Love À La Mode

by Stephanie Kate Strohm

  “What do you mean, this?”

  “Our reprieve! A week of pastry with someone who actually knows what he’s talking about when it comes to pastry.”

  “What are you talking about?” Rosie felt a weird, queasy feeling.

  “I told Denis we needed a break from butchering animal carcasses.”

  “What?!”

  “Well, specifically, I said I needed a break from Chef Martinet calling me a literal butcher because I can’t chop up some dead animal to her exacting specifications.” Bodie grinned.

  Once again, Bodie had texted Chef Laurent, and poof! He’d gotten exactly what he’d asked for. Rosie couldn’t even imagine. What kind of world did he live in, where he snapped his fingers, and just like that, it was done? Schedules changed and curriculum added and why not a Halloween dance, and sure, Bodie, whatever you want?

  “You didn’t—you didn’t do this for me, did you?”

  “No, no, no. I did it for me,” he insisted. Obviously. Rosie was embarrassed she’d even asked. Priya’s constant insistence that Bodie was flirting with her must have made her jump to crazy conclusions. Bodie wanted to bake—and take a break from butchering—just as badly as she did. “The fact that you’ve practically got cartoon bluebirds twittering around your head while you scoop flour is just a bonus.”

  “Well. Um . . . Okay, then,” Rosie said, unsure what to say. “Thanks, I guess.”

  So Rosie did what she did best. She went back to her station and lost herself in the butter and the flour.

  “How, exactly, are you doing this?” Priya was holding up her hands as if in surrender. They were covered in pilling, sticky pâté brisée. It looked like there was more pastry on Priya’s hands than on her workspace.

  “You added too much liquid.”

  “Not only do I not understand how you’re doing this, but I really don’t understand how you’re enjoying this.” Priya was attempting to pull the little pastry pills off her hands and add them to the smear of dough on her cutting board. “This is bloody torture.”

  Rosie thought Priya should probably start over, but they still had two more crusts to make and chill before class ended, so Rosie just grabbed a bench scraper and showed Priya how to use that to get it together. Technically, you weren’t supposed to use a bench scraper with pâté brisée—it was for bread dough—but hey, whatever worked.

  Rosie wasn’t seeing any cartoon birds, but she felt like something in her chest had loosened and floated away. As she started on her pâté sucrée, creaming the butter and sugar together, she had a feeling that felt, like, well . . . felt like home. And as she watched Henry working diligently several rows ahead of her, Rosie knew there was only one thing she had left to fix to make everything perfect.

  The Eiffel Tower. The idea burst into Rosie’s head uninvited, but she knew, instantly, that it was exactly where they should go. It was the most romantic place in the world! Today was too good to end already. Rosie would ask Henry to go to the Eiffel Tower with her, and she knew, she just knew, that once they were there together, they’d get everything back on track.

  Rosie pushed open the door to the bathroom and slid into a vacant stall. She’d get the flour off her hands, change, and hopefully be on her way to the Eiffel Tower with Henry in no time at all. She was almost buzzing with anticipation. Mere seconds after Rosie had locked the door, she heard two flushes.

  “Is everyone going home for Thanksgiving?” Elodie. Rosie was pretty sure. She saw a pair of Adidas Gazelles in rose pink walk toward the sink. Elodie, definitely. “All the Americans, anyway?”

  “No. Weirdly.” Clara. Of course. Who else would wear boots with heels to dinner? Most people wore sweatpants to dinner. Or pajamas, if they were feeling especially lazy. Hampus had even once had dinner in his bathrobe, before Madame Besson told him that pants were required in the cafeteria. “Henry’s staying. Marquis. I had thought Little Miss American Heartland would go home, to whatever Norman Rockwell painting she comes from, but she’s staying, too.”

  Little Miss American Heartland?! They were talking about her. Nobody else came from anywhere in America that could be considered the heartland by any stretch of the imagination. And there Rosie was, trapped in the bathroom stall. How was this happening to her?

  “She’s probably worried that if she goes home, Martinet won’t let her come back,” Elodie said.

  Hot shame burned at Rosie’s cheeks, at the back of her throat.

  “Probably. I don’t even know how she got in. Wasn’t it sad today, how happy she was that she finally got something right? If I was that pathetic, I’d just leave on my own.”

  “If you were that pathetic? Please. I can’t even imagine it.”

  They laughed, and Rosie heard the door swing shut behind them and their footsteps retreat down the hall. Rosie felt bile rising in her throat. She closed her eyes tight, determined to keep the hot tears that threatened to spill over at bay.

  Honestly, Rosie had barely thought about Clara for weeks. Somehow along the way, she’d stopped being bothered by Clara’s perfectly done hair and perfectly cooked food. It really hadn’t seemed to matter anymore. Which made hearing Clara talk about her a total surprise, and even more upsetting, somehow. Why would Clara think anything about Rosie? Rosie still wasn’t even sure that Clara knew her name.

  Maybe the best thing to do was to just leave the building. Yes. She’d leave the building. Rosie didn’t even bother to stop for her jacket as she power-walked down the stairs and out of the École. The cold hit her like a slap. Rosie didn’t have a destination in mind, but she wasn’t surprised when her feet led her to the door of the boulangerie. It was still open. The bell tinkled as Rosie pushed open the door and slipped in. The smell of bread and butter enveloped her like a hug, and Rosie breathed in deeply.

  “Bonjour!” Chef Petit called from behind the counter. “What is happening at the École this evening? My two best students have come to visit me!”

  Bodie Tal was leaning against the wall, eating a croissant from the look of the crumbs on his shirt. Chef Petit did make a dangerously flaky croissant.

  “Hey.” Bodie nodded at her.

  Rosie nodded back, trying not to let the disappointment flood her. She realized she’d been expecting to see Henry here. Rationally, she knew that was stupid. Henry was probably face-first in a bowl of boeuf bourguignon right now, wondering where she was. But part of her had been hoping Henry would just be here, somehow, magically. It felt wrong to see Bodie at the boulangerie, like looking at one of those spot-the-difference pictures, where something was glaringly not right. Bodie belonged at the École, not here. The boulangerie was for her and Henry.

  “Are you okay?” Bodie pushed off the wall, standing up straight, looking at Rosie with a concern in his eyes that made her cringe with embarrassment. “Your face looks . . . weird.”

  “I’m fine,” Rosie said stiffly. “I should—I should go.”

  “I have something for you to try!” Chef Petit singsonged from behind the counter, apparently having missed the awkwardness in their exchange.

  “I don’t— I can’t— I shouldn’t—”

  “On the house!” he called, disappearing into the kitchen. “Deux minutes! I need someone to taste!”

  Rosie and Bodie were alone in the front of the shop, staring at each other.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” he asked.

  “I’m fine.”

  “You don’t seem—”

  “Just finish your stupid croissant,” she said. What was wrong with her? Croissants—certainly Chef Petit’s croissants—were never stupid!

  “Okay then.” Bodie raised his eyebrows and popped the last bite into his mouth. “Whatever didn’t happen to you must have really been something.”

  “Étudiants!” Chef Petit returned from the kitchen, a fabric-lined basket in his hands. He paused behind the counter and pulled back the cloth to expose what was inside.

  “Cannelés,” Rosie said. Little cakes with a dark, cara
melized exterior. They had the shininess of a perfectly glazed donut, and even though Rosie had never had one—you had to have a special pan to make them, a cannelé mold—she knew the inside was supposed to be like custard.

  “Exactement!” Chef Petit said proudly. “You have had before?”

  “No,” Rosie said, at exactly the same time Bodie said, “Yeah, of course. With Dominique Ansel.” Good gravy. Of course Bodie was running around eating cannelés with the man who invented the Cronut. His real life was her Instagram feed.

  “Please, try.” He shook the basket at them. Rosie grabbed one eagerly—it was warm, but not hot. “Cannelés are from Bordeaux, not Paris, but I thought, why not try?”

  Rosie bit into hers and felt the slight crispness from the caramelized sugar on the exterior give way to a soft interior that was, yes, almost exactly like custard. She could taste vanilla—real vanilla, she had no doubt she’d seen flecks of vanilla bean—and the richness of eggs and milk, and oh, it was just so much better than she’d expected it to be. The contrast between inside and outside was unreal, like a magic trick—a pastry with a secret.

  “It is good! I can tell, from your faces,” Chef Petit said triumphantly. “Please, finish them. These are for you.” He handed the basket to Bodie. Rosie was already reaching inside for her second. “I will be closing the shop for the evening, but take your time.”

  “These are so good,” Rosie half moaned through a mouthful of cannelé.

  “Nothing a little sugar can’t fix, right?” Bodie said, setting the basket down on the counter.

  “Right.”

  And the sugar did make her feel better. Being in a place that smelled like baking always made her feel better. And it made her want to bake. Which was probably why a new idea popped into her head.

  “What are you doing for Thanksgiving?” Rosie asked.

  “Thanksgiving? Random, but okay.” Bodie rubbed his hands together, trying to get some of the stickiness off. “I think I’m going to LA. Kind of depends on my dad’s shooting schedule. There’s this whole live Food Network thing. They think Alton Brown’s hosting, but my dad might be involved? It’s not clear right now. And I think my mom might be doing a shoot for some anti-aging skincare line. I’m still not really sure what’s going on. Or where anyone’s going to be. Or if any of those places are places I can go.” His life, as always, remained totally baffling to her. TV shoots and modeling campaigns and all these crazy things. But also she couldn’t imagine not being sure where her family would be for Thanksgiving. Not being sure if there was a place for her at their table. “Are you going home?” he asked.

  “No,” Rosie said. “We should have Thanksgiving here. At the École.” Once she said it out loud, she was even more sure they should do it. “Except it doesn’t have to be turkey and stuffing, unless people want to make that. It should just be everyone making what they like best. The foods they eat with their family, or whatever their nanas taught them to make, you know? The foods that make them feel like home.”

  “Thanksgiving at the École,” Bodie mused. “I think I can help you with that.”

  Rosie was going to make this the best Thanksgiving ever. Even better than it would have been at home.

  And she’d even invite Elodie and Clara.

  Rosie hadn’t shown up for dinner.

  Nobody else seemed particularly concerned, but by the time Henry finished his second bowl of boeuf bourguignon and his third dinner roll, he started to wonder if something might be wrong.

  Maybe he should look for her. Yeah, he thought as he got up to clear his tray. That made sense. He could just take a casual walk, make sure everything was okay. Because if something was wrong . . . like, actually wrong . . . Henry knew exactly where she would go.

  He waved at everyone as he headed out of the cafeteria and pushed open the doors to the courtyard. Probably should have brought his jacket. Henry jogged a couple steps across the cobblestones, trying to warm up. Ugh. He could feel all the boeuf bourguignon sloshing around in his belly.

  Rosie had crushed it in the kitchen today. Henry couldn’t imagine what could have upset her. Probably, he was worrying about nothing, and she was still at the École. Maybe she was up in her room, Skyping her family. Maybe she’d come down to dinner minutes after he’d left. But still . . . there was no harm in checking.

  Henry turned the corner and saw the now familiar blue-and-white-striped awnings. She was at the boulangerie. The sign on the front door had flipped to FERMé, but the lights were still on inside, illuminating Rosie in the big display window. He saw her, leaning against the counter, talking animatedly as she gestured with her hands. Probably talking to Chef Petit about tarts, he thought, grinning. Henry walked toward the door, wondering if he might be able to score some end-of-the-day pastries, wondering if he could share them with Rosie, hoping everything was okay.

  But as he got closer to the door, he froze. Because now, from this angle, Henry could see who Rosie was talking to, and it wasn’t Chef Petit.

  It was Bodie Tal.

  What the . . . ? Henry ducked. Should he duck? No, now he was just an almost-adult man crouching on the stairs of a bakery like he was playing some kind of deranged game of hide-and-seek. Slowly, he rose back to standing and flattened himself around the corner, peeping back through the door.

  Rosie was still talking. Bodie nodded back at her, enthusiastically. Then he said something, and Rosie laughed, and it hit him like a punch in the gut. Rosie was fine. She was talking and laughing with Bodie, and . . . eating something with Bodie. He watched her pull something out of a basket on the counter and pop it in her mouth. They were eating together? No! That was their thing! His and Rosie’s!

  He couldn’t believe Rosie had taken Bodie here, of all places. To their place. The injustice of it all stuck in his throat, lodged there in a lump that made him worry he might start to cry. Or punch a hole straight through the boulangerie door. Well, this explained why Rosie hadn’t denied liking Bodie and hadn’t wanted to talk about what had happened at the dance. Clearly, she did like Bodie. Henry just couldn’t believe that she thought so little of him that she’d brought Bodie to their place. This was the worst kind of betrayal: when the person who’d hurt you didn’t even realize they’d hurt you. Or maybe didn’t even care.

  Henry watched Rosie rise up onto her tiptoes to hug Bodie—a quick squeeze, and then she released him. Henry felt newly aware of the two bowls of boeuf bourguignon he’d devoured. Watching Rosie and Bodie hug on a full stomach was even worse than jogging across the courtyard on a full stomach.

  Friday morning, Henry woke up with his worst Swedish TV hangover yet and poorly done homework. When they met before class, Ms. Whitman seemed disappointed by what he’d done, and Henry dreaded what she might say when she e-mailed his mom. Then he realized he’d forgotten to do the reading in English, bombed a pop quiz in history, and accidentally used the feminine while describing himself during all of French class. By the time he made it down to the kitchen and Chef Petit announced that for Dish of the Day they could create any dessert they wanted, all Henry wanted to do was go back to sleep and start the day over again.

  Henry blinked, but he wasn’t hallucinating—Chef Martinet had appeared in the kitchen. Henry swore he could feel something almost imperceptible change in the atmosphere. He was pretty sure that there would be no peppy French jazz bopping out of the speakers as they baked today.

  “Ah, oui! Chef Martinet!” Chef Petit waved Chef Martinet over to the front of the room with him enthusiastically. “Have you come today to taste our desserts?”

  “Yes,” Chef Martinet said, her voice clipped. “Bonjour, étudiants. I hope you have enjoyed your week of baking with Chef Petit. I am anxious to taste your dishes today and see what you have learned with him.”

  Anxious. Henry wondered if that was a weird translation thing, or if she was, in fact, anxious. He was feeling anxious. Henry still hadn’t successfully produced a Dish of the Day that Chef Martinet felt told her who he
was. At this point, Henry wasn’t even sure he knew who he was anymore.

  “I also wish to speak with you about your final exam for this semester.” At this new piece of information, a low buzz filled the room. Chef Martinet stared them down until the buzz was no more. “Your final exam will be simple. Please prepare a three-course meal that best represents who you are as a chef. Hopefully, you have learned well this week with Chef Petit, for your third course must be dessert.”

  A three-course meal. Anything they wanted! No more chopping, no more chickens, no more eggs—total freedom. Henry should have been ecstatic. But all he could think about was the fact that his Dishes of the Day—the only times they’d had any freedom—had been complete fails. Would his final meal be a fail, too?

  “And there is one final announcement.” More? There was more? “I will not be tasting your dishes alone. Chef Laurent will be available to join me for your presentation.”

  Now the buzz was more of an explosion. Everyone was talking so loudly and so excitedly, Henry couldn’t even make out any words, except for, over and over again, “Chef Laurent!” Hampus was shaking Henry’s arm with excitement. Henry worried it might pop right out of its socket.

  Chef Laurent. Here. At the École. Eating his food. Eating his food! Dad was gonna freak. Henry couldn’t believe he’d actually get to meet Chef Laurent. And not just, like, in line at a cookbook signing or something, but in the kitchen, where Chef Laurent would be eating his food. Chef Laurent. Eating. His. Food. Finally, Henry could think about something other than Rosie laughing it up at the boulangerie with Bodie.

  These three dishes had to be perfect. This wouldn’t be like Dish of the Day. It couldn’t be. Henry had to show Chef Laurent exactly who he was. Exactly what he could do. And how much Chef Laurent had inspired him.

  “That is all!” Henry could finally hear Chef Martinet over the noise in the kitchen, which had slowed to an excited babble. “Thank you. Perhaps you may consider today’s Dish of the Day as a test run for the third course of your final meal. Chef Petit, please proceed.”