“It’s a Bubble & Squeak platter,” said Madame Godard. “It allows the truth about something to be told … and seen.”
“An edible lie detector? Sounds like the perfect spell. So why didn’t the CCS use this to find out what really happened?”
“There’s no such thing as the perfect recipe—or spell, for that matter.” Godard plucked the magazine clipping from Sylvie’s hand. She placed a fritter on top of it. “Whoever gives you the Bubble & Squeak, it’ll reveal the giver’s version of the truth. But facts and memories aren’t always the same thing. Sometimes getting the whole story is like traversing a storm.”
I think I get it.A plane could fly above dark clouds, but that wouldn’t stop it from raining down below.
A tendril of steam wafted up as Madame Godard sliced the round in half.
Sylvie waited for the steam to dissipate. Instead, it hung in the air.
Madame Godard slid the plate toward her. “It may not be perfect, but this is my most thorough recollection of what happened between your mother and Josephine Flammé at the Golden Whisk.”
Sylvie had always connected certain dishes with moments in time. Spaghetti with meat sauce reminded her of summer camp, where she spent her days splashing in lakes and nights watching movies. But this was different. She’d never truly tasted a memory before. It was warm and heavy, as if every detail from that day was stuffed inside.
The strand of steam, still twirling, draped itself over Sylvie as soon as she took a bite. A moment later, Sylvie found herself sitting in a large arena. Or more accurately, the memory of one.
When Your Mise en Place Is a Bust
SYLVIE LOOKED AROUND AND TRIED TO GET HER BEARINGS.
People stood in the stands. Most of them chanted, “Vive la France!“
A small group waving star-spangled flags shouted, “Go USA!“
“Vamos, España!“ yelled another handful.
A half-dozen chairs flanked Sylvie on each side. It took her a moment to realize, with a jolt, where she was sitting. The judges’ table.
In the center sat a small man with hawkish eyes that seemed far too big for his face. A stern expression had glued his eyebrows together. Next to him was a tall man with not enough hair and too many chins. Sylvie recognized him from the photo she’d seen.Balthazar LeGrande.
LeGrande picked up a microphone. “If the audience could please be quiet. The judges need to speak to the leaders of Team USA and Team France.”
Some hissing and boos followed. Sylvie couldn’t tell if it was for the teams or the requested silence. Her gaze moved down the line of unfamiliar faces at the table and settled on the woman seated at the far end.
Madame Godard.In this moment, she seemed fragile, like a half-cracked egg.
“Abby Jones, leader of Team USA, please step forward,” said Balthazar.
Colorful lights flashed across the arena floor, lighting it up like a Christmas tree. Beyond the bright lights, a line of chefs stood in silhouette. Sylvie squinted, trying to spot her mom.
A twenty-something version of her mother stepped out of the shadows. Her long auburn hair was now swept into a ponytail. The creases Sylvie had watched grow comfortably around the corners of her mom’s eyes hadn’t formed yet. “I’m here.”
Madame Godard looked at her. “You’ve been accused of cheating by the French team.”
“BOO! HISSS!”
“Silence!” bellowed Balthazar, trying to calm the large French crowd.
Her mom stood there for a moment, looking tired and stunned. “But Madame Godard. I did not—would not. You’ve known me since I was a Brindille student.”
“She’s lying!” said a voice.
The petite form of Josephine Flammé stepped forward. Her blonde hair was trimmed into a pixie cut. Sylvie had only seen photos of her, always looking hollowed out and defeated. But here, her green eyes sparkled. Flammé turned and glared at Sylvie’s mom. She held up the remnants of her dish. “Someone swapped the ingredients in my star-gazy pie.”
Peeking through the flaky crust were a half-dozen fish heads. Their milky white eyes stared up toward the ceiling as their mouths hung agape.
Sylvie crinkled her nose.
