Three French Hens, Two Macarons, and Lovers in a Bakery: A Love Story Served With Indulgent French Desserts

by Noelle Love

  Three French Hens,

  Two Macarons,

  And Lovers In A Bakery

  A Love Story

  Served With

  Indulgent French Desserts

  By Noelle Love

  Copyright 2013 Noelle Love And Little Pearl Publishing. All Rights Reserved. Reproduction without permission is prohibited. No part of this report may be altered in any form whatsoever, electronic or mechanical -- including photocopying, recording, or by any informational storage or retrieval system without express written, dated, and signed permission from Noelle Love, the author, and Little Pearl Publishing. This content cannot be sold under any circumstances -- you have only personal rights to this product. This book and supplementary material was created to provide specific information regarding the subject matter covered.

  All images are solely owned by the author and publisher. All rights reserved.

  Recipes From The Two Macarons

  Chapter 1: Mousse au citron

  Chapter 2: Raspberry macarons with rose buttercream

  Chapter 3: Blackberry financiers

  Chapter 4: Tarte au chocolat

  Chapter 5: Charlotte a la framboise

  Chapter 6: Mille crepes

  Chapter 7: Kouign amann

  Chapter 8: Tarte a la citrouille

  Chapter 9: Petits pains au chocolat

  Chapter 10: Cocoa crème fraîche cupcakes

  Chapter 11: Punitions

  Chapter 12: La buche de noel

  Chapter 13: Croquembouche

  Chapter 14: Galette des rois

  Chapter 15: Cassis macaron

  Chapter 16: Crepes suzette with orange butter

  Chapter 17: Nougat noir

  Chapter 18: French apple tart with gold dust

  Chapter 19: Tarte tatin

  Chapter 20: Cream puffs

  Chapter 21: Gateau basque

  Chapter 22: Crème brulee

  Chapter 23: Pear tarte tatin

  Chapter 24: Cherry clafoutis

  Chapter 25: Petit palmiers

  Chapter 26: Quatre-quart cake

  Chapter 27: Napoleons

  Chapter 28: Madeleines

  Chapter 29: Chocolate frosted éclairs

  Chapter 30: Chocolate soufflé

  1

  December 22nd – The Eiffel Tower always looks lovely, regardless of the time of year. In spring, surrounded by the freshly opened buds decorating the nearby trees, the tower resembles a fancy ornament strategically placed by a landscape artist, handmade by someone in a foreign country so that the cost to you doubles. The hefty investment pays off, however, by the complement-filled conversations started by friends and family who travel to see it, now your pride and joy. In summer, droves of romantics disrobe at its base alongside the tourists seeking refuge under the waning shade. Ice cream vendors and souvenir peddlers collect money so easily one would think it actually grew from the metalwork. If it did, however, it is a fact that the Parisian upper-class would call it a disgrace and proceed to poison the seeds of money in the name of preserving their beloved national treasure, while, of course, pocketing a few to grow their private collection of Euros. In autumn the tower blends into the changing color palette, offering stunning photographs of its architecture robustly framed by the semi-nude branches of the maturing trees. If you’re lucky, after an October rainstorm, you can catch the reflection of it beautifully complicated by the lights of Paris. And then there’s winter. Freshly fallen snow blankets the surrounding sidewalks. Couples young and old bundle together, wrapped in seemingly endless pieces of material, Chanel, Lanvin, Dior, and Givenchy working together to keep the collective visitors fashionably warm, fashion trumping warmth if ever a choice had to be made. Frozen not due to the temperature but out of sheer respect of the season, the tower stands still, monstrously erect but with the decency to remain without offense, reminding all of Paris that this season, this wonderful and crazy Christmas season, is a gift, filled with enough magic to light up the world, if only you take the time to stop, look up, and notice.

  This night Margot cannot help but to stop and notice the tower. Staring up at it from the window of her storefront, she gets the eerie feeling that it is leaning her direction. With one more flake of snow, she thinks, the whole damn thing could come crashing down on top of her and her bakery. It might not be the worst way to go, entertaining the idea of eminent death. The headline would read: Two Macarons Obliterated By Tower, World Mourns For Tower And Feasts On Remains Of Failing Business. Margot had finally come to terms with that idea, not the enormous tower killing her and her friends, but the fact that her business, her once booming, successful, money-making business she loved was officially a flop. Without a miracle (and who believed in those anymore?) Margot would have to close shop, leave her beloved Paris, and try to convince the next guy she seduced, if he was rich enough of course, to marry her. It wasn’t the idea of monogamy that scared her (monogamy was a cinch so long as it was only a Monday through Friday type of deal), but it was the whole being dependent on someone else that made her feel nauseous. If it weren’t for fucking Aubin she would be content with the idea of marrying rich and spending his money on frivolity. In fact, she probably would have almost preferred it. But over the past year and a half, ever since being convinced by that bastard to become a businesswoman, her mind had changed. She was drunk off of her newly found power and success, and would have to be dragged kicking and screaming to rehab.

  “You want some?” Zenna offered Margot a spoon topped with her latest batch of mousse au citron. Sweet but with enough tartness to satisfy Margot’s sour mood, Margot accepted, licking the spoon clean and then nonchalantly taking the entire bowl out Zenna’s hands and plopping it snugly in her lap. Margot dangled her feet off the edge of the table, looking intently at her fiery-haired friend. She had gotten even more beautiful over the years, her light complexion lit up by the snow that reflected through the bakery’s front window. No one would guess that this stunning woman once lived on the dirty backstreets of Paris, entertaining passers-by with an upturned umbrella and oversized clothes to be sure that her son would have something to eat, something that didn’t come out of a dumpster, that night. Margot was proud of Zenna, persevering through a tough couple of years, saving money that she made on the street to pay her way through the prestigious pastry school, Olivier Bajard in Perpignan, nearly an eight hour ride on a train with a toddler in order to pursue what she loved – it didn’t hurt that the school was well-known for the handsome, albeit aging, male faculty. The thought of Zenna losing her job if the bakery closed made Zenna feel sick again. She took another bite of the mousse and faked a smile in the direction of her friend.

  From the back of the bakery, Tali emerged to catch a glimpse of the snow that was presently covering the decorated trees along the sidewalks out front. Tali was an artist, both with a paintbrush and a decorator’s bag, her bright blue eyes always searching for inspiration for her next visual confection. If Tali could see herself, Margot thought, she would never need to look out another window for inspiration. Tali was extraordinarily beautiful. So beautiful, in fact, that Margot almost felt protective of her, keeping her in the back of the bakery like an evil stepmother would keep a princess locked into a high tower, away from herself so as to not feel threatened and away from men so that she could have a fair chance to get some.

  But Margot wasn’t threatened by Tali. It was unusual for Margot to feel threatened by anything. She wasn’
t a conventional beauty, she thought, her features sharp and at times almost masculine, but she was confident. It was her overwhelming confidence that attracted men to her, powerful, rich, and handsome men like Aubin, like ants to sugar. In addition to her French-conceived confidence, Margot was admired by many for her ability to dress extremely well. And being able to say that in a fashion capital like Paris is a true compliment. She always looked put-together, often wearing low cut blouses to accentuate her long, pale neck and her short, chin-length hair, which had always been curly and always blonde, regardless of the adamant wishes of her and her hairstylist. Her hair, like Margot herself, had a mind of its own.

  The three French hens looked out the window of the bakery they had called home for nearly two years. Each of their gazes directed at the ominous structure that taunted them between the legs of the Eiffel Tower. The neon sign obnoxiously flashing “Delroy Doux” was enough to make Tali close the shutters of The Two Macarons. Even the beauty of the snow wasn’t worth putting up with the constant reminder that in a mere three days, barring a miracle in which they would have to make months’ worth of revenue in a matter of several dozen hours, all three of them would be out of a job and out on the streets. This thought, simultaneously crossing their minds like a grotesquely choreographed dance, made them synchronize their next movements, three spoons plummeting head first into what was left of the bowl of lemony mousse tucked away in Margot’s Lanvin-skirted lap.

  Mousse au Citron

  Serves 10 (or 3-4 worried women)

  Ingredients

  8 eggs

  1 ¼ cups sugar + 1 teaspoon

  ½ teaspoon salt

  4 lemons, for their juice and zest

  1 cup heavy cream

  1 ¼ teaspoons vanilla extract

  Directions

  In a saucepan, combine 4 whole eggs, 4 egg yolks (save the egg whites), and a cup of sugar; whisk to combine. Add the salt and lemon juice and zest, stirring until the mixture appears smooth. Heat the contents of the saucepan over medium heat, stirring constantly until the mixture thickens to a pudding-consistency. This should take about 10 minutes. Once done cooking the curd, strain the mixture into a large bowl, cover, and place in the refrigerator

  In a bowl whisk together the egg whites and leftover sugar. Continue whisking until the mixture holds stiff peaks; then add to the chilled curd, folding in gently until combined.

  In a separate bowl, whisk the cream and vanilla to form peaks. Then fold this mixture into the curd. Allow the mousse to chill before serving. If in a dire state of mind, eat directly from bowl. If the mind is in a more relaxed state, divide into individual bowls and enjoy.

  2

  Two Years Ago – Margot stared up at the ceiling of her boyfriend’s bedroom, listening to the bustle of Paris below, normal people rushing to work, pastry and coffee in hand, late as usual. She enjoyed not being normal and considered last night’s revelation, that her boyfriend, Aubin, just closed a huge deal with investors in London, selling his intellectual property, and, for all she knew, a bit of his soul, for the happy sum of 7.2 million Euros, a wonderful example of it. The number boggled Margot’s mind, but to Aubin, who grew up on the outskirts of Nice just minutes from the Cote d’Azur on the Guillory Estate nearly the size of Monaco itself, that deposit would just be another drop in the family’s now very full bucket.

  Aubin got up as usual, like a success-obsessed jockey mounted at the gate, chomping at the bit like the horse he was about to ride, eager for his next race. He pulled on his black briefs, blew Margot a half-hearted kiss from a few meters away (not bothering with the customary hand gesture – who had time for that?), and, in between brushstrokes, slurred out, “Hey babe, can you leave? I have a conference call in ten.” Margot nodded and slipped on her slinky dress from the night before. On her way out the door she took Aubin in one last time, admiring his chiseled face and dirty blonde hair, not too far from her own hair’s color. She had never seen Aubin work out, run, lift weights, or move with the intent of sweat at any point during their nearly eleven months together, but he had a body like a god. And, as any semi-religious girl should, that body was worshiped on a regular basis.

  Below the window of Aubin’s penthouse, which was on the other side of the Seine near the Champs-Elysees but far enough away from the silly Grande Roue de Paris to be taken seriously, Margot joined the herds of people below, knowing that so many of the women, like herself, were taking the ritual walk of shame, dressed in evening clothes, ridden like ponies the night before, and only slightly convinced that their male counterparts were going to call them anytime in the near future. Margot at least had the satisfaction of knowing her boyfriend was rich and that, even without a call, he would deliver what was now the customary dozen roses and the latest pair of Christian Louboutin from the designer himself who was unaware that his beautiful heels and their signature lipstick red soles had become the currency in the hiring of prostitutes for Paris’s elites.

  Margot rode the elevator up to her small flat in the Le Marais corner of Paris. Despite Aubin calling her building “an eyesore that even the fucking bohemians don’t appreciate,” she loved her home and its quirkiness. She loved the cobblestone paths, the lights that flickered on and off depending on the weather, and the artsy types that littered the stairs in front with their never ending rhymes and friendly yet intense banter. Unlike her ultra-rich boyfriend, Margot didn’t come from a lot of money and she could appreciate things for more than just a luxury price tag. She always considered her family just above average, but so did eighty percent of Paris. She took after her mother, being careful about the money she spent on necessities, like living expenses and food, saving every cent she could so that each season she could buy one designer outfit. Her mother was dedicated in this endeavor and, considering the 76 years she spent committed to her closet, boasted a wardrobe that often left people, even her closest friends, under the impression that her husband made a lot of money – he did not.

  Margot’s father was a writer, and not a very good one at that. He was incredibly smart, and probably could have been a doctor or a lawyer or a surgeon for all she knew, but he loved to write and was stubborn enough to not let the temptation of money or success take him away from his craft. As a girl, Margot remembered listening to her father expound on his ideas for his latest novels. All of them started out great, but that was exactly the problem. None of his stories, despite their bright beginnings, had ends. When Margot asked her father why he never finished what he was working on, he would smile and say, “How am I to know where everyone is supposed to end up? I breathe life; I don’t end it.” He would pull Margot towards him, plant his lips on her forehead, and pretend like he was blowing out the candles on a birthday cake. “There! My daughter, live!”

  She looked into her closet in her bedroom. She had a long way to go. But, looking up towards the ceiling as if to see what her mother thought, she knew that she was doing a good job of making her mom proud. She picked out her clothes for work later that day and slipped off the straps of her dress. Heading to the bathroom naked, past the hungry eyes of her little black and white cat that would have to wait just a bit longer for breakfast, Margot paused, catching a glimpse of herself in the hall mirror. Life was pretty good, she thought. Not perfect, but sensing that Aubin was going to propose to her sometime this spring, most likely on their trip to Ibiza, she felt like perfection wasn’t too far away. She loved Aubin, despite his sometimes aloof behavior, and she knew that he was in love too. Getting into the bath Margot thought about the fortuitous day where she would get to tell her demeaning boss at the magazine that she quits, that she is marrying a Guillory, and that she would be taken care of in the lap of luxury for the rest of her life. Margot allowed herself to slip deeper beneath the bubbles, in no hurry to get to her job at the gossip column, hoping to hear the knock on the door from the deliveryman with her roses and shoes any minute.

  Ten, twenty, twenty-five minutes passed and Margot’s fingers began to look l
ike the face of her elderly neighbor. “Time to get out,” she whispered to herself, her cat now pawing at the door no longer asking, but demanding, to be fed. Margot slipped on her robe and fed her cat, which, considering her tiny paycheck and the returning fashion of exposed midriffs, would most likely eat more than Margot herself today.

  Dressed in a just-above-the-knee pencil skirt and polka-dot silk blouse that buttoned down the back, Margot slipped on her heels, grabbed her phone and keys, and headed out the door for her short walk to work, nearly three hours after the majority of Paris left that morning. As she opened the door she was surprised to see a small white envelope drop to the floor. Figuring it was a message from the deliveryman and deciding she could wait until tomorrow for her latest Louboutins, Margot shoved the letter in her crowded leather purse and hurried down the stairs.

  It wasn’t until four that afternoon when Margot decided to check her phone for texts that she decided to open the letter out of sheer boredom. The handwriting indicated that this was not just a casual letter, but rather one of apparent urgency, scribbled hastily on the Guillory family’s stationary by Aubin.

  My place at five tonight – we need to talk. Can you bring food?

  Wanting time to go home and change before seeing her boyfriend, Margot feigned illness and rushed home. In the mood for Indian, Margot called her favorite restaurant near Aubin’s place, the aptly named India Palace, ordering more than she typically would have knowing that he would foot the bill. She then proceeded to strategically plan her outfit, each layer with its own seductive purpose, the boots to be unzipped by Aubin on the sofa, the coat to be shrugged off her shoulders upon entering, the buttons on her shirt opening one at a time coyly while they ate, and the black gilded lace romper, which with one pull of the string in the back, would gracefully fall to her ankles to the delight of her rich and handsome boyfriend’s awaiting hands.