Page 39 of From Paris, with Butter
“If he hadchosenme, Margot, things would have been different,” my mother had said over and over again.
Yasmine was still frowning at me. “Margot, every time there’s another proposal at the restaurant, I see you going starry-eyed. I don’t want you to get carried away with Laurent.”
I rolled my eyes, trying to lighten the mood. “Yasmine, I’ve been on like two dates with Laurent. I’ve barely even started sewing my wedding trousseau. You can like someone without getting carried away.”
“I know,” Yasmine said, her face softening. “Just don’t try to force a relationship because you have some end goal. I learned that the hard way.”
I was annoyed at Yasmine’s implication that I was losing my head over Laurent, but when I looked at my friend, I saw her face pinched with concern. I knew she only wanted to save me from the unhappiness she’d experienced.
I smiled. “I know I can trust you to always keep my head on straight. Now let’s get to the meeting. You know how it kills me to be late.”
This gala meeting was to show us the kitchens we’d be using for the event. When I arrived, Laurent was already there. Naturally, he was scrubbing down the tables.
I walked up and watched as he obliterated whatever miniscule smudge had caught his ire.
“I’m glad you’re spending time doing what you love.”
Laurent kept his eyes on the table, but I saw him smirk. “We curmudgeons need to find happiness where we can. This is a nice break from shouting at people on scooters and complaining about tourists.” He turned to me. “And I can see you’ve ramped the sunshine up to eleven. As usual.”
I grinned even wider. “I made you Algerian cookies.”
Laurent took the little bundle in his hands, placed it on the shining countertop, then kissed me thoroughly. When we broke apart, I noticed several people had filed into the room.
Laurent blushed, but I had no regrets. Yasmine hadn’t said anything against indulging in too much kissing.
“Good afternoon!” Fatima sang out as she came into the room, several sous chefs and an irritated-looking Sabine trailing in her wake. “Welcome to the kitchens you’ll be using for the gala. I want you all to get acquainted with them early on so that you can develop your menus with their equipment and limitations in mind. Let me walk you through the highlights, then I’ll let you explore on your own.”
The kitchens, like the building itself, were worn but functional. They didn’t have Le Jules Verne’s gleaming row of stovetops or massive walk-in refrigerators, but they were certainly a step up from my tiny, rusted kitchen.
“Margot, there’s the area that’ll be yours,” Fatima said, pointing me to one end of the room. I walked over and appraised the two ovens, a range with four burners, and ample counterspace. Pulling open the cabinets, I saw they were fullof equipment like stand mixers and baking sheets.
“What do you think?” Laurent asked, sidling up alongside me.
“It has everything I need.”
Laurent rolled his eyes teasingly. “Of course it does.”
“And what does the resident grouch think of the kitchens?”
Laurent grinned. “I’ll make it work.”
“See, there’s a tiny optimist inside you begging to be let out. One day, you’re going to catch yourself humming your favorite song while you cook, and eventually you’ll move up to greeting strangers on the street.”
Laurent shuddered.
“Monsieur Roche, how is everything?” Fatima asked, appearing beside us.
“It fits my needs,” Laurent said diplomatically, “But I was wondering where the freezers were.”
“Right next door. I’ll show you,” Fatima said.
As she and Laurent left, I turned back to the cabinets to take a thorough inventory of what they contained. Maybe some random piece of equipment would provide the inspiration to help me finalize my menu. I was pulling out baking sheets when someone spoke behind me.
“How is everything coming along?”
I turned to see Sabine watching me.
“Oh. Very well, thank you. It’s actually better than I was expecting.”
