She tastes again, her expression intense with concentration. “It’s almost... medicinal? No, not medicinal. Herbal. Juniper berries? That would make sense with duck.”
The sea bass is equally challenging. Kiera identifies the compound butter—recognizing tarragon, shallots, and white wine—but struggles with an underlying flavor she describes as “earthy but not mushroom.”
“It’s driving me crazy,” she says, taking another small bite. “I know this flavor. I’ve tasted it before. It’s mineral-y, almost briny, but in a subtle way.”
We finish our main courses, and I’m amazed by how good she is at this. Even when she’s uncertain, her descriptions are precise and thoughtful. She’s not just tasting—she’s analyzing, breaking down the components, understanding how they work together.
The desserts arrive, and Kiera practically bounces in her seat with excitement. The chocolate soufflé is perfectly risen, dustedwith powdered sugar, with a small pitcher of crème anglaise on the side.
“Okay, this one should be easier,” she says, breaking into the soufflé with her spoon. The interior is molten, rich, and glossy. “Dark chocolate, obviously. Eggs, sugar, butter—standard soufflé ingredients. But...” She tastes the crème anglaise. “Oh, this sauce is interesting. There’s vanilla, of course, but also something else. Something floral.”
“Like what?”
“Rose water, maybe? Or orange blossom?” She tries another bite, combining the soufflé with the sauce. “And there’s a warmth to the chocolate itself. Cinnamon? Cardamom?”
The lavender crème brûlée is more straightforward—she identifies the lavender immediately—but she notes subtle undertones of honey and lemon that add complexity without overwhelming the delicate floral notes.
As she’s finishing her analysis of the crème brûlée, I see the chef emerge from the kitchen. I’d called ahead earlier this week, explaining what I wanted to do, and Chef Laurent had been enthusiastic about the idea.
He’s a tall man in his sixties with silver hair and laugh lines around his eyes, wearing the traditional white chef’s coat. He approaches our table with a warm smile.
“Bonsoir,” he says, his accent thick but his English clear. “I am Chef Laurent. River, he tells me you have been tasting my food tonight, trying to identify the ingredients, yes?”
Kiera’s eyes widen, and she glances at me. I just smile.
“Yes,” she says, sitting up straighter. “I hope that’s okay. I’m preparing for a culinary competition, and River thought it would be good practice.”
“Mais oui, of course!” Chef Laurent’s smile widens. “This is wonderful. Please, tell me what you tasted in each dish.”
Kiera goes through her analysis, starting with the butternut squash soup. Chef Laurent nods along, his expression growing more impressed as she lists each ingredient.
“Very good, very good,” he says. “You have an excellent palate. The brown butter, yes. The sage, yes. The orange zest—you were correct, not lemon. And the nutmeg, just a whisper.” He makes a chef’s kiss gesture. “But you missed one thing.”
“I did?” Kiera leans forward. “What was it?”
“Miso paste,” he says. “Just a small amount, maybe half a teaspoon for the entire pot. It adds umami, depth, makes all the other flavors more vibrant.”
Kiera’s eyes light up with understanding. “Of course! That’s why it had such a rich, savory undertone even though it’s a sweet soup. Miso would do that perfectly.”
“Exactement.” Chef Laurent moves on to the duck confit. “And the duck?”
Kiera lists her findings again—the cherry or fig in the glaze, the red wine reduction, the juniper berries. Chef Laurent nods enthusiastically.
“You are very close. It was a fig and port wine reduction, yes, with juniper. But also”—he pauses dramatically—”a touch of balsamic vinegar and black pepper. Not just any black pepper—Tellicherry peppercorns, crushed very fine. It adds a subtle heat and earthiness.”
“That makes so much sense,” Kiera says, and I can see her mental cookbook updating in real time. “The port wine would be sweeter than regular red wine, and the balsamic would add that depth I was tasting but couldn’t identify.”
When they get to the sea bass, Kiera describes the compound butter and admits she couldn’t identify the earthy, mineral undertone.
“Ah,” Chef Laurent says, clearly delighted. “This is my secret ingredient. Dulse.”
“Dulse?” Kiera repeats.
“A type of seaweed,” he explains. “Red algae. Very common in French coastal cooking, but not often used in compound butter. I toast it lightly, grind it to a powder, and mix it with the other ingredients. It adds this taste of the ocean, without being overpowering.”
“That’s genius,” Kiera breathes. “I never would have thought to use seaweed that way.”
For the desserts, Kiera gets almost everything right. The crème anglaise with the soufflé does have rose water, and the chocolate contains both cinnamon and a touch of espresso powder to deepen the flavor. The one thing she missed was a hint of Grand Marnier in the soufflé itself.
