Page 83 of From Paris, with Butter
“Why not?”
I thought about it. Why not? Why let Sabine’s petty vengeance be the last word? The gala had barely started, and I had plenty of extra ingredients. What was to stop me from dusting myself off (thoroughly, this closet really was disgusting), and baking something new?
I didn’t have time for macarons, but I had at least fifty recipes rattling around my head at any one time. I could just choose one of them.
I lifted my head so I could see Laurent. His face was radiant with confidence. It certainly meant something when the Earth’s number one grump thought I could fix this situation.
“You’re right. I’m going to do some frantic baking and save the pastry table. Thank you,” I told him. “Who would have thought you’d be the optimistic one between the two of us?”
Laurent’s eyes shone gold. “Youare the only thing I’m ever optimistic about.”
There was hardly any space between us. His face was so close to mine. All I had to do was lean in a centimeter, and—
A door closed sharply down the hall, startling me. In a rush, my senses came flooding back.
What was I doing, nearly making out in a dilapidated storage closet with my ex? I had baking to do.
“Let’s get out of here,” I said, deliberately making my voice light. “Fatima probably thinks I’ve been kidnapped.”
Laurent pulled a rag from somewhere and wiped his face. (He’s a braver person than me. This whole closet was so filthy I was tempted to schedule myselfa flea dip.)
When we stepped into the hallway, it was jarring to remember where I was. I had no idea what I’d see when I re-entered the ballroom. I didn’t think anyone, besides Laurent, had noticed when I’d collapsed from the panic attack. The table runner would have blocked most of it from view. But people must have seen that my station was deserted. No one would have replenished the food, and we were already short one dessert. I quickened my steps, dusting myself off as I went.
But when I entered the ballroom, what I found wasn’t empty platters of food or Fatima looking bemusedly at my unmanned station.
Instead, Madame Blanchet, of all people, was at my spot behind the table, still wearing her street clothes, and with her helmet at her feet. She was passing out desserts and holding court with a group of enraptured guests.
“And these are mille feuilles with date paste and almond-scented pastry cream,” she said confidently. I was the only one who noticed her reading from the menu. “Our pastry chef traveled to Morocco to harvest the dates and almonds by hand.”
Well, that was patently false, but Madame Blanchet’s audience seemed tipsy enough that I doubted they’d repeat the story anywhere. I went up to her.
“Madame, you didn’t go back home?”
Madame Blanchet, about to begin another tale, broke off and smiled serenely at me. “I decided I’d rather attend your nice event. I told the young man at the entrance I was the Prime Minister’s mother and he let me in.”
I winced.
“Don’t worry. I won’t cause any trouble. I only wanted to see what you’ve been working so hard on. I’ve packed some crèmes brûlées to take home. I didn’t think you’d mind.”
She indicated a black handbag. Peering inside, I saw it was crammed with ramekins.
Madame Blanchet looked up at me. “What a lovely event. Did you see the silent auction items? I put a thousand euros down on a blue Vespa. It’d be nice to have a pair, I think. Wish me luck!” She gathered her helmet and glided onto the dance floor.
I turned to Laurent. “Can you watch the table while I’m baking? I’ll be backas quick as I can.” He nodded, and I was gone.
Back in the kitchens, I surveyed my options. I needed a recipe I was confident in and that wouldn’t take long.
I spent a minute thinking about it, but, really, the choice was obvious. I’d make my mother’s palmiers. I had all the ingredients, they’d be done in half an hour, and I could pull off the recipe even in my worked-up state.
And if Sabine thought they were “too simple?” Well, Sabine could—
Your status as a sunshiny person depends on you not completing that thought,I told myself. Sabine would just have to deal with it.
In under five minutes I had the ingredients arrayed before me: puff pastry leftover from the mille feuilles, sugar, salt, cinnamon, and lemons. I decided to add tahini for some North African flair. The steps couldn’t be simpler: Mix the cinnamon, sugar, salt, and—my mother’s special ingredient—lemon zest in a bowl, roll out the puff pastry so it was smooth and flat, sprinkle the mixture liberally across the pastry, fold the sides inward a few times to form a roll with tight layers, then slice the dough, creating the classic palmier “heart” shape.
Once I’d laid the slices out, I spread them with a thin layer of tahini and a little more lemon zest, then into the oven they went. When they emerged a short time later, they’d be lightly caramelized and glittering with sugar.
As I worked through the steps, the tension that had saturated my body began to ebb away.
