He squared his shoulders and studied his reflection in the glass. The bright, warm sun gave sharp contrast to the clouds of doubt in his eyes. He could still turn back; after all, he was being helpful to Papa in the bakery, Maman would soon be well, and the pinch they'd been feeling the last two months would be eased. But this was about more than a few extra Francs. It was the food... he must learn.

Smoothing down the hair at the back of his head, he carefully placed the beret back on top. Papa always told him that first impressions were important. A man could be tried, sentenced, and hanged with just one look. Ensuring the angle of the hat was proper, he gave himself an optimistic nod then pulled open the big glass door and stepped inside.

The room was big… bigger than anything he'd ever seen before. He swallowed the lump that stuck in his throat and soldiered on straight up to the maître d'. "Bonjour," he said, horrified that the word had come out with such a squeak.

The man leaned forward on his little podium, staring down his frighteningly straight nose and over his spectacles. The man waited. He could feel the judgment radiating from those serious grey eyes. He forced the lump back down and tried again, relieved that the sound coming out was his true voice.

"Bonjour. I am Louis LeBeau and I would like a job," he stated simply. Papa had also told him that honest and direct was the only approach a man could take. A good man, that is.

The man's eyebrows raised slightly in surprise, though his long, thin face hardly moved. He was like a statue. A grey, foreboding statue. After a moment, he opened his mouth and spoke stiffly. "Forgive me, Monsieur LeBeau. I'm afraid I have no authority to hire," he said.

Unfazed, Louis pressed closer to the podium. "Then who does? I shall speak with him."

"Monsieur Beaumont, the owner. He is very busy. We open in two hours and he must not be disturbed."

Louis remained firm in his request. "I must see him, please. I wish to be a chef. Where can I learn if not in the finest establishment in all of Paris?"

The man shook his head and opened his mouth to deny him again, when a question came from behind him.

"You wish to learn the art of haute cuisine?"

A large man stepped into view from one of the backrooms. His eyes were a cool blue-grey and they studied Louis carefully, scanning every inch of his short frame. Louis noticed the deference the maître d' showed him and the air of control that emanated from him.

"Oui," Louis said, stepping away from the podium and closer to him. "Monsieur Beaumont?"

"Why?"

Louis wasn't sure what he was asking, but he knew it was a test. This was his moment and the judgment could fall either way. He bit his lip, worried that this would make him sound like a lunatic. "The food," he paused, trying to find the right words, "speaks to me."

He cringed as Monsieur Beaumont's head tilted to one side. His arms crossed over his broad barrel chest, as he stroked the mustache part of his beard. "You are quite young and so small," he commented thoughtfully.

"I am nine," Louis protested, "Ten next month. I am very strong. I helped Papa in the bakery often. I carried flour that was bigger than me without trouble. Please, Monsieur, I must learn."

"Papa? Jean-Claude LeBeau is your papa?" Monsieur Beaumont asked, giving him another once over when Louis nodded. He thought a few moments longer. The wait was agonizingly long for Louis who was almost certain he'd blown this opportunity and began to consider what other restaurants might hire him. Finally a broad smile spread across the owner's face, revealing a twinkly personality.

"If you must learn, then I must teach," he said with a chuckle. "But be warned: this is hard work and not to be pushed aside when friends invite you to swim, or fish, or cause mischief. You must put all of yourself into the art. Live, breathe and think of the food at all times."

Louis face brightened considerably, "Of course, monsieur."

"The first lesson: Crepes." Monsieur Beaumont said as he waved for Louis to follow. Louis took a quick look at the maître d', who regarded him coolly with lips which were pressed together in a firm, thin line. He swallowed hard and skittered behind Monsieur Beaumont, drinking in the knowledge.

"Always remember, superb ingredients make for a superb meal… however, an excellent chef can always make the best, even from the worst."