by Sandra Byrd
Dad smiled and looked at Céline as she entered the door to Maman’s. “Is that who I brought the gift for?”
I nodded.
“She seems like a nice little girl. Like you were”. He kissed my cheek and hugged me and then got into his car. As he started the engine, he rolled down his window. “Oh, one more thing,” he said.
“Yes?” I said, fighting homesickness at his departure, something I’d successful pushed away with the business of the past few days.
“I’m not sure I’m ready for a grandson named Napoléon”.
He grinned and I laughed. Then I watched his car drive away until I could see it no longer.
Eight
Nothing would be more tiresome than eating and drinking if God had not made them a pleasure as well as a necessity.
Voltaire
The next week I worked in Rambouillet, my homesickness seeping away as the days went by. Because I worked afternoons and Philippe was in early baking bread, our paths didn’t cross until Wednesday.
I put my apron on and went to the back.
Patricia caught my arm. “Maman passed this along to me,” she said. It was the envelope Monsieur Desfreres had given me the week before.
“What is it?” I asked. She gave it to me to open.
I looked at Patricia. “Will you come?”
“Mais oui!” she said. “We will all come. My papa, Céline and Philippe, Maman, Kamil. I think Luc and Marianne will be back for Christmas, and they will come too. After all, the company sponsored you”. She pulled me aside. “There are forty people in your class. The top ten will graduate with honors. My papa requires people to graduate with honors to continue at the Boulangeries Delacroix”.
“Oh,” I said. This was the first I’d heard of his expectations, though I knew from comments he was a tough cookie.
I laughed to myself at the incongruity of the cliché, and saw Patricia looking at me curiously. “It’s nothing,” I said, missing my own father even more.
She let go of my arm and headed back toward the bakery. “We have flan to make this afternoon, as soon as you’re done with the dishes. And someone has to make brioche”.
“I can do that too,” I offered.
“Non, merci,” Patricia answered.
I said nothing, but sensed something was wrong. I thought maybe she was covering for me, wanting me to succeed almost as much as I did.
I spied Céline playing with her dolls in Philippe’s office. She hadn’t been here other afternoons that week, probably because her dad had been working mornings.
“Hey, I have something for you,” I said. I opened my purse and pulled out a small box.
“What is it?” she asked, setting her dolls aside.
“Open it and see!” I said.
A smile covered her whole face and her dimples deepened. She fumbled with the wrapping and took out a small pink satin box with a tiny Tinker Bell fairy embroidered on the lid.
“A fairy!” she breathed out.
“For your teeth,” I said. I showed her how the box opened, like a hinged jewelry box. “When your teeth fall out, you put them in here, and then put the box by your bedside. During the night, when you’re asleep, the tooth fairy will come and leave a treat or a euro or something in there”.
“Where did this come from? California?” She could barely contain her excitement.
“Yes,” I said. “California by way of Washington”. Disney was in California, wasn’t it?
“Oooh,” she said gleefully. “I’m going to show everyone. I’m going to—going to keep a fève in here until I have a tooth. Just so they can see how it works”.
“A fève?” I asked. Fève meant bean.
Céline looked at me, wide-eyed. “You don’t know what a fève is?”
I shook my head.
She reached up to the shelf near Philippe’s desk and took down a tiny porcelain figure. “These are fève. They’re little dolls you bake into the cake for l’Epiphanie. Whoever gets the piece with the fève in it is the king or queen for a day”. She looked at me with disgust. “I never get the fève. Maman always makes sure Dominique gets it even though she’s not a kid”.
She jumped off her chair and went to show Patricia the tooth fairy box.
I went back to the kitchen and washed some dirty bowls, wanting to get that over with so I could get to the flan. While I washed, I thought about flan and custards, crème brûlée in particular. What if I added lemon zest to it? And then … what could I brown over the top instead of sugar?
“Lexi!” Philippe’s voice got my attention, and I shut off the water.
“I’m sorry!” I said. “I was thinking about crème brûlée!”
Philippe laughed. “A true pastry chef. However, I need you to come to the bread room while I make the brioche. I want to show you a few things”.
I dried my hands. “Was there a problem with mine?”
He nodded. “Yes, but I think I can help you solve it”.
We walked into the bread room, and I got down all of the ingredients and measured them. Philippe watched and offered tips along the way. I noticed he had a shadow of whiskers, which I found attractive in a rugged sort of way. He also had a shadow under his eyes. Normally, he’d be getting ready to leave and pick up Céline at this point. But he’d stayed to show me what to do.
We kneaded the dough, and then he reached into the big bowl where my hands were and took out some of the dough. Our hands touched, and he didn’t move away. Nor did I, for a moment.
When I pulled my hand away, I looked up at his eyes. They were as kind as ever, but a little more knowing. He’d felt something too.
“I don’t think you kneaded in the butter completely last time,” he said. He showed me his technique, and then we slapped the dough, put it in another bowl, and set it in the walk-in.
“Thank you,” I said. “Breads aren’t my specialty”.
“Not yet,” Philippe answered encouragingly. He hesitated for a minute. “Thank you for the tooth box for Céline”.
“Not at all,” I said. “I’m glad she liked it, and it was easy to do. My father brought it last week when he came”.
Philippe nodded. “Céline says you do not own any fèves”.
I shook my head. “Nope, never heard of them”.
“This will not do at all,” Patricia said as she came into the kitchen. “You should take her with you next time you go to the flea market to buy some. Aren’t you going on Saturday?”
Philippe laughed. “Would you like to go to the flea market?” he asked me.
“I haven’t checked to see if I’m working Saturday,” I admitted. School had been overwhelmingly busy that week.
“Voilà! You have the day off,” Patricia said. “I just looked. Have a good time!” And with that, she bustled out of the kitchen.
I went back to the kitchen to start the flan, feeling excited about my outing but also slightly … managed. I wondered how Philippe felt. Would he have invited me of his own volition?
After the flans, I made the cookies for the dinner rush and put them in the oven. Then I thought about the crème brûlée again. What would go on top?
Still thinking about it, I absent-mindedly reached into the huge oven and pulled out the cookies. I bumped my arm against the side of the oven, and searing heat scorched my flesh. I smelled it before I felt it. Then I felt it.
“Ouch!” I cried out in English. Not again! I had burned my other arm the very same way in Seattle. I set the pan down and looked at my arm.
One of the bakers ran back to me. “Everything all right?” he asked.
“Burn,” I said, indicating my arm.
“There’s ointment in Philippe’s office,” he told me. Then he flexed both of his biceps my direction so I could see the burn scars all over them. “Baker’s tattoos,” he said.
“Yes,” I grinned. “I’ve heard that. I’m gathering a nice collection on my own”.
When I went to Philippe’s office, Céline was already
there, doing her homework. Philippe was just leaving.
“I’ve burned myself,” I said. “Do you have ointment?”
“Mais oui,” he said, pulling some out of the drawer.
I sat in the chair across from the desk.
“Is that it?” Céline asked, pointing at the old mark on my other arm.
“No, that’s a scar from another burn,” I said. “Different arm, different oven, same mistake”. I laughed and held out my other arm. “Here is my battle wound”.
Philippe gently applied the ointment to the burn. It felt wonderful, caring and gentle. “If you rub this in, you won’t scar as badly,” he said.
I remembered something I’d recently read. “You know what the difference is between a wound and a scar?” I asked no one in particular.
“What?” Philippe answered, capping the ointment and getting out some gauze and a bandage.
“A wound is still tender, still hurts, is not recovered. A scar is a wound that has healed. I read that in a Bible study”.
Philippe stopped what he was doing and looked at me for a long minute, then turned away, saying nothing.
Why did I bring that up? They’re going to think I’m an idiot.
I turned to Céline, desperate to cover my faux pas. “Here’s something for your studies. In French, the word blessure means ‘to wound’ or ‘a wound,’ like mine right here!” I pointed at my burn. “But in English, the word bless means the same as the French benir”.
“How can something that hurts also bless!” She laughed. “Bless is to do something good, like God does”.
“It’s funny how such different words can sound the same in French and English,” I said.
“Yes,” Philippe said, standing at the door, ready to get back to the baking floor. “I think they are called faux amis, correct? False friends?”
I looked at the evil grin on his face and knew he’d heard about my préservatif mistake. Simone? No, she would be too embarrassed to tell. Patricia?
I said nothing but blushed furiously.
“See you Saturday,” Philippe said, still grinning, as he headed back to work.
Tanya called me early Saturday morning, as I was getting ready for the marché aux puces, the flea market.
“Hey, what are you up to?” I asked. “It’s like, midnight at your house, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” she said. “I just got back from a date, and we haven’t talked in weeks. You’re up, right?”
“Oh, yeah,” I said. “I’m getting ready to go out. Where were you?”
“Birthday party,” she said, “for one of our friends at church”.
“That ‘our’ sounds awfully possessive and chummy,” I teased. “What kind of cake was there?”
“Oh, Lexi. You would ask about the cake! I think it was from Safeway”.
“Safeway? Please tell me you didn’t bring it”. A birthday cake from Safeway!
“If it makes you feel better,” she said, “I didn’t bring it. But I’m not saying I would never buy a cake from Safeway”.
“Ooh la la,” I said. “This is why I am here. So, tell me about the possessive and chummy deal”. I looked through my armoire for something cute and warm to wear. I hadn’t put this much effort into an outfit since … well, since I didn’t go to Luc’s wedding.
“It’s getting serious,” she admitted. “We’ve started to talk about the what ifs …”
“What if … you get married?” I stopped looking through my clothes and sat on my bed.
“Yeah,” Tanya admitted. “We were also kind of looking at little houses by Fremont”.
“Wow, this is going fast,” I said. “Nothing definite yet?”
“No. I’ll let you know. First, of course!”
“I know you will,” I said swallowing down the bitterness of jealousy along with the sweetness of excitement for her. Tanya had a great job. Tanya was going to get married. Tanya was looking at houses.
“What are you doing today?” she asked.
“Going to a flea market”.
“Alone? With Anne?”
“With Céline and Philippe,” I said.
“Wow, you’re doing quite a few things with them,” she said. “I know you like the daughter. Do you like the dad?”
I thought about it for a minute. “Yes. I suppose I do”.
“I don’t hear great gushes of emotion,” Tanya said.
“Maybe I’ve grown up a little,” I answered, thinking aloud but not sure I’d put my finger on it, exactly.
“French bread?” Tanya offered helpfully. The year before, I’d been attracted to Luc before I knew he was engaged to be married. I’d told my friend I’d always been looking for the exciting guy, the cake. But that now, maybe I was ready for something long term—bread. French bread, she’d teased, knowing I was going to France.
I wasn’t exactly sure how I felt, or how the French Bread coming to pick me up in an hour felt.
“I’m having a good time,” I said softly. “Maybe that’s enough for today?”
“You’re right, Lex,” Tanya said. “You’re changing. I miss seeing that change in you. Maybe we’ll come to France for our honeymoon!” she teased.
“Oh yeah”. I laughed. “Just what every guy wants. His wife’s best friend along for the honeymoon!”
She laughed and we talked a while longer before hanging up. When Céline and Philippe arrived an hour later, I was ready for them—woven shopping basket and all. We set out in his little car, and he carefully drove down the road.
“Luc said all Frenchmen were crazy drivers,” I said, trying to make pleasant conversation. “You certainly are an exception to that rule!”
There was a silence from both front and backseat. Finally, Philippe answered.
“My wife and my mother were killed in the same auto accident some years back. So, naturellement, I am more careful than some”.
Great, Lexi! Way to start off the outing. “I’m sorry,” I said.
“Not at all”. Philippe looked at me and smiled. “You didn’t know”.
I said nothing, but I wondered about his first wife and why no one talked about her.
We drove out of the village and onto the autoway to Paris. I looked at the leaves changing from green to gold to cabernet outside my window. The day was gray but not wet, cool but not cold. I was glad I’d brought my sweater. Philippe had on a pair of jeans and a jean jacket and looked rather suave. He wore a watch with a black band.
“Brioche come out all right?” I asked, wondering about the dough we’d made some days past.
“Yes,” he said. “Just fine”.
But no one had asked me to bake bread since then. Perhaps the bread crew was fine. Then again, Patricia did fine with the pastries, and I always worked on those.
We parked at the flea market and Céline said, “See why we like it so much?”
I looked around and laughed with her, holding her hand. “Yes, indeed. It’s like a treasure hunt”. The market stretched for several city blocks before us. Haphazard booths squatted cheek to jowl with upscale tables, some tented to keep off the mist, some open to catch any ray of light to sparkle their wares. Women sat on low stools, gossiping, while their husbands wheedled.
“A treasure hunt, Papa,” Céline said. Philippe took her other hand and she walked between us.
Philippe explained that flea markets—like everything else of import, he teased—started in France. The nobility sold their castoff clothing, some filthy and containing fleas, to tinkers and other traders who then resold them in the streets of Paris—a market of fleas. In the hundreds of years since, several flea markets had developed around Paris, selling all sorts of secondhand goods.
A swirl of chatter and bargaining surrounded us, punctuated by a laugh here and there or a call to old friends and new customers. We moved from booth to booth.
“Look here!” Céline said, and she and I picked through a table of old perfume bottles—rose cut glass, light blue crystal, hand-blown opal and am
ber. Some still had the little hand-held poufer, which, when squeezed, emitted a faint breath of floral air. I puffed one on Céline and then bought one for my Nonna at home.
We dug through a table of old military medals. “Fakes, I’m sure,” Philippe said, but I picked one up for my dad, anyway. It was engraved with the words, “Napoléon, Emperor, King,” and would make a funny gift.
Céline’s eyes lit when she saw the next table. “Les fèves!” she said.
We walked over to the booth crammed with baking and cooking paraphernalia. I browsed through some old cookbooks and magazines, then looked at some tin Madeleine pans.
“Good quality,” Philippe agreed as I tucked one under my arm to pay for later. At the table in the back were hundreds, maybe thousands, of hand-painted figurines. Some had professions on them—baker, fishmonger, cheesemonger, journalist. Many were in the figure of the Baby Jesus, Joseph, and Mary.
“Madame sees some she likes?” the proprietor asked me.
“Mademoiselle,” I corrected gently. He looked at Céline and Philippe and shrugged.
“Mademoiselle,” he said. “I have the best fèves in the market. Each and every one is hand-painted, and all have been lovingly baked into the best galette des rois in France”.
I examined several and started setting some aside, appreciating them more now. After Céline had mentioned them, I’d done some research. The cakes, galette des rois, or kings’ cakes, were baked on January 6, which is Epiphany. To celebrate the wise men coming to worship Jesus, French families baked the kings’ cake with a bean inside it. Whoever got the bean in his or her piece would be the king or queen for a day, and have all their wishes granted. Later, porcelain figures replaced the beans, although they were still called fèves.
Philippe stood next to me, sorting through the pile for the best formed and painted ones.
“Is it strange to you that so many French customs and holidays revolve around Christianity, and yet so few French people have any desire for Christ Himself?” I asked.
He set a few fèves aside before answering. “In France, religion is very private. It is personal. People have their lives, their vacations, their food and wine”.