Page 77 of From Paris, with Butter
When he was finished, he stared down at me, his eyes two fathomless voids.
“You’ll do alright,” Chef La Croix said, and he showed himself out.
Buzzing with pride, I got back to work.
The baklava croissants, with their nutty, honey-drenched filling, were nearly done. They just needed to be baked in the morning and drizzled with honey and rosewater syrup.
Ma'amoul cookies were one of the delicious desserts I’d tried at the first meeting for the gala. I’d never heard of them before, but one bite of the buttery cookie, so rich it actually did melt in my mouth, was enough to convince me it needed to be added to the menu. I’d found the woman who’d made them, and she’d happily passed along her recipe, along with her ma'amoul mold so I could stamp the traditional intricate design into them. The only change I made was to swap out the date filling for a traditional French raspberry coulis so it fit the fusion theme. Making them was my task for tomorrow morning.
That left just the mille feuilles. It was one of the trickier dishes: three stacks of flaky, buttery puff pastry sandwiched between thin layers of date paste and custardy pastry cream, all topped with ginger and vanilla icing. Made right, mille feuilles were a thing of beauty, but any slip-up could spell disaster.
Technically, they could be made ahead of time too, but the best mille feuilles have a perfect balance of crisp puff pastry and delicate pastry cream. If they sat for too long, the whole thing would get soggy and dull. I had nearly all the components ready, and I’d bake the puff pastry and assemble them tomorrow, right before the gala began.
I went to bed that night exhausted—and still a bitsticky from various caramels and custards—but happy with how everything had turned out.
Maybe I was capable of pulling this off. Maybe this event would be the start of a renowned pastry career that filled me with passion and pride until the end of my working life, leaving me fulfilled and exhilarated that I’d been brave enough to take that first step.
But enough of that. Let’s just get through this party first.
Chapter 30
My first mistake was oversleeping. I normally wake up at a reasonable hour without an alarm, but I must have underestimated how much the preparations for the gala had worn me out. Waking up late was annoying, but as long as I hurried, I’d still make it there with enough time to finish everything.
I looked at my phone. There were three missed calls and a flurry of texts from Yasmine.
WHAT’S YOUR PLAN???was all the final one said.
I called her back, and she picked up on the first ring.
“I’m heading to the gala,” Yasmine said as soon as she picked up. “Have you left yet?”
“Not quite. But it’s only two Metro stops away and I don’t need to be there for an hour.”
“Margot, the Metro workers are on strike.”
I shot upright. “What? I hadn’t heard anything about it.”
“I know,” Yasmine said. “Apparently everyone thought the negotiations would work out, so there wasn’t much coverage about it, but talks fell through and they’re striking now. It’s all over the news.”
I groaned. I was a proud Frenchwoman through and through, and I fully supported workers’ rights, and unions, and the right to strike to improve working conditions. But why, whymust they assert their rights on the day I really needed their services?
“How are you getting there?” I asked her.
“My mother and I are literally walking there.”
“Hello Margot!” Madame Saidi called cheerfully into the phone.
“It’s terrible,” Yasmine said. “You know how much I hate exercise.”
I rubbed a hand over my face. “Maybe I can take a taxi?”
“You and everyone else in Paris. None of the taxi companies I called were even answering their phones.”
A pit was growing in my stomach. It’d take me well over two hours to walk to the gala. Maybe I could run the whole way? But I knew that feat of athleticism was far beyond my abilities. Damn my preference for reading cookbooks over hitting the gym.
I didn’t know a single person in Paris who owned a car. Well, actually the guy who’d eaten crème brûlée with his hands on our first and only date three years ago had a car, but I couldn’t ask him for a ride, right?
Well, maybe…
