“I didn’t make it too often. I really had to work on my tea palate to even barely appreciate flavored teas. Your father helped me there, along with taste, type and pairings of wine.” She sighed and leaned closer. “How are you, Luis? How are you liking living back in California?”
The waiter returned with the drinks before Luis could respond.
Once he’d set the glasses on the table, he took their orders.
“I’ll have shrimp etouffee,” Amelie said. “My favorite.”
“Excellent choice.” Maurice tilted his head. “I also like a good gumbo. That’s what I’ll have.”
Luis ordered a shrimp po’ boy.
After the waiter left with their orders, Luis drew in a deep breath. “As for California...I thought I’d like to be back where I grew up, but nothing’s the same.”
“It rarely is, going back to your hometown,” Amelie said. “With the exception of Bayou Mambaloa,” she said with a smile. “Most of my friends were still there or had come back. Was that not the case for you?”
Luis shook his head. “Friends I’d known in high school had either moved out of the state to find jobs or were already married with kids on the way. Though I have my father’s trust payments, they aren’t enough to cover the cost of living. I got a full-time job at a restaurant.” His lips twisted. “As a dishwasher, which wasn’t all bad. I’ve done that before, working in my father’s restaurant in Paris. It was really the only job I could get.”
At this point, Luis paused.
Amelie didn’t prompt or make a comment. She let the young man continue at his own pace.
Maurice appreciated her patience. He could tell Luis was struggling to get it all out.
“It wasn’t enough,” Luis said. “I didn’t tell you this, but a year ago, I enrolled in culinary school.”
Amelie’s eyes rounded. “Oh, Luis. That’s wonderful.” Her brow dipped a moment later. “But why didn’t you tell me?”
He looked away. “You and my father tried hard to get me to learn the craft, and all I did was push back. I didn’t want to do what everyone expected. I wanted to have a choice in what career I pursued.”
“And?” Amelie sat on the edge of her seat, her eyes alight.
Luis sighed. “Yes, there are recipes you have to learn and follow. Yes, there was a lot to learn about meats, cuts, spices, heat and so much more. I also learned there was room for creativity. That making wonderful food was an art, like making music or painting a picture. I finally understood what my father was always trying to tell me.”
“You have to have a passion for the culinary arts…?”
Luis nodded. “Or you’ll never be a chef. You’ll be a cook.”
Amelie nodded, a smile spreading across her face. “Your father would’ve loved to hear you say all that.”
“Yeah, I’m sorry he didn’t live long enough for me to pull my head out and learn this about myself.”
“So, how much longer do you have in culinary school?” Maurice asked.
“I finished the course I was in and applied for an internship here in New Orleans at Maison Belle and got in. I start as an apprentice in a week.”
Amelie clapped her hands. “That’s where I worked before I moved back home to Bayou Mambaloa.”
“I remembered,” Luis said with a smile. Then his brow dipped. “I don’t understand why you left to open a bakery in a small town. You have skills equal to my father's. Seems like a waste of talent.”
Amelie shook her head. “I still use a wide range of my skills as a caterer when needed, but I love the pace in the small town, and I’ve always loved baking. The best part is that I have a great support system with my friends.”
Luis nodded. “That means a lot. I hope I can find that here in New Orleans.”
The waiter returned with their meals.
Maurice inhaled the rich scents of spices.
For the next few minutes, silence descended as they ate.
