Page 51 of From Paris, with Butter
He opened an eye and smiled. “There was no way I was going to let you down. I would have bought a small herd of cows and made the cheese myself if that’s what it took.” His voice was still low and hoarse. It brought me back to how he’d sounded in the throes of passion, and I shivered.
I turned so that we lay side-by-side, facing each other. Laurent looked rumpled and sleepy and deeply happy.
But wait. There was one thing I had to check.
“Laurent?” I whispered. He turned a sleepy face toward me.
“If I wanted to bake croissants at three in the morning, would that bother you?”
Laurent blinked. “You want to make croissants now?”
“No, just hypothetically. If, one night, I want to get up at a random hour and do some baking, would that bother you?” I was completely still as I watched him drowsily contemplate the question.
“Why would that bother me?” he said finally. “I cook at odd hours all the time. I’d just hope you’d save a croissant for me.” In the warm dark, I grinned like an idiot, some nameless fear having dissolved away.
We fell asleep like that, entwined in each other. Sometime later, I awoke to see the first streaks of dawn filtering through the windows. Laurent must have awoken in the middle of the night and spread a blanket over us. I snuggled deeper in it, moving closer to Laurent so that we were touching again.
My last thought, as I drifted back off to sleep, was this: For the first time in a very long time, I wasn’t lonely.
Chapter 19
Weeks passed, and Paris slipped further into autumn. The tourist crowds thinned out, and Parisians returned from their summer holidays. Street stalls selling roasted chestnuts began popping up along the Seine, and although diners still crowded the outdoor cafes, they did so with checkered blankets spread across their laps, shawls around their shoulders, and clusters of burnished leaves at their feet.
I used the bounty of apples that now crowded the markets to make batches of desserts: apple cakes, apple galettes with vanilla ice cream, delicate crêpes with caramelized spiced apples, apple jams and jellies, thick apple pies with cheddar cheese mixed into the crust…
Mixed into all of that, into each of my days, was Laurent. He’d stop by my apartment in the mornings, and we’d share coffee and croissants. We both worked late, but in the evenings we’d cook together in his apartment. The windows would fog up with steam from the oven as we sipped wine and prepared our meal. We’d fall asleep in his bed, smelling like the ingredients we’d worked with that day: butter and sugar for me, rosemary and black pepper for him.
I don’t know when it happened exactly, but one day, in the middle of a dinner shift, I realized that I was no longer wistfully watching happy couples. I’dbecomepart of a happy couple. I had someone who had chosen me.
Still, underneath it all, a current of anxiety pulsed through me. The gala loomed closer each day. I ricocheted between being confident in my skills and feeling that I was out of my depth. What if no one liked what I baked? What if I baked something too long or seasoned it wrong or forgot an ingredient? It’s not like Paris was a city forgiving of mediocrity in food.
Laurent tried to shore up my self-esteem, but, some nights, after he’d fallenasleep beside me, I lay awake replaying recipes in my head, calculating sugar ratios, obsessing over garnishes. Baking for the gala had awakened something in me that had long lay dormant. I’d always loved baking, but I’d gotten safe with it. Now, I was drawing on all my skills, and I could only hope they’d be enough.
One evening, I sat in Laurent’s kitchen as he plated dinner. He’d gone all out tonight. On the wooden cutting board he set before me was a series of miniature tarts, each a different flavor.
They made a row of crisp, golden crusts and bubbling fillings. There was an heirloom tomato and caramelized onion tart with brown butter dripping off its edges, a blueberry and lavender tart with a mini pitcher of sweet cream beside it, a wild ramp and morel mushroom tart bubbling with Gruyère, and, finally, a salted pork and leek tart, the velvety pieces of pork looking like they would melt like cream in my mouth.
Laurent watched me anxiously as I took a bite of the tomato and onion tart.
“How’s the puff pastry?” he asked, his face so wracked with concern I nearly laughed. “I made seven different versions, and this was my favorite, but I still think it’s too heavy.”
“It’s really good,” I assured him, licking a speck of onion from my finger. “The flavors are perfect. You just need to work on making the pastry a little flakier.”
Laurent sighed. “That’s always my problem. I’ll need to watch you make it again.”
“Don’t go morose on me,” I said smiling. “Here, come sit down and enjoy this feast you made.”
While Laurent tidied up (he always insisted on doing the dishes), I pulled out my phone and checked my email. There was a new message with the subject line “GALA EXPECTATIONS.”
It was from Sabine.
Probably just the dress code and such, I told myself as I clicked it open.
Margot,
I’ve reviewed the sample dessert menu that you sent Fatima. Frankly, I’m not convinced your ideas align with the level of sophistication we’re looking for. Many of your recipe suggestions felt amateur, and your execution photos don’t inspire muchconfidence. I strongly suggest stepping back and allowing an experienced pastry chef to take over. This is one of the foundation’s most high-profile evenings, and we simply cannot afford mediocrity.
Regards,
