Love À La Mode

by Stephanie Kate Strohm

  Now? They were supposed to make something now, after all that? Once again, when it was time for Dish of the Day, Henry felt like his brain had been completely wiped clean. Think, Henry. He knew he wasn’t a great pastry chef. And he certainly wasn’t functioning at his best today. He needed something simple he couldn’t screw up.

  Bread pudding? Henry had seen hundreds of bread puddings on the third round of Chopped. Bread pudding it was. Maybe he’d get dinged for using a baguette somebody else made, but he wasn’t in this one to win it. This was Rosie’s Dish of the Day—Henry had no doubt in his mind that she was going to crush it. He was still annoyed at her for bringing Bodie to their place, but not so annoyed that he wanted her to fail.

  Henry cubed the slightly stale baguette he found in the back of the room, remembering how Rosie had smelled his bread the first time he’d bought one at the boulangerie. Argh! No! He didn’t want to think about her. He whisked his eggs so forcefully they sloshed over the side of his bowl, like if he only whisked hard enough he could drive her from his mind. But he couldn’t, of course. He thought of the way Rosie’s eyelashes had lowered before she’d kissed him by the Seine, of the sugar on her lips as they’d met his, and the way her arms had wound their way around his neck. He’d thought she really liked him. She’d kissed him like she had. And Henry couldn’t—wouldn’t—believe that she’d kissed Bodie like that, too. From the moment he’d seen her on the plane, there hadn’t been anyone else for him. And he thought she’d felt the same way. Or maybe he’d just wanted so badly for her to feel the same way, he started to believe in something that wasn’t actually there.

  Before Henry knew it, he realized he’d assembled the entire bread pudding without putting any sugar in.

  He could barely muster up the energy to care as Chefs Petit and Martinet took bites of his dessert, their faces contorting with confusion. While Chef Martinet derided bread pudding as yet another safe choice, Chef Petit kindly assumed Henry had attempted some sort of failed play on sweet and savory, and Henry let him think that—it was less embarrassing than admitting he’d forgotten the sugar because he was obsessed with the fact that he’d once kissed someone who was clearly into another guy.

  Until Chef Martinet arrived at Bodie’s station, Henry hadn’t paid attention to any of her critiques. But he couldn’t help but hear that she thought Bodie’s creation was “marvelous.” Privately, Henry thought a “black sesame sponge cake with poached longan, popcorn brittle, and a miso-butterscotch gastrique” sounded unbearably pretentious, not to mention that miso-butterscotch was so played out.

  When the Chefs made it to Rosie’s station, Henry could feel his pulse speeding up. Chef Martinet poked Priya’s cake with her spoon, and Henry swore he could hear the spoon knocking against something hard from all the way up at the front of the room. Chef Martinet deemed it “inedible” and wouldn’t even try it. Chef Petit gamely took a bite but seemed to be having an incredibly hard time chewing. Eventually, after expending what looked like superhuman effort, he swallowed it. And then it was Rosie’s turn. And even with all the confusion swirling between his brain and his heart, Henry couldn’t wait to see her blow them away.

  Only . . . she didn’t. Henry could tell something was wrong before they even tried her dish. He saw Chef Petit place his hand on Rosie’s shoulder, and he murmured something, low enough that Henry couldn’t hear it, but he could see the concern etched on Chef Petit’s brow. Rosie shook her head, then looked away, like she couldn’t meet his eyes. Her face was red as Chef Martinet took a bite of what looked like cheesecake, pursed her lips, and then sighed. Chef Petit squeezed Rosie’s shoulder and said something else to her as Chef Martinet walked back up to the front of the room. Rosie nodded.

  As Chef Martinet started talking about next week, Henry wasn’t even paying attention. What had happened? He knew Rosie could make cheesecake. He was sure of it. She could bake anything.

  Chef Martinet announced Bodie Tal had won Dish of the Day, and Henry felt an unfamiliar urge to punch the smile right off his smug face. That was Rosie’s spot. Bodie had done fine during pastry week, but Rosie had been the one who had crushed it, day after day. She deserved the win, not that miso-butterscotch poser.

  After writing Bodie’s name on the whiteboard, Chef Martinet dismissed class, and everyone massed toward the doors, scurrying upstairs to change out of their chef’s whites before dinner, the major topic of conversation, of course, being the final exam and Chef Laurent’s impending visit. Henry hung back in the hall after they’d climbed the stairs from the basement, bobbing and weaving his way back to Rosie, not sure if he was even ready to talk to her, but drawn to her side anyway, knowing she’d be upset.

  “I was worried poor Chef Petit was about to crack a tooth,” Henry heard Priya say. “I honestly haven’t the foggiest idea what happened with that bake.”

  “I don’t know what happened, either.” Henry hated how despondent Rosie sounded. “I’ve made hundreds of cheesecakes, and they’ve never had a crack like that. Maybe I shouldn’t have attempted something so complicated,” she added glumly. “Chèvre cheesecake with honey-rosemary poached pears and pistachio sablé crust. Who do I think I am? I’m not chèvre and rosemary. I’m chocolate chip cookies. I’m butterscotch pudding. I’m brownies. I’m basic.”

  “Excuse me.” Bodie Tal squeezed past Henry, flashing him a smile that had definitely been professionally whitened. But it was a sincere professionally whitened smile, which just made everything worse. There was a part of Henry that still kind of wanted to punch Bodie, but now he felt bad about it. Henry slipped past Rosie and Bodie and made his way back upstairs to his room before he said—or did—something he’d regret.

  By the time Henry and Hampus changed, walked down to the cafeteria, and grabbed a plate of whatever fish-and-vegetable thing was being served for dinner, Rosie, Priya, Marquis, and Yumi were already sitting at their table, chatting away, and Rosie didn’t look upset at all anymore. Probably because Bodie had cheered her up somehow, Henry thought morosely.

  “Do you celebrate Thanksgiving in Tokyo?” Rosie asked Yumi. “With your mom?”

  “Sure. But she hates cooking. And she says turkey is overrated. So we’ve never done the big turkey and gravy thing. Mom says the most important part of Thanksgiving is feeling uncomfortably full. So every year we head to Ginza and eat yakitori until we’re about to explode.”

  “Yakitori?” Rosie asked.

  “Chicken on a stick. But trust me, that description does not do it justice.”

  “Do you think you could do it here?”

  “What? At the École?” Yumi asked, confused.

  “Yes, at the École,” Rosie said. “I want to have Thanksgiving here.”

  “A real American Thanksgiving!” Hampus said eagerly.

  “Yup. A real American Thanksgiving. With Japanese chicken,” Yumi said.

  “Or with whatever anyone wants to make!” Rosie said. “It doesn’t have to be American. I want people to cook their favorite dishes. The foods that make them feel like home. I mean . . . we talk about all these foods that I’ve never even tried. We never get to taste each other’s food, you know? So that’s what we should do for Thanksgiving.”

  “Oh, man. I love Thanksgiving,” Marquis said. “Every year at my grandma’s place, we’ve got tables full of trays of mac and cheese as far as the eye can see. The good kind, that gets all crispy on top, but is all gooey and cheesy inside.”

  “That sounds ace,” Priya said dreamily.

  “You know you have to make that now, right?” Yumi asked him. “Like, you have to make it for Fakesgiving, or I’m going to murder you.”

  “It’s not Fakesgiving. It’s a very Realsgiving. What about you, Henry?” Rosie asked him. “What do you do for Thanksgiving?”

  Be normal, Henry admonished himself. Rosie didn’t even know he’d seen her with Bodie at the boulangerie. And she might not even think it was a big deal. The last thing he wanted was for her to pity him because she’d
hurt his feelings. Even thinking about it made him feel like a giant baby.

  “My dad loves to cook,” he said, still unable to quite meet Rosie’s eyes. “So on Thanksgiving, it’s all about the two of us. We don’t usually do turkey—we do duck a lot, actually—but I do have one Thanksgiving obsession: mashed potatoes.”

  Rosie burst out laughing, and finally, Henry looked at her. She mouthed “Potato maniac” at him, and he felt the bundle of hurt and anger he’d been carrying around with him start to dissipate.

  “Oh, I love the mashed potatoes.” Hampus put his chin in his hand and sighed. “Have you had them with meatballs? And gravy? And lingonberry jam?”

  “Um . . . at the Ikea in Schaumburg. Once.”

  Hampus recoiled like Henry had just slapped him.

  “I do not know where Schaumburg is, but of this, I do not approve.” Hampus shook his head at Henry, and then turned to Rosie. “For your Thanksgiving, Rosie, I will make the meatballs. And the gravy. And the jam. If I can find the lingonberries.”

  “That sounds perfect,” Rosie said. “And Priya’s already promised me samosa.”

  “And you’ll actually be able to chew them, I assure you,” Priya said. “Unlike the Victoria Sandwich I foolishly attempted for Dish of the Day.”

  “Samosa. Another great potato dish,” Henry said.

  “You’re obsessed. I really think you have a problem.” Rosie shook her head at him.

  “Potatoes are never a problem,” Henry replied.

  “So is this a ‘just us’ thing, or are you inviting all the randos?” Yumi gestured to everyone else sitting in the cafeteria.

  “They’re not randos, Yumi. They’re our classmates. Of course they’re invited. So I should probably . . . invite them,” Rosie said. “I hadn’t really thought about how to do that.”

  “Stand up and ask them!” Priya suggested. “Now! Go on!”

  “Now?” Rosie looked around the cafeteria. “Here?”

  “Yeah,” Henry agreed, warming to the idea. “Why not? Go for it, Rosie.”

  Henry started banging his knife against his cup, much like Yumi had before she announced the birth of @MumiDoesParis, as Rosie stood up, looking around the room. Eventually, the cafeteria quieted, and all eyes were on their table.

  “Hi. Um . . . Hi,” Rosie said squeakily. “Sorry. Public speaking is not my thing. But. Well, I have an exciting announcement. Hopefully exciting, anyway.” She cleared her throat. “This year, we’ll be having Thanksgiving at the École for the first time ever. And,” she added warmly, “it’s all thanks to Bodie.”

  As everyone applauded, Bodie rose to his feet and bowed, like a total clown. Henry looked around his table, hoping someone would share his look of disbelief at what a doofus Bodie was, but everyone was blandly smiling and clapping away. Even Yumi, who Henry was so sure he could count on to look disgusted, was typing something into her phone with a perfectly pleasant expression. But the worst part of it all was when Henry caught sight of Rosie’s face. She was looking across the cafeteria at Bodie like they were the only two people in the room, like romantic music might magically fill the air and they’d float into each other’s arms. Watching everyone treat Bodie like homecoming king wasn’t great. But watching Rosie look at Bodie like he was the answer to some unspoken question was horrible. For crying out loud, the guy made miso-butterscotch. Why couldn’t everyone else see what a hipster hack he was? Why couldn’t Rosie? Unable to take even a minute more, Henry stormed out of the cafeteria, abandoning his tray.

  Rosie probably wouldn’t even notice he was gone.

  So can you see?” Rosie held her notebook up to the computer screen. “There’s each person’s name, and then what they’re making.”

  “I can see.” Mom leaned in closer to the camera, giving Rosie a good view of her hairline and not much else. “My goodness. I don’t know what half of these things are. What’s . . . what is that . . . Leberknödelsuppe?”

  “I’m not totally sure,” Rosie admitted. “Anna’s making it. She’s from Germany. I think it’s some kind of dumpling soup?”

  “Probably not chicken and Bisquick dumplings, I’m guessing.”

  “Probably not.”

  “Now that’s been a staple at pretty much every potluck I’ve been to. Not that I ever get to make it. Because when your last name starts with R—”

  “You always have to bring dessert,” Rosie finished for her. Mom laughed.

  “Thank goodness you came along to save the women of East Liberty from my terrible desserts.”

  “Everybody likes that trifle you make.”

  “Rosie. Sweetheart. It’s boxed brownie mix, Jell-O instant pudding, Kit Kats, M&M’S, and Cool Whip. I don’t think anybody over the age of five actually likes it.”

  “It’s Ricky’s favorite food.”

  “Your brother does not have your refined palate,” Mom teased. “You know, Ro,” she continued, suddenly serious. “I think what you’ve done is pretty amazing. Pulling together this whole Thanksgiving for your classmates is really something—I’m proud of you.”

  Rosie decided to take the compliment and soak it in, instead of shrugging it off. It was going to be pretty amazing. The list of dishes people had signed up to make was killer. Rosie was going to be able to taste all kinds of foods she’d never had before. Her mouth was practically watering already at the thought of it all.

  “What pies are you making, hon?”

  “Dutch apple. Chocolate pecan. Maybe one more if I get ambitious. But I’m going to skip pumpkin—I’m not sure I can find it here. What are you guys doing for Thanksgiving?” Rosie asked, even though she was pretty sure the answer was going to be Cracker Barrel.

  “No judgment, please—”

  “I’m not judging!” Rosie protested.

  “But we’re gonna do the take-home from Cracker Barrel.” Rosie tried to keep her face as nonjudgmental as possible. And she didn’t even feel judgmental! When it came to food, Mom always assumed judgment when there was none. “There’s just too many hungry people for me to cook for. Plus, Cole is bringing home his roommate and his girlfriend, so even though we’ll be missing you, we’ll have more than usual.”

  “Girlfriend?” Rosie asked. She heard from Cole very rarely, but this seemed like a pretty big development to have missed. She kept forgetting that life back home in Ohio continued on without her, that they weren’t frozen in time, waiting for her to come back.

  “Brooke. She seems very sweet. She plays soccer, too,” Mom said, then looked out of frame, distracted. “Rosie, honey, I’m sorry, I’ve gotta go. Your brother is doing something weird.”

  Rosie was pretty sure Mom said, “Love you!” and then she definitely said, “OWEN!” before the screen went black. Rosie smiled as she shut her laptop. She missed Mom, but in a good way, in a way that made her happy to talk to her, not in a way that was, like, crippling-homesickness-that-made-her-hide-under-her-covers.

  “Sorry! So sorry!” Priya announced as she kicked the door open so forcefully it banged against the wall, causing Rosie to jump. “I couldn’t use my hands.” She gestured to the bulging white shopping bags swinging from her arms. “Come down to the kitchen with me? You can make your pie crusts, and I want to fill my samosa today so they’re ready to fry fresh for Thanksgiving tomorrow. Want to learn how to make samosa?”

  “Obviously.” Rosie grabbed one of the bags from Priya, staggering slightly at its unexpected weight. “What’s in there?” she asked as they left the dorm.

  “Well, maida. That’s a bit like cake flour. Ghee—clarified butter. Carom seeds. Ginger. Cumin seeds. Asafoetida. A green cardamom. Fennel. Coriander. Dry pomegranate seeds. Probably other things I’m forgetting. I wasn’t sure exactly what we had here for spices—I may have gotten more than I need.”

  “Where did you find all of that?”

  “Little India!” Priya answered as they made their way down the stairs. “There’s an Indian-slash-Pakistani neighborhood only a bit north of us. Not a f
ar walk at all. I found a grocery store with everything I needed.”

  “That’s so cool.” Paris was so much bigger and more complex than Rosie knew. At this rate, she’d never see all of it. She’d barely seen any of it.

  They clearly hadn’t been the only ones who’d wanted to get a jump start on cooking for Thanksgiving. Even though there was no class, the kitchen was buzzing with activity. Rosie did a quick scan of the room—no Clara, no Elodie. A rush of relief. True, Rosie had invited them, although that was a bit of an empty gesture, since she knew they’d be on their way back to their respective coasts. Which was more than fine by Rosie. She didn’t even feel jealous that they got to go home; she just felt happy she didn’t have to see their faces. Every time she passed them in the kitchen or spotted them in the cafeteria, she could hear their laughter and felt a pit in her stomach. She couldn’t even look directly at them without feeling an uncomfortable prickle in the back of her throat.

  Hampus looked up from the pot he was stirring on the stovetop to wave at them. No Henry. Rosie fought to keep the disappointment off her face. He’d definitely been avoiding her. And when they ended up in the same place by necessity, he was unmistakably cold. Did Henry just hate her now? Obviously that would have been bad no matter what, but the worst part of it all was that Rosie didn’t even know why he hated her. What had she done wrong?

  From the back of the room, Bodie caught her eye and waved. Was that what Henry was mad about? Bodie? Because he’d danced with her, and then he’d helped her out with Thanksgiving? If so, Henry was being ridiculous. Rosie literally would have been unable to do Thanksgiving without Bodie. Which she would have been happy to explain to Henry, if only he’d talk to her.

  “No Henry? No Mumi?” Priya asked as they stopped at Henry and Hampus’s table.

  “I do not know where Henry is. Mumi is out ‘doing Paris.’” Hampus air-quoted.