Page 41 of From Paris, with Butter
Laurent opened his eyes and smiled lazily. “The real answer, always, but now you’ve made me curious so I want the fake answer, too.”
“Well, the fake answer is the best meal I’ve ever eaten was atLa Perled'Ivoirein Lyon.
“Oh yes,” Laurent said, sitting up in his excitement. “An excellent choice. I ate there a few years back. The quenelles were on another level. A top five lifetime meal for me, for sure.”
I nodded. “Yes, the meal was perfect. But, for me, thebestmeal I’ve ever had means the meal I enjoyed the most, and that depends on more than just the food, you know? The circumstances matter, too.”
“I agree,” Laurent said slowly. “But you’ve suddenly terrified me.” He laughed. “Let’s hear it. I can take it.”
“Well…” The memory still made me smile. “I was seventeen or so. It was summer, and I was visiting a friend in Marseille. It was burning hot, and we’d spent all day at the beach. We lost track of time, and by the time we got back to town, we were half-starved and dying of thirst. We stopped at the first place that seemed like it could remotely have food.”
I paused, unsure of how much this would pain Laurent. “It was a petrol station.”
His eyes went wide. “Margot Delcour, do not tell me—”
“It was,” I said, plowing through. “I bought a bag of vinegar chips and an orange Fanta, and nothing in my life has ever tasted as wonderful as that meal.”
I was half-laughing, but I hadn’t looked away from Laurent. The French do not mess around with their fine dining. I’ve had dates walk out of the restaurant after I’d told that story.
Laurent had dropped his head into his hands. His shoulders shook, and I was worried that I’d hurt this man so much with my love of crappy food that I’d actually brought him to tears. But then a giggle escaped him, and when he raised his head, I saw that he was laughing so hard he could barely breathe.
“Oh, that’s perfect,” Laurent said, gasping for breath. “I love it. And it makes me want an orange Fanta. Have you told La Croix that story?”
“Of course not. I’m still alive, aren’t I? It’s my life’s goal that my boss never find out about my love of fast food.”
“What’s your favorite fast food meal?”
“A quesarito from Taco Bell with extra nacho cheese sauce.”
Laurent’s brow furrowed. “The most troubling part about that statement is that you did not need a single second to come up with that answer.”
I shrugged. “I know what I like.”
“Yes, and apparently that’s seven times the daily recommended sodium intake and a healthy risk of salmonella.” He grinned. “You’re absolutely right. You should take that information to the grave.”
Still laughing, Laurent uncorked the wine, and I began spreading out our food.
“How’s your menu for the gala coming along?” I asked.
Laurent pulled out his notebook and flipped it to a page that was uncharacteristically messy. It was full of cramped margin notes and penciled-out lines.
“I think I’m finally making some progress. Now that I have all my cooking equipment unpacked, I can actually start trying out some of my ideas. I’ve been writing up a recipe for coq au vin marinated in harissa that I’m going to have you try once I do an initial test run.”
“That sounds delicious,” I said, looking at his notes for recipes like kebbeh stuffed with a pâté filling and shakshuka ratatouille.
I hesitated, then decided to plow forward with my question. “Do you think if I made croissants with a baklava filling, that’d be too obvious?”
“Too obvious?” Laurent said blankly. “What does that even mean?”
“I don’t know,” I said, tugging at a hangnail. “I thought it was a good idea, but then it seemed like maybe it was too basic, and I know I don’t have professional knowledge to fall back on—”
“Hey.” Laurent spoke softly, but his eyes were locked on mine. “I don’t want to hear you doubting yourself. You’re an outstanding baker, and you don’t need any certificate to prove it.”
His confidence made me blush. Maybe I could actually pull this off. In any case, I should be focusing more on Laurent’s opinion than Sabine’s. I tucked my head against his shoulder, and he pulled me close.
“I’m nervous about the gala myself,” Laurent admitted. “I haven’t cooked in any sort of professional capacity for well over a year. This is my opportunity to see if I still have what it takes.” He smiled at me. “We’ll survive it together.”
I leaned back on the grass so that I had a clear view of the sky. “Does your family cook a lot?”
