The Icing on the Cake Read Online Free Page A

actually did meet Jean-Pierre.

    The first thing I noticed about La Bonne Violette was the floor. It was made of this beautiful cobblestone that made me feel like I was at an outdoor French café. Natural light and the sparkle of the ocean poured in through the restaurant’s spotless windows, and this added to the outdoor effect.
    No wonder all the celebrities come here, I thought as I peered into the dining room. I was slightly disappointed that no one was sitting at the white-linen-covered tables. I mean, it would have been cool to get a peek at Jen or Colin.
    Within seconds, I was greeted by a tall, thin maître d’ dressed in a white tuxedo shirt and black pants. “Bonjour, Mademoiselle,” the maître d’ said. “What can I do for you?”
    “I have an appointment with Jean-Pierre at one o’clock.”
    The maître d’ consulted a book on the podium in front of him. “Are you from Central Coast Living ?”
    “Yes,” I answered. Both excitement and anxiety began to bubble inside me.
    “May I have your name?”
    “Annabelle Pleasanton.”
    “Right this way.”
    The maître d’ led me through a set of doors into the kitchen where sous chefs were busy at work, and the sounds of washing, chopping, and speaking—both in French and English—filled the air. The maître d’ led me to a large chrome range and presented me to a medium-height man with a protruding belly and a bushy mustache. His white chef’s uniform had a large red food stain on the front.
    “Jean-Pierre, Mademoiselle Pleasanton from Central Coast Living ,” the maître d’ introduced me.
    “Merci, Joseph,” Jean-Pierre said without taking his eyes off the food he was sautéing on the range in front of him.
    The maître d’ walked away, and Jean-Pierre quickly shot me a look that told me I had not come at a convenient time .
    I cleared my throat and searched for words. “Good afternoon, Jean-Pierre. I understand you spoke with my boss, George Kent, and agreed to do an interview,” I began. With shaky hands, I retrieved a yellow notebook from my black leather satchel.
    “Oui,” Jean-Pierre responded. Then, as if I weren’t even in the room, he headed toward a walk-in refrigerator and went inside.
    I followed on his heels, notebook in hand.
    Inside the chill of the refrigerator, I opened my mouth to ask my first interview question, the one I had practiced over and over in my car as I drove to the restaurant.
    But Jean-Pierre spoke before I could. “You are in zee way,” he said in a thick French accent as he reached for something on the shelf behind me.
    “Oh, I’m sorry,” I said as I took a quick step to the left. Too quick of a step.
    My left foot caught the edge of a box of produce on the floor and I lost my balance. As I fell forward, I put my hand out to break my fall. My hand, in turn, grabbed onto a metal shelf, and the whole set of shelves began shaking.
    Before I had time to process what was happening, the contents of a bowl filled with mixed greens, juicy tomatoes, and some crumbly cheese fell on me like some sort of salad shower.
    Jean-Pierre watched as the red tomatoes splattered against my pale blue cashmere sweater—which I bought for just fifteen bucks at a consignment store—and the cheese and salad greens sprinkled my hair and shoulders. Then he let out a string of French words, which I don’t think meant, “My, what a wonderful girl you are.”
    I bent over and attempted to clean up the mess, apologizing like mad and assuring Jean-Pierre that I would pay for the food.
    As I was cleaning, a woman with kind eyes and a French accent not quite as pronounced as Jean-Pierre’s appeared in the refrigerator doorway. She took one look at me and shot me a compassionate glance. “Everything all right?” she asked.
    “Well, I—”
    “She’s fine,” Jean-Pierre snapped. “But look at this mess.”
    “There is a bathroom to the right of the salad prep area,” the woman whispered to me kindly. Then she turned to