by Sandra Byrd
Anne arrived shortly thereafter, and it was fun to have my friend baking with me. Anne worked on breakfast pastries. She worked quickly, quietly, and with intensity. Nearly everything came out as nicely as if Patricia had done it herself. I worked on the petits fours that were to be picked up in a few hours. I had to refrost several of them, as my mind was not on my work.
It was on Dan and Nancy, and if they stopped in L’Esperance together to eat breakfast pastries. I wondered if he was happier than Sophie made it seem, good friend that she was.
I needed a break and some food therapy. I picked an almond croissant from one of Anne’s baking racks. “These look good enough to eat!”
“Thank you,” she said, blushing. I grinned. I wasn’t the only one who blushed easily!
At ten o’clock, Simone came back to the cool room. “Madame Gasçon is here for her petits fours,” she said a bit timidly. I realized she truly wanted me to succeed. I motioned for her to come back.
“C’est si bon?” I asked her. “Are they good enough?”
She looked over the ones I had decorated like gifts, and some with tiny sprays of autumn flowers piped on them. I had made some dots of grapes nestled among tiny chocolate leaves, just turning colors. I’d made some with squash and pumpkins and courgettes, zucchini. All fall themes, but unusual décor for petits fours.
“Très, très belle,” Simone said as she exhaled. “Like nothing we’ve seen here before. With an American touch, perhaps?” She grinned at me, grabbed my shoulders, and kissed each of my cheeks. “Allez! Madame is waiting!”
I quickly boxed them up and delivered them to Madame Gasçon. I opened the box for her. “Will these do?” I asked.
She looked them over and smiled. “Oui,” she said. “The most beautiful! Merci”.
“Bon,” Simone said as Madame left. “She is a hard biscuit”.
I wrinkled my brow. “A hard biscuit?”
Simone’s face dropped. “I am trying my English. Hard biscuit is not right?”
I switched my brain back to English. “Ah!” I said, the light going on. “A tough cookie! Someone hard to please!”
“Yes!” Simone said. “That is what I mean. Jerry Lewis says that, n’est-ce pas?” We giggled together, and I knew our misunderstanding about préservatifs was now corrected.
I made myself a café express, thankful Monsieur Delacroix required espresso as much as any Seattleite I knew and had installed a machine in the back. Besides, a little coffee might help me catch up to Anne’s productivity.
I set about making the apple galettes.
Simple Apple Galettes
Ingredients:
1 sheet frozen puff pastry (approximately 8 ounces)
2 Granny Smith apples
2 Tbs butter
2 Tbs brown sugar
½ cup slivered almonds, toasted
¼ cup whipping cream
½ tsp almond extract
3 Tbs sugar
Directions:
Preheat the oven to 400 degrees. Thaw and bake puff pastry sheet as indicated on box. Set aside to cool.
While puff pastry is baking and cooling, peel apples and then slice Into about ½-inch thick wedges. In a small saucepan, melt 2 Tbs butter; stir In brown sugar, then stir In apple slices. Cook over medium heat till slices are softened but not mushy. Remove from heat.
Whip together cream, almond extract, and sugar. Beat until cream holds peaks when beater Is removed.
Cut puff pastry into four squares, top with apple mix, then whipped cream, and sprinkle with toasted almonds. Serve.
Anne and I took a late lunch together at a café a few blocks from the bakery. “How are things going?” I asked.
“Good!” she said. “I love working there. What a nice bakery. Patricia and Philippe wrote out everything they needed done, and Kamil is a great help too”.
“You’re very fast,” I said. “Normally, Patricia does both our jobs. Philippe is faster than Kamil, I know, but he’s catching up”.
“I’ve been talking to some other people in class, and I know being able to produce good stuff relatively quickly is important in employment. I’m trying to get faster”.
I wasn’t fast. Maybe it would come with time and practice. Unfortunately, I only had six weeks left to practice, whereas people like Anne and Kamil had worked in bakeries for years.
“Speaking of other students,” Anne said, “what do you think of Désirée’s gâteau au fromage blanc?”
“I was surprised,” I said. “I truly thought she was sabotaging everyone else”.
“And what do you think now?”
“I still think she is,” I said. “Though I’m surprised she was willing to risk looking bad in order to draw attention away”.
“Did you notice she did it on a day when Chef Desfreres was not there?”
“Oui,” I replied. “I’d noticed. She’s smart … and maybe dangerous”.
“I don’t know that she’s dangerous. Just perhaps, dramatique. We will have to watch out for her,” Anne said. “We can watch out for one another. I think Jean-Yves and Juju know too”.
“What’s the worst she could do?” I asked, spooning up another mouthful of butternut squash soup. I loved squash.
“She could ruin the exhibition, somehow,” Anne answered.
I set my spoon down. That would be bad.
“Speaking of the exhibition,” Anne said. “My mother is going to come. And maybe my boss from the old bakery. It’s a big deal”.
I was so happy for her. I’d wondered if she’d have anyone there.
“Everyone I know in France and maybe my old boss from America is coming to see me,” I said. “Patricia told me I have to be in the top ten in order to work for Monsieur Delacroix”.
“You can do it!” Anne said. “I know you can. We’ll help each other”.
After lunch we went back to the bakery. Simone was in a dither.
“Lexi! Anne! A birthday cake order has come in for Sunday. A very large cake—four layers. White chocolate with raspberry filling, decorated parfaitement. I would normally have said non, since Patricia is not here, but the lady ordering the cake is the schoolteacher of Céline. I did not want to turn her away. Can one of you make it?”
“I can,” I said before Anne could say anything. I looked at her. “If it’s all right with you”.
“Bien sûr,” Anne said. “Of course. Your work is much prettier than mine”. She sounded matter of fact, though I wondered if I had jumped in too quickly. But I wanted this chance.
I’d work on the cake Saturday night and Sunday morning after my other orders were done. I wanted it to be perfect.
Saturday I came in early and finished the strawberry tarts. Anne helped me brush glaze over them, and I made two extra—one for each of us to pop into our mouths with the midmorning express. Then I made the tarte aux nougat-pommes for Monsieur Étienne. As soon as I was ready to box it up—two hours early—it fell apart. The nut powder in the recipe made them notoriously crumbly, but I thought I had added enough butter to compensate and hold it together.
“Help!” I called to Anne. Kamil nodded that he had everything under control, and she helped me fashion another crust. I filled it with apple filling and caramelized another topping. Ten minutes before Monsieur Étienne was to arrive, we finished.
“Thank you,” I said. “I’d have never been able to do it without you”. How did Patricia do this on her own? Would I ever be able to do this on my own? Or was this destined to be yet another career that Lexi tried, couldn’t master, and failed?
“No problème,” Anne said, ending graciously with, “I wouldn’t be here without you”.
I brought it forward to Simone, who kept it set aside for Monsieur Étienne. She reported later that he had sniffed and said it would do, which was apparently high praise.
I was just settling in to prepare the large birthday cake when Simone came to get me.
“I’m leaving,” she said, “but there is a phone call for you.
An American man”.
Anne was pulling on her coat, getting ready to go home for the night. “I think I’ll stay for just a minute,” she said, grinning. I grinned back. It was okay to be nosy if you were a good friend.
I picked up the phone. “Hello?” I said in English.
“Lexi? It’s Dan. Is … is this the right number? It’s the one you e-mailed me”.
I was not prepared for the jolt I felt upon hearing his voice. You know the old cliché about knees going weak? It made my knees go weak.
“Hey, Dan. I’m sorry. I was in such a rush yesterday morning that I must have given you the bakery number. I’m—I’m glad you got me, though”.
“I’m glad I got you too,” he said. Did he intend that double entendre? He’d started out the conversation with a very businesslike tone of voice, but he’d softened. I wondered how his knees were doing. I wondered where Nancy was.
“I’m leaving tomorrow for my sister’s wedding, and I just wanted to check in with you and make sure we’re set for next weekend. I wondered if you’d be able to take any time off. I’ll be in Paris for three days”.
“I think so. I’ll have to check,” I said. “Will you be in touch through e-mail?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Don’t worry, the weekend is my treat. You show me the sights, I’ll pay the way”.
“Okay,” I said. “See you soon”.
“I’m looking forward to it,” he said softly.
I hung up the phone, and stood there until Simone nudged me.
“Ça va?” she asked. “Is everything okay?”
“Oh, oh yes,” I said. I went back to the kitchen.
“You look like you’ve been standing near the oven,” Anne said. “What’s going on?”
“A man I’d just started dating before I moved to France is coming to Paris next week. He wants me to show him the sights, and I told him I would. That’s all”.
“I’d be glad to fill in for you next week if you take time off,” Anne said. “It’ll be a nice break from job hunting!”
“Thank you,” I said, with mixed emotions. “I don’t know how I feel about it yet. Seeing him again”.
“Ah,” Anne said. “And here I thought there was something happening with Philippe”.
I said nothing.
“Is there?” she asked. “You don’t have to tell me, of course”.
“No, no,” I said, keeping my voice down so the others couldn’t hear. “It’s all right. When I left Seattle, Dan and I parted with no strings attached, you understand? Because I may live here forever and, well, who knows?”
“I understand,” she said. “But you still have strong feelings for him?”
I nodded.
“And Philippe?” she continued.
“I don’t know yet,” I said. “I like Philippe, but I’m the girl who’s had three boyfriends her entire life. We’ve been out a few times, nothing serious, but I like him. And Céline”. I shrugged in confusion. “I don’t have a recipe to follow for this”.
“You bake by instinct, anyway,” Anne said. “I’ve been watching you. I prepare. You create. Create what you want from this”.
She kissed both of my cheeks and left me in the laboratoire by myself to create the cake.
The only difficulty was, I didn’t know exactly what I wanted to create or how to go about making sure it turned out perfect.
I took the last train home that night, and before I flopped into bed, I checked my e-mail. One from Sophie.
Lex, not much more I can tell you. I have no idea when Dominique is going home. She and Luc have had several screaming sessions behind closed doors. Marianne tries to fix things, but we don’t see much of her, especially now.
Luc leased a new place in Fremont, thinking it would be a great new bakery. Remember, he was looking for one when you lived here? Well, after he signed a one-year lease, starting in January, he found out there is a license for food preparation but no service license—no one can eat there. That might work in France, but not here. People expect to be able to sit in the café and eat. Especially for a kitchen this size. I have no idea what he’s going to do, and I suspect his uncle and mother do not know yet. Don’t spill the beans. He’s going to try to get out of the lease, and I’m betting he can. And then, with him and Marianne … well, I’ve probably said too much already. Don’t want to gossip.
Wish we could have lunch. How about I fly over tomorrow? Ha ha. Just kidding. I’m lucky if I get to Oregon.
Soph
Wow. I didn’t envy Luc having to tell Monsieur Delacroix the bad news. I said a quick prayer that Luc would be able to get out of the lease. I, like Sophie, bet he could.
The next morning I hopped on the early train to the bakery. Kamil and his crew were already baking. Anne had arrived early too.
“Come here,” I said, leading her to the walk-in. I opened the door and showed her the birthday cake I’d made last night.
“Oh, it’s fantastique!” she said. “The raspberries, dusted with gold, look like jewels! The pink ribbon encircling each layer looks like the satin bow on a wedding dress!”
Something clicked inside. I made a mental note to come back to it later.
“Do you want to go to church today?” she asked. “It’s a slow day, and I can handle it”.
I wrestled with conflicting thoughts—on one hand, I didn’t want to leave her working here while I did something else. On the other hand, things really were under control, and I had stayed really late last night.
Trust me, I heard in my heart.
“Yeah,” I said. I looked at my watch. “If I go now, I’ll make the service. Then I’ll come straight back”.
“No problème,” Anne said. “It’s under control”.
I walked into church in the middle of the worship tunes. I noticed Gabby was absent, and wondered for a moment if she’d finagled herself a trip to Provence. Buki was there and scooted over to make room for me in her pew.
“Thank you,” I said, and she took my hand and squeezed it. The simple display of Christlike friendship brought a tear to my eye. I told myself I was just tired.
After the sermon, the pastor invited us for La Sainte Cene, the holy late meal, which is how the French refer to the Lord’s Supper.
I was so glad Anne had come to church with me last week, and yet so glad she wasn’t here with me this week. I wanted to be intimate with my Lord—to remember Him, yes, but also to enjoy the indescribable mysticism that came from sharing His body and blood.
I waited in line with the others, eager for the sacrament.
It looks good now because you’re hungry, I thought. I’d had to be empty and alone before I realized my hunger for Him. I had to stop stuffing myself with distractions in order to feel my need. It took me leaving home to realize how hungry I was for God.
As I received the bread, I heard a still, small voice gently say, Bon appétit. Enjoy the meal for your soul. Food is life.
I took the bread, remembered, and drank the wine, still a little surprised at the taste of it. I’d never been in a church that served wine rather than grape juice. But it felt and tasted right, rich and deep and bittersweet, like that which it represented.
“Merci, Seigneur,” I answered the Lord.
Back in my seat, I looked at my program for the day and read again John 6:53–58, the passage the pastor had preached on.
Jesus said to them, “I tell you the truth, unless you eat the flesh of the Son of Man and drink his blood, you have no life in you. Whoever eats my flesh and drinks my blood has eternal life, and I will raise him up at the last day. For my flesh is real food and my blood is real drink. Whoever eats my flesh and drinks my blood remains in me, and I in him. Just as the living Father sent me and I live because of the Father, so the one who feeds on me will live because of me. This is the bread that came down from heaven. Your forefathers ate manna and died, but he who feeds on this bread will live forever”.
I smiled, remembering the pastor had told me Jean was a g
reat book for chefs. I understood more deeply than I had before. Food is life.
Eleven
There’s nothing better than a good friend,
except a good friend with chocolate.
Linda Grayson
Monday afternoon I went to the village bakery. Odious was polite to me, so I instantly knew something was up.
“Lexi, would you like to make the chocolate nubs for this week’s pain au chocolat?” Maman asked. She too seemed rather chipper. Maybe it was just that I’d been at Rambouillet the last week. “I understand you’re working with chocolate at school”.
“I am,” I said. I went to the back of the prep kitchen and took down the thick bars of chocolate. I would have to temper the chocolate and form it into the long sticks we rolled croissant dough around.
“It’s fun, isn’t it? And I’m sure you do well”. Maman bustled back to the dough she’d been stirring in the back.
I watched her walk away and shook my head to clear it. I wouldn’t have to wait long to find out what was going on, though.
“How was Rambouillet?” Odious came back a few minutes later to ask.
“Very nice,” I answered. “It was fun to be in charge of the laboratoire for a few days,” I threw in, just in case she didn’t know. She registered no surprise, so I gathered she did.
“I hear Philippe was kind enough to show you some of the famous pastry houses of Paris,” she continued. “I’m sure you have nothing like that in America”.
“Not that I know of,” I cheerfully admitted. It’s not like that was any great secret, and I wasn’t going to let her get under my skin. I think she was more mad about my date than anything else.
She turned to go. “Dominique is coming back soon. That’s why Maman is so happy. She misses her daughter, and I miss my friend. It will be nice to work with her again”.