite end of the room a silvery cloche was lifted to reveal a perfect bouillabaisse, the richly clarified broth glowing under the lights. The freshly caught crustaceans and molluscs gracing the bowl were piled delicately, reminiscent of an overflowing cornucopia of flavour. At a table situated proximate to the kitchen a Café liégeois was being served that was the very definition of ‘frenchness’. The soft billowing clouds of Chantilly juxtaposed with the dark bitter coffee rebelling against it, la révolution française of all desserts.

Striding through the kitchen doors was like being conveyed to another realm. As opposed to the sheer opulence of the dining area, the industrialised cookery was stark and sterile, with white being the prevailing colour. It was a blank canvas, ready for masterpieces to be created upon by the draconian chefs. One was overcome with the clamorous sounds of sizzling duck and the roaring of blue white fire from the blowtorch. Stern orders were flying every which way. The gentle bubble of a rich condiment and the loud snap of hot baked meringue added to the orchestra of flavour, a true symphony for the senses. One could smell mustard heat and acidity, coupled with sweet caramelised pork that transported one back to grandmother’s kitchen and loving, home cooked meals.

The cold silver worktop at the forepart of the cookery was a stage, filled with eccentric actors harmoniously playing their parts. A tempered sweep of bitter chocolate there, a delicate cloud of spun sugar here, with a mint leaf adornment for good measure. I stared in awe at the pure artwork being created before my very eyes. What would it be like to be the master of your own fate, and the creator of your own career?

 “Retournez au travail imbecile!” he shouted, his plump well-fed face purpling in anger. I turn quickly, hiding my inferior face from the wrath of the conductor. My mop slops onto the floor, soap bubbles popping in vexation. Get back to work he says, but what he doesn’t know is one day I will own this restaurant. I will be the chair of my own life and the conductor of my own orchestra.