Once cold, gently whisk in the chocolate shavings. Blend again; transfer batter into a mixing bowl (if you like), and allow to rest for 1 hour, or up to 24.
Heat crepe pan or small frying pan with a small amount of clarified butter over medium heat. Pour in ⅓ cup batter or enough to leave a thin, even coat to the crepe pan.
When edges are crisp and the crepe seems willing to move, flip and cook on opposite side.
Transfer to plate. Can be stored in refrigerator or frozen longer term. Serve with chocolate ice cream, mascarpone, or whatever sounds delicious—be creative!
Note: Clarified butter is simply butter that’s been heated and had the milk solids removed. Because the milk solids will brown and burn, clarified butter works better for sautéing things at higher heats. Sometimes it’s sold as ghee, but sometimes ghee has other spices added to it, so read the label carefully unless you want kicky crepes (which could be interesting under the right circumstances).
To make your own, simply heat butter in a shallow pan until it melts and separates, and spoon off the milk solids that froth up at the top. Save the milk solids for soups, or spoon over oatmeal. If you want to be precise, strain the butter through a fine sieve and a cheesecloth. (If you don’t, I won’t tell.) Just be sure to use unsalted butter.
Foods, and the meals we make of them are our clocks, our faithful calendars.
—SALLY SMITH BOOTH
I poked my head into Marti’s cubicle first thing the next morning. “I’ve got something that I think you might be interested in.” I placed Grand-mère’s cookbook and recipes on her desk, flipping the book open to the page with the recipe for gâteau au chocolat, which I thought would hold the most appeal. “It was my grandmother’s. I thought we might do a story on heirloom recipes, dishes handed down through the generations. She was the proprietress of La Petite Chouquette,” I reminded Marti. “Her recipes are gold.”
To my surprise, Marti didn’t seem particularly enthralled. “Cool,” she said, closing the book and handing it back to me. “I think it’s a good idea, but your approachable entertaining theme is, I think, the best field for you right now.”
Normally, I would have let it go, agreed with everything Marti had to say.
Not this time. “I appreciate those thoughts,” I said, aiming for my most respectful tone, “but I do think these recipes have a lot of merit. Vintage is big right now, and my grandmother helped train some of the best pastry chefs in Portland.” When Marti didn’t interrupt, I rushed ahead. “We could spin it as a tribute to a great lady, profile her, and include a few of her most personal recipes.”
Marti studied my face, her face inscrutable. “I’ll think on it,” she said at last. “A tribute piece could have a strong human-interest element. Focus on the crepe party piece,” she said, leaning back in her chair. “I’ll get back to you.”
“Sure,” I said, hanging on to all the bravado I could sustain. “I’ll have the crepe party piece ready for you by end of day today.”
“Excellent. For the next installment, I was thinking about fondue.”
“Oh, fun.” I brightened. “I’ll get right on that.”
“You can cover how to throw a fondue party. They’re trendy again and pretty straightforward, when you think about it.”
“Right. I’ll start working on that as soon as the crepes are turned in.”
Marti gave me one of her awkward, overly enthusiastic thumbs-up signs—my signal that I’d been dismissed. I gathered up the cookbook and recipe cards and walked back to my desk.
I was pleased and amazed at how I’d fought for the piece about Grand-mère. How long would Marti take to decide? My idea was solid. Sure, I had plenty to work on in the meantime.
By the time I got back to my desk, I had formed a plan. If Marti didn’t want to do a piece with the recipes, there were other local periodical publications that would. I could write the piece and sell it as a freelance article. And if no one bought it, I would post it on my blog.
I filled Linn in on my plan as we made a coffee run.
“It’s a solid idea,” Linn assured me as we speed walked down the sidewalk. “Marti will pick it up.”
“You know,” I said, “this isn’t my usual thing. I write what she tells me, eat what she tells me, and I’m good at it.”
“You are,” Linn said. “I would tell you if you weren’t.”
I grinned. “Thanks. Anyway, this is the first time I’ve really wanted to chase a story.”
“Got the bug, did you?” Linn asked, as we arrived at our favorite purveyor of Stumptown coffee and ducked inside.
“I guess,” I said, sliding into line. “But it’s more complicated than that.” I filled her in on Nico’s restaurant plans and how he’d offered me the opportunity to manage it.
Linn’s eyes widened. “That’s big, Etta. Frank Burrows is the real deal.”
“Sh,” I cautioned, looking around. “This isn’t public information yet.”
“Sorry. My ma wishes I were more discreet. But you managing a restaurant—that was your thing before you came here, right?”
“On a smaller scale, yes, but that was a long time ago.”
“So would you leave the paper?” Linn asked, before turning to the barista. “Americano. Very hot, please.”
“I’d have to. If I was lucky, I might have time to keep ghosting the cookbooks … Do you want to split a cinnamon roll?” When she nodded, I ordered it along with a café au lait.
“Good call on the roll,” Linn said once she’d torn a piece off. “You can try with the ghosting, but restaurants take over your life. You know that better than anyone.”
“Oh, I do.”
“I like the cardamom in the rolls. Well, no matter what, we’ll still see each other. Don’t let the specter of missing me influence your decision.”
I laughed. “I’ll keep that in mind. You want to go get fondue with me next week?”
“To research your new assignment? I’m game. I like melted cheese as much as the next girl.”
The barista called out our drinks, and we picked them up at the end of the bar. “To melted cheese,” I said. We tapped our paper coffee cups together and laughed.
By the time I left work that day, I had five texts from Nico, each one a differently worded version of “Have you decided about the restaurant?”
I wished I had. And if wishes were fishes, I would have something to eat for dinner—my larder was otherwise empty.
Faced with an echoing refrigerator and a rumbling stomach, I picked up my purse and headed back out the door.
Garlic, onions, and herbs scented the air outside D’Alisa & Elle. I let myself in the back door, greeting servers and staff as I made my way inside. When I saw the light on in the office, I knocked on the door. “Coucou,” I called, poking my head inside. “Bonjour, Maman!”
“Ah!” Maman turned to face me, spinning her chair. “Bonjour, ma fille. How are you tonight?”
“Hungry. I thought I might try to snag a dish of pasta or something.”
“Mais oui, certainement. The Bolognese sauce is very nice today. And some soup? When I was in the kitchen earlier, there seemed to be a lot of soup.”
“That sounds perfect.” I paused to take in my mother’s appearance. Her hair was gently mussed, and she wasn’t wearing any eye makeup. “What’s wrong, Maman?”
“I’m not feeling well today. I’m just … tired,” she said. But her eyes touched on mine only fleetingly.
“Oh,” I said, not buying her answer at all. “I hope you feel better. When do you head home?”
“About an hour or so. You’ll be at family dinner this week, yes?”
I’d actually considered skipping a week to get caught up on work, but something in her eyes made me rethink my plans. “Yeah, I’ll be there.”
“Bon. Go off and get your dinner now, ma cheri. Make Nico give you some bread too.”
I said good-bye and closed the door, no less concerned but aware she was unlikely to elabor
ate.
In the kitchen I found Nico, working away, shouting orders. “Hey!” he said once he saw me. “Can you lend a hand? We’re short a guy tonight, and we’re just this side of the weeds.”
“I was gonna come grab some dinner. If you feed me, I can stay for a little bit.”
“Sold. Tie up your hair, grab a jacket, and scrub in. Do you mind working first and eating later?”
“Do you have a little bread hanging around?”
“The focaccia is very good today. Mario! Give my sister some bread.”
“Yes, Chef! Heads up,” Mario called back, and a wedge of focaccia flew toward my face.
I caught it, ate it quickly, and got myself ready to help. “How behind are you?”
“A ten-top came in. We’re almost there, but it’s slowing down everybody else. Enzo!” he called out. “How’s that asparagus?”
“Thirty seconds, Chef!” Enzo shouted back.
“Where do you need me?”
“We went through a lot of chicken tonight, and I need more chicken breasts pounded. After that, I need you to prep more vegetables.”
“Yes, Chef,” I said, slipping easily into the role. I worked quickly, replenishing the supply of prepped chicken before moving on to the vegetables. Once those were done, I lent a hand at the roast station. Nico got the ten-top’s appetizers sent out, followed shortly by the entrées. Slowly, the energy in the kitchen shifted from manic and harried to calm and efficient.
After an hour, Nico turned to me. “Things are slowing down. I should probably feed you.”
“I’d be fine with that,” I answered, wiping my forehead with a grin. “That was fun.”
“Yeah? Fun enough that you’ve put more thought into my offer?” Nico asked as he handed me a bowl of pasta topped with Bolognese sauce.
“Mom was right—this is really good,” I said after a bite. “She also suggested you send me home with soup.”
“We can probably work something out.”
“So … here’s the thing,” I said, leaning against the counter. “My job is tough, but I’m good at it. I don’t know that I want to give it up. But I also really, really love restaurant work.”
“It’s in your blood.”
“I know. What if we strike a compromise? I checked my ghostwriting schedule—I’ve got two books, but then I’m done for a while. I can help the restaurant get set up, and once it’s off the ground, I can decide then if I want to stay or hire someone else to run it for you.”
Nico studied the ceiling. “You won’t reconsider?”
“Not tonight, no.”
“You really think you can get the restaurant up and running while working at the paper?”
“I’m used to working all hours.”
Nico shrugged. “I can’t argue with that. All right, then. Shall we shake?”
“Sure,” I said. “Just know that you’ve got tomato sauce on your hands.”
Once I returned home, I found a surprise in my inbox. The e-mail was from OrangeYouGlad, a man with a good-looking photo whose family owned an orange grove in California.
I loved orange groves, always had. Reading the note, I entertained visions of walking hand in hand with a loved one in an orange grove, him plucking an orange off the tree and offering me a warm, sun-ripened wedge.
OrangeYouGlad, who confessed to be named Martin, asked if I was interested in having a phone conversation. If so, he included his phone number and a list of times when he would be available.
A phone conversation! I felt as though I’d graduated to the next step.
Twenty-four hours later, at the appointed time, I called Martin.
To my surprise, the throaty strains of “Someone Like You” filled my ear.
I liked Adele just as much as the next girl, but the song itself was …
Not masculine.
But maybe he was just really into British soul music.
Or something.
I noticed he had a nice voice when he answered. Maybe a little vague. “Glad you called,” he said.
“You’re, um, welcome.” Silence. I cleared my throat. “How was your day?”
“Fine. Work is good.”
“That’s good,” I said, at a loss. How was this supposed to work? He asked to speak with me, and so far I felt as though I’d interrupted him at a bad time. “So, tell me about the orange grove.”
“The grove is fine. This time of year, it’s mainly maintenance work, working the soil.”
“Oh.”
“What about your work?”
“Busy,” I answered automatically. “My boss has me working on a new project that I’m not particularly in love with.” At. All.
“That’s too bad. Do you like what you do otherwise?”
“I do.”
“Good. That’s good.”
I stifled a yawn and wondered if there was anything else I could do while I was on the line. Martin wasn’t exactly requiring my full attention span.
To prove that point, he asked who the real Juliette was. I wandered around my apartment in search of my nail polish while reciting an off-the-cuff version of my online personal statement.
If he noticed, he didn’t say.
“What are you up to this weekend?” I asked as I decided between taupe nail polish and pale pink, also contemplating an edgier gray.
“Buying a TV. My old one died.”
“Ah.”
Nowhere I could go with that. If he needed help choosing a dutch oven or a cheese grater, I’d have several tips to offer.
“So if you could play any position in football, what position would you play?”
I paused applying my nail polish, midswipe. “Pardon?”
He repeated the question.
I really had heard right the first time. Amazing. “Receiver, I suppose,” I said after a moment’s thought. “In a family full of quarterbacks, it was the sensible thing to do.”
“Right on,” he said.
Not that I had any idea what I was ‘right on’ about. “What made you decide to try online dating?”
“I was seeing this girl for a while, and everything was great. But then she moved to be closer to me—I can’t leave the grove, you know—and she went crazy. Seriously, she went berserk. It was a really big deal. So we broke up—had to—because she went nuts. Decided to try the online thing. Found you, so that was cool.”
“Cool,” I repeated, wary. In my experience, what men attributed to insanity was really women doing something they didn’t understand or agree with.
I chose not to share this thought with Martin.
“Tell me about your spiritual beliefs,” I said, since he had checked the box that indicated a belief in Christianity.
“Gotcha,” he said. “I would say that my faith in God is strong because my love for God is so strong. I read my Bible every day. I go to church every Sunday. Well, not last Sunday. Or this week, because I’ll be out of town.”
“It happens.” I paused. “Well, I need to be going.” I waved my freshly manicured hand in the air to encourage it to dry. “It’s been nice getting to know you, Martin.”
“Let’s do it again soon,” Martin said.
I made some noncommittal noise before hanging up.
Unsettled after my phone call with Martin, I retreated to the kitchen. I retrieved the farm-fresh apples I’d bought earlier in the day and began to peel them.
Maybe Martin wasn’t the kind of guy who was very good at expressing himself with words. My cousin Letizia wasn’t much for phone conversations or e-mails, but in person she was a lot of fun to be with. Martin could be similar.
I placed the peeled and chopped apples in a bowl and prepped the dry ingredients. It was important to remember, too, that Martin had grown up in the family’s orange grove. The culture had to be very different. Less communicative.
And, I thought as I whipped the eggs, it was important not to make a snap decision based on a single conversation.
I finished with the cake steps
, adding the melted butter and flour to the batter and pouring the whole thing into the springform pan.
Reality settled in the moment the pan hit the oven.
Martin was a moron.
There was no getting around it.
As the cake baked, I settled at my computer and looked over the men in my life.
I wasn’t interested in any of them, not seriously. Maybe I was at the wrong matchmaking site. The man I wanted was clearly not here. In a moment of decisiveness, I clicked through my account options to remove my profile for good.
My finger clicked the final button, and my heart swelled with hope that I’d never have to speak to Martin again.
A split second later, silence fell and everything turned black in my apartment.
FRENCH APPLE CAKE WITH ALMONDS
I like a mix of apples, some firm and tangy, others soft and sweeter for a bit of variety. Whatever you do, do not spice the cake! Cinnamon and nutmeg do not belong in a French cake.
Serve with crème fraîche to be French, but freshly whipped cream or homemade ice cream won’t taste bad either.
¾ cup flour
¾ teaspoon baking powder
Pinch of salt
4 large apples
2 eggs, at room temperature
¾ cup sugar
1½ teaspoons vanilla extract
½ teaspoon almond extract
8 tablespoons butter, melted and cooled to room temperature
⅓ cup sliced almonds
Preheat oven to 350°F and place a rack at the center of the oven.
Generously butter an 8- or 9-inch springform pan, and place it on a baking sheet.
In a small bowl, whisk together the dry ingredients (minus the sugar).
Peel, core, slice, and chop the apples into 1-inch pieces.
In a large bowl or stand mixer, beat the eggs until frothy and pale. Add the sugar, vanilla, and almond extract.
Add the flour mixture and melted butter in stages—half of the flour, half of the butter, remaining flour, remaining butter.
Fold in the apple cubes, mixing until they’re incorporated. Pour completed cake batter into the buttered springform pan, catching all the batter with a rubber spatula.
A Table by the Window: A Novel of Family Secrets and Heirloom Recipes (Two Blue Doors) Page 6