The Spice Master at Bistro Exotique

Description

A talented chef discovers how spices and scents can transport her—and, more importantly, how self-confidence can unlock the greatest magic of all: love—in this perfectly seasoned new novel by Samantha Vérant.

Kate Jenkins doesn’t believe in fate. She believes in a clear vision, meticulous planning, and hard work in order to achieve her culinary dreams. On the cusp of opening her own Parisian restaurant, Bistro Exotique, she isn’t even concerned when her standoffish—and annoyingly sexy—neighbor dismisses her as a crazy American tourist or when she meets the wildly eccentric Garrance, the self-proclaimed Spice Master of Paris, who ominously warns her of the previous owner’s failures.

Confident and optimistic, Kate keeps calm and cooks on. Until a series of unfortunate events derail her plans and her entire staff quits.
 
Kate is about to throw in the kitchen towel on her lifelong dream when Garrance offers to use her mastery of scents and spices to help her, but it comes at a price: Kate must work with Garrance’s son, Charles, a world-class chef and total jerk. After Kate hesitantly concedes to the deal, she slowly learns to open her heart and mind to new concepts, not quite sure if the magic she’s experiencing comes from Garrance’s spices, from within herself, or from the growing chemistry with Charles. One thing is certain, though: her kitchen is getting increasingly hot.”Visit Bistro Exotique for an absolutely delicious love story. Verant sprinkles the exact right amount of humor, heart and spice on every page, and you won’t want to put it down.”—Annabel Monaghan, author of Nora Goes Off Script
 
“Samantha Verant has crafted a novel brimming with joie de vivre! Delicious food, a gorgeous city, a plucky heroine and a delightful inside peek at French culture and a touch of magic all blend together in this savory tale.”—Rachel Linden, bestselling author of The Magic of Lemon Drop Pie

“The Spice Master of Bistro Exotique is a romantic and culinary delight, from its delicious start to its tantalizing finish! In Samantha Vérant’s signature style, mouthwatering recipes are woven into a steamy rom-com, resulting in a story that will leave you sated and smiling and deeply satisfied. With a gorgeous Parisian setting, mouthwatering recipes, and two hilarious and worthy protagonists, Vérant knocks it out of the park with this laugh-out-loud funny romantic comedy.”—Lori Nelson Spielman, bestselling author of The Star-Crossed Sisters of Tuscany

“A luscious feast of a novel, The Spice Master at Bistro Exotique offers hearty helpings of wit and romance with a dash of magic, complete with unforgettable characters.”—Yaffa S. Santos, author of A Touch of Moonlight

“Samantha Verant’s The Spice Master at Bistro Exotique is utterly tantalizing. Verant skillfully weaves a whimsical love story with a mouthwatering and magical culinary journey through Paris. A seriously scrumptious read.”—Sarah Echavarre Smith, author of The Boy with the Bookstore

“Samantha Verant transported me to Paris in this charming story of food, love, and magic. Endearing characters, a dash of whimsy, a sprinkle of intrigue and a generous serving of romance made for pure rom-com entertainment!”—Samantha Young, New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of A Cosmic Kind of Love

“The Spice Master at Bistro Exotique is a Parisian delight! Samantha Verant has created an enchanting novel with a sprinkle of magic that will leave readers incredibly satisfied. We highly recommend you treat yourself to this delicious story!”—Liz Fenton & Lisa Steinke, authors of How To Save A Life

“A fairy tale, rich with the power of food, scents, and a summer in Paris.”—Library Journal

“Kate makes for an endearingly plucky heroine, and colorful side characters abound.”—Publishers Weekly

“Vérant (Sophie Valroux’s Paris Stars, 2021) brings her signature style to Kate’s story, infusing it with sensuality, romance, and a genuine love of the culinary arts. No mere background player, the City of Lights itself is present in every fish market, chic café, and floury boulangerie that Kate sets foot in on her culinary adventures. Fans of Mary Simses and Kerry Ann King will adore the interplay between food and romance, snobbery and appreciation, and critique and acclaim.”—Booklist

“Samantha Vérant’s Parisian workplace romance The Spice Master at Bistro Exotique is sugar, spice, and everything nice.”—PopSugar

“Exotic sexy dishes and fiery passion encompasses Ms. Verant’s new foodgasmic novel… Full of intrigue and romance, The Spice Master at Bistro Exotique offers decadent food, a family atmosphere, inspiring messages and most importantly, love… A steamy heaven of orgasmic food and love proportions!”—Romance JunkiesSamantha Vérant is a travel addict, a self-professed oenophile, and a determined, if occasionally unconventional, at-home French chef. She lives in southwestern France, where she’s married to a sexy French rocket scientist she met in 1989 (but ignored for twenty years), a stepmom to two incredible kids, and the adoptive mother to a ridiculously adorable French cat.Reader’s Guide
The Spice Master at Bistro Exotique by Samantha Vérant
Discussion Questions:

1. Kate has two wildly wacky and eccentric women in her life: her mother, Cri-Cri, and Garrance—both of them quite direct (and a bit bizarre) with their approaches to the world. Do you think their influence on Kate helped her to grow as a person? Or did they step out of bounds with their advice? What’s the best or worst advice the women in your own life have given you that you’ve chosen to take or ignore?

2. In the beginning of the novel, Kate makes it clear that her one and only true love is the kitchen, but when Charles (a.k.a. Anti-Keanu) steps into her world, she loses herself within fantasies of being with him even though, based on her first impressions of him, he’s a supreme jerk. Have you ever been attracted to someone who seemed completely wrong for you at first? Also, have you ever put the promise of love to the side when fighting for your own dreams?

3. Kate is surprised so many people come to her aid, especially after so many catastrophes. Why do you think she attracts so much positivity—people like Oded, Caro, Garrance, and Cri-Cri fully supporting her dream? Have you had people supporting you and your dreams when things aren’t going your way?

4. What did you think of the rage room scene, when Kate and Charles still distrust each other but kind of work things out? Do you think a situation like this would help or hinder a relationship to develop? Have you ever been to a rage room? If not, would you go to one?

5. Charles and Kate’s relationship moves from being enemies to working together to falling in love. Was this a natural progression for you? What would you change in the course of their dynamics?

6. Charles’s and Kate’s worlds get upended when Aria pops up, bringing up bad memories not only for Charles but also for Garrance. After hearing her reasoning, do you think Garrance was right to do what she did? Or should she have let Charles figure out his life on his own? Do mothers always know best?

7. Charles has always been wary of people taking advantage of him and his family because of their wealth. Was Kate wrong to accept the brooch from Garrance? What did you think about his reaction and eventual redemption?

8. A huge theme featured throughout the book is how food can transport you. Do you have a favorite meal that recalls memories? What is it? And does it bring on good memories or bad ones? Do you believe what Kate experienced was magic from Garrance’s spices or did it come from within herself? Or was it the chemistry with Charles?chapter one

A Temporary Distraction

Dreams manifest with a vision and obtainable goals. And mine have always been clear. Food is my life-my calling, my raison d’tre-better than sex, better than anything.

I get lost in sensual experiences when I prepare a meal-the way the juices run all sticky and sweet on my hands as I cut fresh fruits like an orange or a fig, the way the flavors dance on my tongue when I taste my fingertips, the way salty and sweet fresh oysters kiss my lips at first, followed by a lustful intoxication when they slide down my throat, or the way a fragrant soup heats up my entire body, my soul.

Foreplay is the preparation, and the climax comes with the finished recipe, bringing all the senses together while balancing flavors. Food is passion in its purest form and one of the reasons I became a chef.

As I tenderly fold the dough for my sourdough bread, my hands caressing the slick and smooth form much like a lover would, I look up, taking in my pristine kitchen-the polished prep station, the stoves, all my tools of the trade-and I can’t help but to let out a proud squee.

Holy guacamole-preferably hand-crafted tableside with a mortar and pestle-I am actually opening up my own restaurant in Paris, and my culinary offerings are going to rock people’s minds and taste buds. Bistro Exotique-my restaurant-will finally unlock its doors to the public in four short days and I’m going to share my passion with the world, satisfying the most discerning of palates while invoking all the senses.

I huff out a laugh, hoping my neighbors didn’t hear my cries and moans for more garlic last night. More! More! Garlic! Or when I’d gasped out “Pound it” and “Harder,” as I smashed whole peppercorns with a mallet. At the very least, nobody would have heard anything unsavory and, surely, they’d understand that dreaming up recipes keeps me tossing and turning with unbridled inspiration all night.

I’ve been in the kitchen since 6:00 a.m., the dough is on its final rise, which gives me half an hour to get to MarchŽ Saint-Martin-one of Paris’s last historical covered markets, with its original stone entries from the late 1800s still remaining. I lightly spank the mound, loosely cover the beauty with a kitchen towel, and then wash my hands before heading to the front door and locking up. Meandering slowly, it will take me eleven minutes to get to the market, but I push myself into speed walking, wanting to be the first in line when the doors open at nine.

On the way, I’m reminded of how much I love this neighborhood and the location, with its lively cafŽs, cheaper rents, and the canal-a haven in the summer, boasting dances on its banks, festivals, and cultural cruises for Parisians and tourists alike. Add in the poets on their box stands, the fishermen, and the picnickers-it’s people-watching galore. Although there is a ton of foot traffic with les fl‰neurs (people wandering and observing), this haven is surprisingly calm.

Not in the best of shape, I’m breathless when I reach my utopia-my playground of seasonal delights, immediately running up to Fabian, my fish vendor, panting heavily. He loops his thumbs into the straps of his denim overalls and rocks back and forth in his thick black rubber boots.

“Kate, are you concerned about the delivery?” he asks, his caterpillar-like eyebrows raised. “Don’t worry. It’s all good, and we’re all crossing our fingers for the success of your restaurant. You don’t have to check in.”

“I’m not worried. I want to test out a new recipe. I dreamed about it last night. A ceviche.” Pant, pant. “Do you have sea bass?”

“I do.”

“Is it fresher than fresh?”

“Of course. Practically off the boat. How many?”

“Just one for now,” I say, catching my breath. “But I may need more on Friday if the recipe works out.”

“Should I empty it? Filet it?”

“Yeah, that would be great, save me some time.”

“Give me a few minutes,” he says.

“Fantastique! Formidable! Thanks and I’ll be back.” I pull out my list, holding it up. “More fresh ingredients to catch.”

Fabian grins and turns to take care of my order, knife in hand.

Being in the market always transports me to another dimension, another time and place-each ingredient conjuring up memories. For a moment, I stand in front of the glass, staring at the fish, breathing in the briny and salty scents of the ocean, and I’m back to my roots in California, bodysurfing the waves in Malibu and feeling the sand sticking in between my toes as I walk back to my towel, the frothy water lapping and crashing on the shore. I’m suddenly licking my lips and craving fish tacos covered in a Baja sauce. So many fish in the sea, so many ways to prepare them.

Too bad I haven’t been by the ocean in years, but I chose cutting blocks over surfboards. Such is the life of a chef. And I have no regrets.

At least I live by Canal Saint-Martin, a glorious 4.5-kilometer-long waterway lined with ancient chestnut trees. I’d never risk jumping in it-who knows what kind of diseases lurk under the surface? But I have skipped stones into the water like the character AmŽlie did in the movie of the same name from the safety of its elegant iron bridges.

A woman passes by me, saying “Excusez-moi,” and I come back to the present.

To clear my head, sometimes I try to guess who would eat what. What would she eat? Meat? Vegan? Vegetarian? Pescatarian? More important, would her taste buds be open to spices? I call this research ocular reconnaissance. The woman meanders toward one of the butchers and points to a goliath-sized leg of lamb-definitely a carnivore. I wonder how she’d prepare her meal-perhaps with slices of garlic stuffed into the meatiest parts of the top, slow roasted with rosemary, with potatoes on the side, the juices, the herbs, infusing into everything. Served with a mint sauce? Or is she the type who colors outside the lines and does something less traditional? The woman pays for her purchase, tucks the large package into her polka-dotted wheeled shopping caddy, and catches me gaping at her. With a visible shudder, she shoots me a death glare, understandable since we’re not at a cafŽ where it’s okay-even expected-to people watch.

Sometimes my research puts me into uncomfortable situations.

I offer an awkward smile and turn on my heel, racing around the stalls, from the stinky cheeses to the produce, inhaling every scent, falling in love with all the colors, picking up the ingredients I need along the way for my dish-namely juicy mangoes, succulent limes, and enormous avocados I can barely fit into my palm.

Finished hunting and gathering, I make my way back to Fabian. He hands over a butcher paper-covered package with a wink. “I’ll put it on your account.”

“Merci,” I say. “You’re the best.”

I stuff the fish into my now full wicker basket and speed walk back home, hoping I don’t trip. Yoga and swimming I can handle. Running? Not so much. I’ve fallen a few times, plus the jiggling hurts my boobs-my chest is a blessing and a curse. On that, I should probably stop humming I’m bringing booty back while skipping my way through the maze of stalls.

I’m in a great mood-giddy, hopeful, and optimistic. The sunlight filters through the trees, illuminating the sidewalk in a hazy, golden glow and reflecting on the wicker basket bursting with the colorful ingredients now resting by my feet.

Although I’m eager to create the dish, testing this recipe will have to wait a few more minutes. It’s the end of May, and, for once, the rain has subsided, the sky is clear, and I want to get a photo of the restaurant, capture the magic of the moment for posterity.

I stand across the street from my future, gazing at the crisp charcoal-gray awning, hung up a few days ago. Emblazoned with the logo a friend of mine had designed, the name sparkles in the sunshine, the symbol a hummingbird. It’s perfection.

Right when the economy picked up, after a major crush-with restaurants closing left and right-I’d swiped in like a vulture, getting a fabulous deal on the space in the trendy tenth arrondissement, and signed the lease on the spot. I can’t beat the corner location, which faces the canal on one side.

Not only did I get a good deal on the space for the restaurant, my five-hundred-square-feet one-bedroom apartment in the same building came as an added bonus. My place isn’t big, nor is it fancy, but it has everything I need save for a washer and dryer. Thankfully, my restaurant has one, I’m the boss, and we’re closed on Mondays. It’s a win-win.

With a wicked grin on my face, I take the first shot. The way the light flickering on the silver wings of the bird sparks up my heart, zapping me like a virtual defibrillator. I fight the urge to spin around and dance on the street or raise my hands into a celebratory fist pump.

Well-heeled Parisians, hipsters, and youngsters surge by me like salmon swimming upstream, rushing off to work or to school or wherever else they may be going, some giving me odd glances with raised brows while I stand on the corner, clicking away.

Of course, after living in Paris for thirteen years, I know the sidewalk comes with a unique set of rules: (1) Stay on course. For example, a couple or group of people walking toward you from the other direction should move to let you by if there isn’t space. You hold your ground. (2) Don’t stop suddenly, or you risk being slammed into because Parisians walk fast. (3) Watch where you step. Although a bit better since I’d first moved to the City of Light at the age of fifteen, land mines of dog crap still littered the paths. (4) Don’t stand in the middle of the sidewalk during the rush hours. Even the sweet little old ladies will run right over you. Last, (5) and probably the most important rule of them all, never smile. People will think something’s wrong with you-especially if you’re by yourself.

Not usually a rule breaker, I can’t stop myself from losing a little control; I smile wider until a man barrels by me, his elbow jabbing into my left rib, and my phone tumbles onto the ground. I scramble to grab my lifeline to the world before somebody smashes it into a million pieces or kicks it into a sewer grate, noticing his designer shoes-Prada. He’s about to walk on without an apology, not one dŽsolŽ or pardon. Nothing.

My phone slides on the pavement. It’s an iPhone-one I bought secondhand but still expensive. I’m blocking his path, crawling on my hands and knees like a squirrel on Red Bull. (I’ve seen this happen. Trust me. Run. Or risk a potential attack.) The screen seems to be okay, but this guy should have one shred, one tiny ounce of politeness. Instead, he turns to walk away.

“Hey, you! You could have broken my phone,” I yell in French.

“You shouldn’t be standing in the middle of the sidewalk during rush hour,” he replies with irritation.

“Oh yeah? And you shouldn’t be-” I say, looking up and taking in his appearance.

So damn hot.

My throat catches. Words do not form. He’s sexier than the ceviche I’m planning on making-slick and smooth, cool and hot. Confession: I may have a problem binge-watching rom-coms and steamy romances, hoping for my own meet-cute. If they happen in the movies, why not in real life? When I’m not in the kitchen, I watch them all, inhaling the happy endings-from Sleepless in Seattle to Pretty Woman to Sixteen Candles, the latter so politically incorrect and cringe-worthy today but made up for with the drool-worthy hotness that is Jake Ryan.

Something about this guy reminds me of Keanu Reeves, with his razor-sharp cheekbones, mildly unkempt black hair that nearly touches his shoulders, two-day scruff, penetrating hazel eyes, and, from what I can tell-dressed in a casual but elegant fitted black suit-a buff body. I may have developed a slight Keanu obsession after I saw him in Always Be My Maybe, the story of him being the temporary love interest of an ambitious chef. Even though he played a douchebag version of himself, he was funny and hot as hell.

Normally, I only salivate over recipes, but this feast for the eyes is clearly an exception. Food is my first love, and I’m not looking for the real thing at the moment, but there’s nothing wrong with a temporary distraction.

“I just wanted to take a picture,” I say, pointing to the restaurant.

I’m still on my knees, looking up into his beautiful face. There is a halolike glow around his head, making him appear absolutely heavenly. He coughs as I swoon. Instead of apologizing or returning my twitchy smile, my two-second fantasy scowls, turns on his heel, and mumbles, “Putain de touriste.”

And screeeech. Record scratch.

Maybe it’s the way I’m dressed? Granted, no Frenchwoman would dare wear food-encrusted Crocs, a torn sweatshirt, and stained cargo shorts-at least, not in public. A scrunchy holds my frizzy blond hair in a messy ponytail. Dusted in flour, I’m a hot sweaty mess. And, sure, nobody on this planet has ever referred to me as a fashionista, but, in my defense, I have dirty work to tackle-like testing recipes and scrubbing down the industrial stoves until I can eat off them.

“Can you move?” he says, pulling out five euros from his wallet. He holds the bill over my head. “Here, this should help.”

My fantasy evaporates like dry ice on a summer day in the hottest of deserts. I shoot him daggers with my eyes and swat the bill. He actually thinks I’m homeless?

“I don’t need money.”

“Could have fooled me,” he says, his eyes making an unabashed loop over my outfit, and then pockets the bill.

Under my breath, I mutter, “Quelle bite.”

What a dick.

“I heard that,” he says in English, his lips pressing together into a thin line. “Crazy tourist.”

“You speak English?”

“Yes, and it’s obviously more refined than your limited French.”

The lilt in his affected voice, the precise English accent that would normally have me drooling, echoes in my head when I snap to. How dare he? He crashes into me and then launches insults like grenades? Bye-bye, meet-cute, this prince in disguise is as ugly as a toadfish.US

Additional information

Dimensions	0.9400 × 5.1400 × 7.9400 in
Imprint	Berkley
ISBN-13	09780593546000
ISBN-10	0593546008
Author	Samantha Vérant
Audience	General / adult
BISAC	FIC061000, FIC027020
Subjects	books fiction, FIC061000, magical realism, books for women, contemporary romance, romance novel, gifts for her, contemporary romance books, relationship books, fiction books, mothers day gifts, romance novels, women gifts, romantic novels, magical realism novels, mom gifts, magical realism books, magical realism novel, magical realism fiction, romance books, feminism, cats, romance, love, FIC027020, fiction, Friendship, fantasy, women, gifts for mom, novels, chick lit, french, romance book, women's fiction, love story, gifts for women