Page 79 of Friends Don't Kiss

“My grandmother was French,” Annabel says. “That was her go-to aperitif. Vin d’orange. I modified it a bit.” She takes a quick intake of breath. “Colton tells me you’re thinking of going to the ICPV?”

The Institut Culinaire Pierre de Varanges is where I’m hoping against all odds that I’ll be accepted. I didn’t realize that Colton had memorized the name. I glance at him, surprised, though not upset that he shared this with her. “That’s right. I’m hoping they’ll accept me with a full scholarship.”

“And what do you hope to get from it?” She takes another sip of her vin d’orange, looking at me over the rim of her glass, her gaze on me with kindness. I’ve still not fully come down from my high of sitting casually with her at what’s pretty much her kitchen table, drinking aperitif—and with Colton, of all people.

“Skills, and name recognition,” I answer.

She looks out the window and squints her eyes. “It’s funny how women tend to seek external approval way more than men. We always think we’re not good enough. Or we’re a fraud. I know I was that way.”

I don’t respond. She doesn’t realize it, but it’s easy for her to say that. She’s had the top chefs as teachers. She climbed the ranks among the best, making her connections along the way. Of course she doesn’t see what she got from it: the ability to move to the middle of nowhere and still be a celebrity.

Not so for me. Or maybe it will be, once I go through some high-level training that leads to a career like Annabel Plum’s.

“I thought we could play around with genoise and pâte à bombe today. Plan for a layer cake and see where that leads us?” Annabel asks, standing up.

“Sounds like a plan I like,” Colton interjects with a huge smile, rubbing his hands. He picks up the glasses and brings them to the kitchen, rinsing them. “I’ll be on dishes duty. Wouldn’t mind licking the bowl and what not, if that’s okay,” he says from afar.

“Unless you had something else in mind?” Annabel asks me.

“To be honest,” I say, still struggling to steady my voice when talking to her, “I haven’t given this any thought. Colton totally surprised me by bringing me here.” I’m pretty comfortable with my genoise skills, and I wouldn’t mind impressing Annabel. I’m sure she’ll have something to teach me anyway. “Genoise and pâte à bombe sounds great.”

We wash our hands, don large, white aprons, then take the ingredients out of the refrigerator. I’m still so starstruck I barely talk, instead taking in the setting and observing every one of Annabel’s gestures, the relaxed yet mindful way she handles food. “When you go to France,” she says as I start a bain-marie, “you’ll have eggs at room temperature all the time. Did you know that?”

I’m lightly rapping the eggs one by one on the side of the large mixing bowl that will go above the hot water, focusing on giving each shell a clean break. It’d be just my luck to start this session with shattered eggshells, like a newbie. But my hands don’t betray me, and my self-confidence returns. “How so?”

“Their food safety practices focus on the source, at the farms. Europe has mandatory vaccinations that are only recommended here, and animal welfare practices and regulations that also contribute to lowering risks.”

I set the eggs on top of the hot water and measure the sugar while listening to her.

“Because of that, they don’t wash the eggs at the farms. The cuticle of the egg remains, which is a natural barrier against bacterial contamination. Here, we strip the egg of its natural protection. That’s why we need to refrigerate them here, but not in France.”

“Aren’t the eggs… dirty?”

“Nope. They have strict hygiene regulations for nesting areas, and if an egg is dirty, it’s discarded.”

I monitor the temperature of the bain-marie so the eggs don’t cook. I just need them to be at room temperature.

“There are so many different things in different countries. French butter, for example, has more fat content than US butter, and the flour is radically different too. Luckily, you won’t have to worry about making your own recipes at the Institut.”

“If I’m accepted,” I interject while vigorously whipping the eggs and sugar together.

“I don’t see why you wouldn’t. They love a self-made pastry chef story.”

The eggs and sugar beaten to a perfect ribbon consistency, I remove the mixing bowl from the bain-marie. Annabel discards the water while I start measuring the flour.

“I think I’ll just join Colt and watch you,” Annabel says, which makes me instantly blush. “Just kidding. I don’t want to miss out on the fun. Here’s something you can try. Fold the flour in threes instead of half, then half.”

“Got it.”

“You have such perfect gestures,” she murmurs. “No wonder your ‘stuff’ is so good. It’s all in the energy you project into your creations.”

“Should we add melted butter?”

“What do you think?”

“Well, if we’re going to layer it with a pâte à bombe, then yes. It won’t be as light, but it’ll be richer. And since we’re likely not incorporating any syrups, then…”

“I say go for richer,” Colt says. He’s been looking at us, seemingly fascinated.

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