The clear skies had half of Portland’s residents out at the market. I wove through the crowds, enjoying the eclectic music and stall offerings. I found asparagus, rhubarb, sorrel, and some beautiful, earthy wild mushrooms.
After picking up the produce I’d set out for, I wandered through the stalls of prepared foods. There were artisan cheeses, sweet and savory tartlets, kettle corn. Other stalls boasted Nepalese cuisine, Polish cabbage rolls, and Greek gyros. The scents I followed, though, were the sweet ones. I spotted a booth full of pastry and headed right toward it. There was something about the shape of the kouign amann and the particular shade of the almond croissants that looked familiar.
Once I got closer to the booth, I understood why.
“Clementine!” I called out, waving like a madwoman.
The dark-haired woman looked up at me, her face brightening. “Juliette!”
I reached the table with a few long strides. “It’s been ages!” I exclaimed, clasping her hand over the table. “How are you?”
“Terrific,” she said, bangles clanging as she propped a hand on her hip. “And out of work.”
“You’re kidding! I thought you were at Vinery.”
“I was, but I left for an opportunity at La Pastiche.”
I grimaced. “Ooh.”
The restaurant had risen quickly to great acclaim, but had been mismanaged and closed its doors after a year.
Clementine shrugged. “I’ve got my fans who visit me here every week, and I’m thinking of a food cart soon.” She tucked a strand of hair behind a multi-pierced ear. “I saw in the paper that Mireille passed away. I’m so sorry.”
“Thanks,” I said simply. “She’s missed.”
“She was an institution. I learned so much from her. She made me make everything over until it came out the way she wanted. I was so mad at first—and then I tasted what she made.”
“She was special.”
“I got it all right, in the end. Everything but canelé—I could never get the centers as soft and the outsides as crisp.” She shrugged. “The advantage to being in the States, though, is hardly anyone knows what good pastry is supposed to taste like.”
“Not that it really changes anything.”
“Nope. What are you up to these days?”
I filled her in on my work at the paper before segueing into the new restaurant. “We’re planning on using the patisserie space,” I said. “It’ll need some remodeling, of course, but I think it’ll be really nice in the end.”
“Have you hired your pastry chef yet?”
“I know Nico’s been talking to Mario Angioli, but nothing’s final.”
“You should hire me.” Clementine restocked her tabletop pastry case with several swoon-worthy confections. “I can make a pâte à choux you’d swear was French. I’m great at candies and chocolate, and I make great ice cream.”
I hugged my arms to myself, trying to contain the excitement blossoming in my chest. “That’d be great, wouldn’t it? Grand-mère would have loved it.”
“I think so. After telling me to use a gentler touch with my laminated doughs.”
“Let me take your card. I’ll talk to Nico and see what I can do.”
“Absolutely not,” Nico said as we sat inside La Petite Chouquette Sunday afternoon. “I’ve already settled it with Mario.”
“But he hasn’t left his job, and he’s got a couple kids, doesn’t he? I’d feel bad pulling him away from something stable to join a start-up. Clementine’s between jobs as it is.”
“That can’t be a good sign.”
“Her work received a good deal of acclaim at La Pastiche—the fact that the place was mismanaged by the owners was out of her hands.”
Nico didn’t respond, so I continued. “She interned under Grand-mère, so her work is flawless. Just consider it. I think she’d be an impressive feather in the restaurant’s cap.”
“I’ll think about it. For now, let’s take a look at the space.”
“Keep thinking about it,” I said. “I called Clementine and asked if she’d come and audition for us.”
“Here?”
“She interned here, she’s familiar with the kitchen—why not?”
Nico scowled.
“Look at it this way—it’s free dessert.”
“I took an economics class, Etta. There is no such thing as a free dessert.”
“Please? For me?”
“Fine.” Nico’s frown didn’t change, but we turned our attention to the inside of the patisserie. The truth was, it looked sad and lonely without customers bustling about and Grand-mère behind the counter—like a walnut shell without the meat nestled inside. For the first time, I felt truly at peace about using the patisserie. It needed the scents of food being prepared and enjoyed, the movement of people coming together to share meals.
“We can put tables around here, like this,” Nico said, his arms gesturing as he drew in the air. “Maybe put a bar here—”
I shook my head. “No bar. We don’t want to be a sixty-forty place.”
“A what?”
“Where sixty-year-old divorcés go to meet forty-year-old divorcées. Come on. Do you want a middle-aged man sitting up there, twirling his scotch and hitting on a woman while a jazz combo plays? I’m getting hives just saying it out loud.”
“The bar will make money.”
I had to concede the point, at least for the time being. “We’ll talk about it later. Let’s talk about what we’re going to call this place.”
Nico chuckled. “You know, I hadn’t even thought about it.”
“Really?” I walked outside, and he followed me. We stood together, taking in the building.”
“My last place was L’uccello Blu,” he said. “I liked that.”
A smile curled on my lips. “You know, the two front doors here—we could paint them.”
“I don’t really care. That’s up to you.”
“I’m just saying, we could paint them blue. L’uccello Blu, Two Blue Doors—”
“Two Blue Doors.” Nico rolled the words around in his mouth, testing them. “I like it.” He clapped his hands together. “That was easy. Do you want to take a look at the apartment?”
Moving on, then. “Probably should,” I said, wrapping my arms around myself. I hated the idea of being in Grand-mère’s home without Grand-mère, but the apartment couldn’t sit empty forever.
We had a couple of options—we could remodel and use it as extended seating. It did have a lovely little balcony, which would be nice during the summer dining season.
The renovations would, of course, take money. We’d have to knock out walls, remove bathtubs—pretty much gut the thing.
But as a living space, the apartment itself wasn’t in terrible condition. It was clean, having been attended to weekly by a housekeeper. Spacious by Portland standards, the space boasted two bedrooms and two complete bathrooms.
All that living space, however, was buried under decades of bric-a-brac and tchotchke. I wished Maman would take me up on my offer to come in with her to parse through the rest of it. But I respected her grieving process. Maman knew how to get things done, and when she was ready, we’d take care of it soon enough.
The kitchen, though—I loved that kitchen. Always had. It boasted a deep farmhouse-style porcelain sink, with lovely old fixtures that read “hot” and “cold” in French. It had a south-facing window that overlooked the patio garden—a perfect little slice of Provence.
“What do you think?” Nico asked, ruffling his hair as he looked around.
“It’d be a shame to change too much, I think,” I said slowly.
Nico turned, his gaze sweeping the interior. “You may be right,” he said.
By the time we came downstairs, I could tell Nico had forgotten about Clementine Grey’s dessert challenge.
But she, clearly, had not.
I’d left the soon-to-be-blue doors open, and Clementine had let herself in. As we entered the kitchen, I could see he
r putting the finishing touches on two bowls of something chocolaty.
“What is that?” I asked, taking a closer look.
Clementine finished her plating and stepped back. “Nutella mousse with hazelnut liqueur, served with chocolate-dipped hazelnut shortbread.”
She was good; I had to give her that. Nico and I shared a deep, genetic affinity for the chocolate-hazelnut spread. Without hesitation, I picked up the spoon and dug in.
An intense, perfectly complex Nutella taste met my tongue. My eyes slid shut. “That is so good.”
“Try it with the shortbread,” Clementine instructed.
I dipped the chocolaty-end of the shortbread into the mousse. The crunch of the cookie set off the rich mousse like a dream. A chocolaty, hazelnutty, Nutella-y dream.
Dragging my attention away from dessert, I looked to Nico to see his reaction.
He stood staring at me, spoon in hand, mousse untouched.
I frowned at him. “What on earth are you waiting for? Eat!”
Nico scowled but dug his spoon into the mousse. He took a bite; his face froze.
“Seriously,” I said, working two more spoonfuls, “I might lick the bowl.”
Nico shrugged. “It’s pretty good.”
Clementine squared her shoulders. “Pretty good?”
“You want the job?”
“Yes, I do,” she answered.
“I’ll think about it,” he told her, his expression guarded.
“Thank you,” Clementine replied, unfazed.
I scooped another bite of mousse. “This shortbread? It’s perfect.”
“It’s the French butter. I get it from your grandmother’s supplier—he gives us, I mean, me, a good deal. I bake croissants for him. He imports French butter but can’t bake. Isn’t that sad?”
I nodded, nibbling at the shortbread. “The butter certainly imports a richness of flavor that’s quite special.”
“You should hire me.” Clementine wiped down her work surface with brisk efficiency. “Your grandmother trained me. I’m CIA certified. Graduated at the top of my class, which is not”—she poked the air with her index finger—“common. At all. Pastry—real pastry—is a man’s world. Cupcakes,” she said, rolling her eyes, “don’t count. My laminated pastries are flawless, and I have excellent chocolate technique. My macaroons taste French, and I’m excellent at custards—”
“You’re good,” Nico interrupted. “And you can have the job. I’ll talk to Mario.”
Clementine inclined her head. “Fair enough.”
Nico turned to me. “She’s bossy.”
I patted his arm. “Think of the mousse, Nico. Just think of the mousse.”
NUTELLA MOUSSE
½ cup Nutella
¼ cup crème fraîche
1½ teaspoons hazelnut liqueur (optional)
½ cup cream
Chocolate curls, toasted hazelnuts, or chocolate-dipped hazelnut shortbread for serving.
Add the Nutella, crème fraîche, and liqueur in a medium bowl and beat with an electric mixer until smooth.
Whip cream in a separate, chilled bowl (metal is ideal).
Fold the whipped cream into the Nutella mixture until completely combined. Spoon the mousse into serving bowls and refrigerate for 20 minutes. Serve with a sprinkling of chocolate curls and hazelnuts, chocolate-dipped hazelnut shortbread on the side, or both. Admire how something so simple can taste so good.
CHOCOLATE-DIPPED HAZELNUT SHORTBREAD
1⅓ cups hazelnuts with skins removed, divided
1 cup all-purpose flour
½ teaspoon baking powder
½ teaspoon salt
8 tablespoons (1 stick) butter, room temperature
⅓ cup sugar
1 egg
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
4 ounces good-quality semisweet chocolate
Preheat oven to 350°F.
Bake hazelnuts on a parchment paper–lined cookie sheet until fragrant, about 10 to 15 minutes. Set aside and allow to cool.
Lower oven to 325°F. Chop 1 cup hazelnuts until fine or pulse in a food processor.
Mix dry ingredients together in a medium-sized bowl.
Beat butter and sugar until pale; add egg. Incorporate dry ingredients slowly, followed by the hazelnuts. Blend until nuts are evenly distributed throughout the dough.
Roll out shortbread to ¼-inch thick; cut into desired shapes—long and rectangular, square, or heart-shaped—with a knife or cookie cutters.
Bake on parchment-papered baking sheet until very lightly golden, about 12 to 16 minutes. Watch them closely—overbake and they’ll be dry, underbake and they’ll have less flavor. Cool on wire racks.
Melt chocolate in a glass measuring cup in the microwave or in a double boiler over the stove. If you use the microwave, cook in short bursts, stirring in between. Once melted, dip one end of cooled cookies into the melted chocolate. Return cookies to baking sheet.
Rough chop remaining ⅓ cup hazelnuts. Sprinkle nuts over chocolate-tipped cookies. Allow the chocolate to set.
Makes 1 to 2 dozen, depending on cookie size.
I think preparing food and feeding people brings nourishment not only to our bodies but to our spirits. Feeding people is a way of loving them, in the same way that feeding ourselves is a way of honoring our own createdness and fragility.
—SHAUNA NIEQUIST
After coffee with Clementine, I couldn’t fight the desire to take a more detailed look around Grand-mère’s apartment. I stood in her living room and looked around for something, anything, that might illuminate Grand-mère’s past in general, the photo in particular.
Not that I had any idea what I was looking for.
I’d already found the photo. A part of me saw the space but didn’t see it—running it through the familiar filter of a hundred Monday afternoons. Mondays, because the patisserie was closed on Mondays. Grand-mère made us milky tea to drink with the pastries she’d baked fresh for us on her day off.
If I was going to find answers, though, I would have to look past my memories and see the space for what it was.
Relics of past relationships—what physical objects survived? Keepsakes if the romance ended sweetly, but what if things ended bitterly? In many ways, my relationship with Éric had defined the last half decade of my life, but I had very few items with ties to him; no one else would know their origins but the two of us. How could I glance around my grandmother’s space and think I’d be able to unearth anything?
I sat down on the ivory velvet divan and mentally cataloged the things I had because of Éric. A cookbook, a silk wrap. A few photographs on my computer and phone, but nothing ever printed. A set of olive-wood salad tongs. Oh, and the slip of paper with his “fortune” on it that read: “Only love lets us see normal things in an extraordinary way.” Sappy, yes. But he gave it to me after dinner at his favorite Chinese restaurant, Shandong, and I still kept it, half-crumpled, inside my coin purse.
Of these things, only a few notes in the cookbook might tip someone off, but that someone would have to know both of us well. No one would look at the silk wrap, in its shades of red and gold, and think of Éric.
No one but me.
Another strike against the modern age; I had no pressed flowers, no initialed handkerchief. No letters tied with a silk ribbon, not even a lock of hair.
As for Grand-mère, there might be photographs. There could be all sorts of things, but I wouldn’t know unless I looked.
The closets seemed the best place to start. It felt so invasive, searching through a dead woman’s belongings. Would she mind? Or would she want to keep her secrets to herself?
I had no idea. But my curiosity overrode my sensitivity.
In her bedroom, I found the old dresses my sisters and I had played with as children, and even more dresses in garment bags, with sachets of lavender on each hanger. She had a lovely shoe collection, including several pairs of Ferragamo flats all wrapped in silver tissue. There were handbags, of cour
se. Tiny ones.
From a wardrobe perspective, she led a wonderful life. Wonderful and mysterious. There were party dresses and day dresses, cocktail dresses and holiday dresses—but who was she with when she wore them? Was she happy?
No voices jumped out to tell me one way or the other.
For the next hour I explored the apartment, wishing I knew what I was really looking for.
That Tuesday, I picked up my sister Caterina from the airport.
“Darling!” she cried when she saw me, her arms outstretched, fingers waggling.
People looked, as they always did. Caterina attracted plenty of attention, with her Nigella-meets-Giada good looks and her oversized personality.
We hugged and exchanged Continental-style kisses, which Cat had told me once we could get away with without being tacky, since we were clearly of European descent.
“How’s Mom?” she asked as we strode purposefully out of the building. “I’ve chatted with her over the phone, but it’s hard to get a read.”
“She’s Mom,” I answered. “She looks worn and tired, but good luck getting her to slow down long enough to pry information out of her.”
“All right, then. I’ll admit that was partly why I wanted to come out for her appointment—I figured I had a better chance of finding something out if I happened to be in the same room as the doctor.”
“You are very good at getting information out of people,” I observed.
“HIPAA fears me.”
“Just so you know, Sophie’s coming to the appointment too.”
“I figured. Even packed an extra air canister in case she sucked up all the air in the room.” She made a face. “I’m sorry. That was mean.”
I resisted the urge to laugh. “But possibly pragmatic. How were the boys when you left?”
“Growing again! It’s unreal.” Caterina looked over at me, smiled, and threw her arm around my shoulders. “Terrible circumstances, but I love getting to see you.”
A Table by the Window: A Novel of Family Secrets and Heirloom Recipes (Two Blue Doors) Page 10