Page 22 of From Paris, with Butter
“I am,” I confirmed, wondering why she’d taken a sudden interest in me. Perhaps she had a secret hatred for fusion dishes and now saw me as the enemy?
“Do you really think you’re up for baking everything we need for the gala?”
How obnoxious. An hour ago I was dead set against doing a single thing for this event, and now, once I’d decided to volunteer, I had people pushing back? Even worse, she was voicing my own fears.
Of course I don’t think I’m up for baking everything you need for the gala!I wanted to cry.I’m an absolute wreck; just last week I forgot to poke holes in my éclairs, and when I tried to pipe in the pastry cream, the steam trapped inside caused them to explode like little pastry grenades.
But she didn’t need to know that.
“I think I’m prepared. I’ll certainly do my best.” I smiled extra sunnily, just because I knew it set people like her on edge.
Sabine stared at me a few moments longer. “Well, we’ll see,” she said ominously. She turned on her heel and left.
Chapter 10
“You’ll do it? Margot, you’re amazing!” Yasmine gripped my face between her hands and kissed me on each cheek. “What made you change your mind?”
I shrugged. “I decided I should challenge myself. That, and my life’s work is now to prove to my neighbor that I’m competent at something.”
“I support your obsessive need for validation if it means the gala gets a pastry chef.”
Yasmine was staying to make an inventory of past gala decorations, so I took the opportunity to head out before Monsieur Roche popped out from behind a corner or something.
The day was crisp but bright, with the scent of fall just coming in on the wind. I decided to get dinner in the Latin Quarter.
When I told Parisians that my favorite part of Paris was the Latin Quarter, they generally looked as though I’d just suggested we get coffee at Starbucks (i.e. horrified to their very soul). The Latin Quarter, they insisted, was too crowded, too touristy, too…overdone.
I didn’t have time for that kind of negativity. The whole point of the Latin Quarter was for it to be filled with people. The bookshops, the cafes, the grand buildings, the tiny, winding streets: none of them would mean anything if they were empty.
So I always smiled when I saw it busy, even if the people were loud, blocked the sidewalk to take photos, and tried to pay for their gelato with American dollars.
I strolled past the Cathedral Notre Dame which was happily swarming with people. Growing up, I’d always preferred the nearby Sainte-Chappelle church,with its stained-glass windows that were so beautiful they looked like sheets of jewels pounded flat. But after the terrible fire Notre Dame had suffered, I, like every other French person, had catapulted Notre Dame to the top of my best beloved and most cherished of places.
A woman near the entrance was playing guitar and singing, and doing a beautiful job of it. I took a seat on one of the benches and let the crowds part around me while I looked at the old church. The restoration had been done so well.
Past the cathedral, I walked for a few minutes until I found the place I was looking for: one of Paris’ quintessential cafes, with a crowd of small tables outside, chairs all turned so they faced the sidewalk. I slipped past them, though, and asked the hostess for a seat inside.
“A good idea on a day like today,” she said, looking at the leaves being battered around by the wind. Once seated at a corner table, I ordered a glass of Alsatian Riesling, flinty and bone dry. The waiter recommended the roast chicken with hazelnuts, so that was what I ordered, along with a baguette and some homemade butter.
Leaning back into my chair, I took out the battered notebook I used for recipe ideas and everything else that needed to be jotted down.
I was actually doing this. I was going to be the pastry chef for an actual event. And things hadn’t even gone terribly yet. The team had agreed on my idea for fusion recipes, and now it was all up to me to come up with the desserts for the gala. This was the fun part.
Flipping to a blank page, I began making a list of recipe ideas. Macarons with a cardamom filling? Petit-fours topped with jalebi and a dusting of chopped pecans? Madeleines flavored with rose water?
I scribbled wildly, filling several pages with ideas. Now that I was committed (both to the gala and to proving Monsieur Roche wrong), I didn’t want my work to be anything less than my best.
When my food came out, my heart lifted at the sight of it. The chicken was hot and crackling, the dark meat sliding off the bones. The hazelnuts swam in a garlic sauce surrounded by heaps of caramelized onions. I spread a thick layer of butter across the baguette and bit into the velvety, still-warm bread.
It was nearly dusk when I put down my pencil and swallowed the last sip of wine. After complimenting the server on the food and paying for my meal, I stepped back outside. The sun was setting, but the wind had dropped, so it was still pleasant enough to walk.
The street lamps blinked on as I walked along the Seine. It was the tail end of golden hour, and all of Paris appeared burnished to a high sheen. In the rich light, even the peeling paint on the buildings, even the lopsided sign advertising cheap cigarettes, even the bits of trash skittering along the road looked beautiful and as though they were meant to be here.
I reached my building and climbed the stairs to my floor. The light was still out in the hallway, so I didn’t see the little package in the gloom until I nearly stepped on it. There in my doorway was a tidy parcel, small enough to fit in my hand.
Perplexed, I brought it inside and opened it up under the fluorescent light of my kitchen. I pulled back the paper to discover a thick piece of quiche. How odd.
I leaned in closer. The quiche was cleanly cut, nicely browned on top. I sniffed, taking in scents of onion, spinach, and pork lardons. There was a crispy bit of pork sticking temptingly out of the filling. I broke it off and popped it in my mouth, letting it melt on my tongue. Delicious.
