“It’s impossible,” Henry agreed. When he’d tried, they’d come out sort of thick and gummy. “We have this awesome crêpe stand at the farmers market back home, though. I go every Sunday, in the summer.”
“These’ll be even better,” Marquis said. “Trust me.”
Henry held open the door, and after only a few minutes of struggle with the umbrella—he eventually subdued it—they filed inside.
Within, the restaurant was even narrower than the alley outside. There were only four tables, total. But the smell—the smell—Henry wanted to bottle it. He looked over to see that Rosie had closed her eyes, and was inhaling deeply.
A woman in a gray T-shirt and a white canvas apron leaned out from the open kitchen, her elbows resting on the pass-through. It seemed like the kitchen here was even smaller than the one in his family’s restaurant back home, which Henry had thought would have been impossible. She said something in French, which sounded friendly, not that he could understand any of it. Henry thought he might have caught bonjour, but he couldn’t even be confident in that. She said something else and gestured toward a table, then waited expectantly.
“D’accord.” Marquis nodded at her, smiling. “She says we should just push the tables together.”
“You understood that?” Henry asked as they started moving chairs and pushing tables.
“I understood enough.” Marquis lined up the last chair. Henry wondered if he could maneuver his way into sitting next to Rosie without looking too obvious. “I’ve been taking French since sixth grade.”
“I’m jealous,” Rosie said, as she slid into the chair next to where Henry was standing. She sat next to him! Henry couldn’t help the grin that broke out across his face. “We’ve only got Spanish at my school.”
“I’ve been taking French for ages, and I’m still rubbish,” Priya said, shaking her head. “That sounded like a load of bla-de-bla to me.”
“We’ll learn,” Rosie said, smiling at her. “French class starts on Monday, remember?”
“Ugh, don’t remind me.” Yumi groaned. “I don’t want to take classes. I just want to cook. I wish the École was a free pass out of school for the year.”
Henry agreed. His grades had never been good. He couldn’t imagine it would be any different here.
A bell tinkled at the door, and it opened to reveal Hampus, much to Henry’s astonishment.
“Hampus!” Henry waved at him, like he couldn’t see them. There were only seven people in the whole restaurant. “How did you find us?”
Hampus made his way to their table, struggling to navigate his considerable bulk and two bulging canvas tote bags through the tiny restaurant. “It was not challenging,” he said, settling himself into the vacant chair at the head of the table. “This is the best crêperie in Le Marais. And quite close. And I thought to myself, on a night like this, what would be better than a crêpe?”
“Brilliant deduction, Holmes,” Priya said, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips.
“What have you been up to?” Henry asked.
“Foraging!”
“Foraging?” Yumi asked, eyes narrowed, confused. “Like a squirrel?”
“Squirrel? What is squirrel?” Hampus asked, intrigued.
Henry thought of how to describe a squirrel. A more appealing rat? A rodent with a furry tail? Then Rosie drew her hands up into paws, nibbling at an imaginary acorn as she chattered, looking for all the world like a large, blondish squirrel.
“Yes! I know this animal! It is ekorre!” Hampus cheered.
Rosie dropped her hands into her lap, flushed, like she’d just realized she’d busted out a killer squirrel impression in the middle of a restaurant. Which she had.
“You must be lethal at charades,” Henry marveled.
“My brother,” she muttered. “My littlest brother. He, um, he likes animals.”
“So you’ve been running around Paris like a giant ekorre?” Yumi asked, looking at Hampus.
“Yes. Like the ekorre, I have found many treasures.”
Hampus nearly upended the table as he reached beneath it to grab his canvas bags. As she leaned forward to look inside, Rosie’s leg brushed Henry’s, and this time, she didn’t apologize, or move it away.
He hadn’t eaten a bite yet, but it was official: this was the best crêperie in Paris.
And Henry was going to kiss her. Tonight.
Rosie could not believe she had just gone full-on squirrel. In a restaurant. In front of two literal strangers, and five other people who weren’t strangers but were still new.
Thankfully, no one was staring at Rosie like she was a giant freak. Rosie could have kissed Yumi, who had skillfully turned the conversation away from her and back toward Hampus, who was excitedly grabbing bunches of greens out of his tote bag and shaking them enthusiastically, spraying little clods of dirt on the table. Rosie leaned in like she was paying attention, but she wasn’t. She was trying to remember the last time she’d gone out like this, with friends. She used to go to Applebee’s with her friends and eat greasy cheeseburger egg rolls until she thought she might barf, but she hadn’t gone in forever. She hadn’t really gone anywhere in forever.
“So they’re weeds,” Priya said, as Rosie drifted back into the conversation.
“Yes! There is much to be found foraging, even in these urban environments!” Hampus gestured to his weeds. “Of course, back home, there is much more to be found—mosses, lichens, all sorts of things—but even here, among the cobblestones, there is something.”
“I like this one,” Henry said. Rosie almost jumped as she realized he was eating weeds straight out of Hampus’s tote bag. “It’s kind of peppery.”
“Dude, you are going to get a disease.” Yumi shook her head. “Who knows what happened to that weed before you ate it? A dog could have peed on it!”
“Honestly, Yumi, we’re about to eat,” Priya said. “Can you not talk about weeing?”
“Many great chefs are foragers,” Hampus countered. “And I have seen many videos of urban foragers as well. You know Maangchi?”
“You know Maangchi?” Henry asked, grabbing a different weed, disregarding Yumi’s warning. “Ooo,” he said as he chewed. “Bitter.”
“Maangchi?” Rosie asked.
“She’s a Korean food blogger,” Henry said after he swallowed. “I’m surprised you’ve heard of her in Sweden.”
“Jukkasjärvi is very small, Henry,” Hampus said. “There are very few restaurants, and even fewer where one is able to eat foods from different places around the world. I learn from the internet.” Rosie certainly empathized with that. “I would very much like to try kimchi, but I cannot get the ingredients. It is impossible.”
“Come to Chicago,” Henry said. “My dad’ll feed you so much kimchi you’ll be sweating it out of your pores.”
“I’ve never had kimchi, either,” Rosie said. “But I’d love to try it.”
Henry looked like he was about to say something, but before he could, the waitress appeared with menus and left a stack on their table. Rosie picked up the single laminated sheet of paper with two columns, one labeled Gallettes with a numbered list of different items, the other Crêpes Sucres. Hmm. The only gallettes Rosie knew were free-form tarts with fruit fillings. But that couldn’t have been right. She scanned the numbered list below Gallettes—Oeuf. Jambon. Gruyère. Gruyère! That was a cheese! Definitely not a fruit tart, then.
“A gallette,” Hampus mused. “It is buckwheat flour, is it not?”
“Yeah.” Marquis nodded as his eyes scanned the menu. “Gallettes are crêpes made with buckwheat flour and savory toppings.”
“Ooo, even I know some of these,” Priya said. “Oeuf. Jambon. Egg. Ham. I really must have paid attention during that breakfast unit. Gets a bit dodgy once we head toward lunch foods, unfortunately. Sucre. Hmm. What’s a sucre, then?”
“Sugar,” Rosie answered. That was a word that certainly popped up often enough on the baking blogs she read. So those must ha
ve been the sweet crêpes. Here and there Rosie could pick out words that made sense—fruits, chocolat, bananes—and she wanted some of everything.
“I don’t know what any of this means, but I’m pretty sure I want one of everything,” Henry said quietly as everyone at the table asked Marquis translation questions, the conversation flowing around them. Rosie looked up at him quickly. “What?” he asked.
“Are you telepathic?”
“No. But I am planning to order an absolutely insane, truly disgusting amount of food,” Henry said. There was something about the way Henry smiled at her that made Rosie not embarrassed about briefly turning into a squirrel anymore, that made her feel like nothing she did could possibly be embarrassing. And there was something about the way he said what he wanted that made ordering an absolutely insane, truly disgusting amount of food seem like the right thing—no, the only thing—to do. “And what I really need is for you to save me from myself.”
“So . . . you don’t want me to let you order an insane amount of food?”
“Rosie! Please!” Henry looked shocked. “Let’s get one thing straight right now—I will always, always order an insane amount of food. And no one can stop me, so don’t even try.”
“So you need me to . . . ?”
“To help me eat it.”
“That I can do,” she said, and Henry held up his hand for a high five. She smacked his palm and found herself wishing the high five wasn’t the briefest, least romantic form of physical contact the world had ever known.
Eventually, the waitress came by and took their orders, which involved lots of pointing and some dismal attempts at French. Whenever Rosie tried to say sucre, it stuck in the back of her throat, and she couldn’t quite figure out how many syllables it was supposed to have. But she could point, and that was clear enough.
For as long as it had taken them to order, the food arrived in almost an instant. The waitress arrived bearing plates of crêpes stacked two deep on her arms, dropped them off at the table, and returned with more.
The gallettes were darker, a nut-brown from the buckwheat flour, and folded from a circle into a square, with the savory toppings peeping through invitingly. Rosie saw what looked like goat cheese on Yumi’s plate. And maybe ratatouille on Marquis’s. And over on the plate between her and Henry—ugh, a fat yellow egg stared back at her. Rosie still hadn’t forgiven eggs for the whole omelet debacle.
“It’s called oeuf miroir,” Henry said, poking the yolk with his fork almost reverentially, as Marquis and Yumi debated whether or not they should wait for everyone to get their food before they started eating. Yumi, her cheeks full of goat cheese, was firmly on the side of not. “It means egg mirror. Or mirror egg. I think. It looks kind of like a mirror, yeah? And then there’s ham and Gruyère underneath. Here, you can have the first bite.”
Rosie loved Gruyère. And that egg did look perfect. Maybe she could put aside her egg grudge. Just this one time. And so she took her fork and knife and cut a small square off the side of the plate.
Good gravy. The flavors exploded in her mouth. Buckwheat flour was a revelation—nuttier than she’d expected, not like a nut, really, but she couldn’t think of any other way to say it. It had a subtle flavor all its own, crisp edges from where it had been seared on the hot pan, and a perfectly soft, almost spongy texture within, where the Gruyère melted into the salty ham, and before Rosie knew it, she’d eaten three bites.
“Get some yolk!” Henry encouraged, pushing the plate closer toward her. “This yolk is everything. It adds this, like . . . creamy . . . fattiness . . . none of these words are right. . . .”
“Maybe we’ll learn the right words in French class on Monday,” Rosie suggested, taking the smallest bite of egg yolk. It was delicious. Stupid eggs.
“I have a feeling we’ll be stuck with Hi, my name is Henry for the foreseeable future,” he said glumly. Rosie was surprised. She couldn’t wait to start French class. Henry, obviously, felt otherwise.
“Priya, is that banana and Nutella?” Yumi shrieked from across the table. “I didn’t know you were so basic,” she teased.
“Sod off,” Priya said good-naturedly. “It’s the greatest combination known to man.”
Three more crêpes materialized in front of Henry and Rosie, one of which had three slices of banana and a drizzle of Nutella on top.
“I got banana-Nutella, too,” he said, grinning. “Guess that makes me basic.”
Next to the gallettes with their savory fillings, and even the banana-Nutella crêpe with its seductive chocolaty drizzle across the top, and especially next to whatever monstrosity Henry had ordered topped with three scoops of vanilla ice cream, the crêpe au sucre Rosie had selected certainly looked plain. It was a slim triangle dusted with sugar, but Rosie swore the sugar was sparkling in the dim light of the restaurant. She cut a tiny triangle off the tip and took a bite. Now this, this was everything. It was simple, but in the way that reminded Rosie that sometimes the simplest things were the best. The crêpe was golden and buttery and the caramelized sugar crunchy before it dissolved instantly, melting on Rosie’s tongue. It couldn’t be anything more than butter, sugar, flour, and milk. And yet . . . those simple ingredients were transformed into something transcendent. And that, Rosie thought, was exactly the power of cooking.
The banana-Nutella was addictive. And the crêpe with the ice cream was obviously delicious, if slightly insane. But Rosie found herself most enjoying the simple crêpe au sucre.
The mountains of crêpes disappeared at an alarmingly rapid pace. Eventually, only Henry was still eating, working doggedly through his mountain of ice cream.
“I’m stuffed,” Yumi groaned from across the table, clutching her belly. “Henry, how are you still going?”
“Sheer determination and force of will,” he said, and Rosie laughed. She had always thought she had the biggest sweet tooth in the world, but Henry was putting her to shame.
“Warning, everyone: it’s nine forty-five,” Priya announced.
“Finished just in time,” Henry said, and sure enough, he had chased the last melting bits of ice cream around the plate and put down his spoon.
“You sure you don’t want to lick the plate?” Rosie teased.
“Maybe next time.” Henry smiled. “When we know each other a little bit better.”
Rosie blushed as his eyes met hers, pleased, but suddenly shy about holding eye contact. Especially after some of Henry’s hair fell in front of his eyes, and Rosie was possessed by an almost irrepressible urge to smooth it away from his face and run her fingers through his hair. To keep herself from assaulting the side of his head, Rosie pressed her finger to the plate, picking up a few lingering sugar crystals, and stuck her finger in her mouth. Apparently, she was the one who wanted to lick her plate.
The waitress seemed content to let them sit there all evening, but Rosie was glad that no one was willing to risk missing curfew. Yumi got the bill with what Rosie was quickly recognizing as her signature flair, and Marquis helped them decode the check. They’d be back at the École with plenty of time to spare.
Despite all the crêpes in her belly, as they burst out of the restaurant and into the street, Rosie felt lighter than she had in months. Longer than that, maybe. Clutching Priya’s arm and laughing about nothing, really, Rosie followed the group back to the École.
“Hey, Rosie,” Henry called from behind her.
Rosie squeezed Priya’s arm and let her run on ahead, stopping and turning to see Henry loitering in front of a shop window with a neon-green cross.
“What do you think this place is?” he asked.
“Um . . . a pharmacy?” Rosie answered.
“How did you—”
She pointed up at the gold letters spelling out PHARMACIE over the door.
“Right.” He laughed as he reached up to scratch the back of his neck. Except he didn’t really laugh, he said, “Heh-heh-heh,” in a strange, strangled voice. “Obviously. Heh-heh-heh.”
“Henry, are you—?”
“Let’s walk,” he said abruptly.
“Um . . . okay?”
He was being weird. Really weird. Rosie watched his eyes dart from side to side as he walked down the sidewalk, hands jammed into his pockets. Then he stopped, just as abruptly as he’d started, and looked at her.
Wait. Was it happening? Like, actually happening this time, with no Madame Besson barging in with a cigarette? Rosie licked her lips nervously. What should she do? Should she lean in?
“Rosie?” he said, like he was asking a question.
“Henry,” she answered, hoping this was finally their moment.
“It’s nine fifty-seven!” Priya called from somewhere ahead of them in the darkness.
“Nine fifty-seven,” Rosie repeated, panic gripping her. “Henry! Come on!”
She started running, sprinting as fast as she could toward Priya’s voice, determined not to be late. After only a couple strides her chest burned and her legs ached—running was pure evil—but she had to get back to the École. Rosie heard Henry running alongside her. Gosh, she hoped it was dark enough that he couldn’t see how red and sweaty she was. Henry reached the gates a few paces before Rosie did, holding it open behind him as she slipped through. She stopped for a moment to catch her breath, feeling the uncomfortable prickle of sweat at her temples.
“Hold that gate!”
Rosie held the gate, as she turned to see who was yelling behind her. It was Bodie Tal, sprinting ahead of three others—Elodie and Clara, their arms around each other’s waists, and a guy with dark hair shuffling behind them. Maybe Fernando, Marquis’s roommate.
“Hey,” Bodie said, nodding at Rosie, like he knew her, which he did, technically. Sort of. She was still having trouble processing Bodie Tal as a person she actually knew, not as someone on a TV show or in a People magazine article. Rosie realized she was staring, so she nodded back at him, then lifted her hair over one shoulder, the weight of it suddenly clammy against her neck. “Did we make it?” he asked.
“It’s nine fifty-seven,” Rosie said, surprised by how cool her voice sounded, how detached, like she was just telling the time to a random passerby. Not Bodie Tal.
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