Page 28 of From Paris, with Butter
I’d meant to have the saltfish acras finished just before Laurent arrived, but their prep took me longer than expected. I’d never actually made acras before, but I’d watched our neighbor in Martinique teach my mother, and then watched my mother make them many times herself. It had seemed quite straightforward, but I was slow to chop everything. By the time there was a quiet knock on my door, I had the batter ready and oil heating, but I hadn’t fried any of the fritters yet.
I went to open the door, aware that I was sweating slightly and my hair was likely frizzing about my head. On the other side stood Laurent, wearing slacks and a button-down shirt and looking again like he’d just stepped away from a photoshoot. In his hands were two bottles of wine.
His mouth quirked. “I figured I was safest with both a white and a red.”
I laughed, some of my nervous energy dissipating now that Laurent was actually here. We stepped toward each other to kiss on each cheek. A shiver ran down my back as his warm skin pressed against mine.
I ushered him in with greetings and small talk questions about his day, opened the bottle of red to let it breathe, then opened the white wine and poured us each a glass.
“To store-bought pastry,” Laurent said, and I laughed and clinked my glass against his.
“I meant to have the first course ready,” I admitted, “But I still need a few minutes.”
“Not to worry,” Laurent said, looking into the mixing bowl with professional interest. “What are we having?”
“Saltfish acras. The recipe is from Martinique."
Laurent’s face lit up. “Acras? Wonderful. I had an offer to work in the Caribbean several years ago, but I turned it down to stay in Europe. I read up on the food, though.”
We went to the stove together, where the pan of oil was still heating.
“Do you do a lot of frying?” Laurent asked as I scooped out a mound of batter.
“No. When I lived in the United States, a group of us tried to make Monte Cristos, but I wasn’t in charge of the frying part.” I held a hand over the oil to try to judge the temperature.
“Do you have a deep fryer thermometer?” Laurent now sounded slightly concerned.
“Oh, no,” I said breezily. “It’s been heating for a while, though, so I’m sure it’s hot enough.”
“Yes, but—” Laurent started. At the same time, I dropped a spoonful of batter into the oil, and the very wise warning he was probably about to give was cut off as my kitchen exploded.
Honestly, I don’t know what I was thinking. That the oil would reach the optimum temperature and just stay there, despite being over a burning flame? That deep fry thermometers were a quaint extravagance and not a deeply-essential tool when cooking in oil? That frying wasn’t at all as finicky as baking?
The pan of oil had sat, half-forgotten, on the stove, getting hotter and hotter until it was roughly comparable to the surface of the sun.
At least Laurent and I had the intelligence to drop to the ground. That spared us from the worst effects of hot oil splattering in every direction, although some of it still got in my hair.
There was an unholy sizzling sound, and a billow of smoke rose from the pan. That set the fire alarm wailing.
Gallantly, with one hand shielding his face from the jets of burning oil stillrocketing across my kitchen, Laurent stood and quickly moved the pan to the back burner before turning off the stove. He then sprinted across the room to open the window and began opening closets, presumably to find a broom to turn off the alarm.
I remained crouched on the kitchen floor, shell-shocked by how quickly this meal had devolved into a disaster/potential arson event. By some miracle, I was still clutching my wine glass. I took a gulp.
A knock at my door roused me from my stupor. There was Madame Blanchet, an utterly terrified Bijou whimpering at her side.
“Any problems, Margot?” she asked, smiling benevolently.
“Not at all,” I said, speaking loudly to be heard above the fire alarm. I smiled, trying to look as though I hadn’t just nearly burned the building down. “Just a little kitchen mishap.”
The alarm suddenly cut out, and a wave of black smoke rolled over us. I did my best to stifle a cough. Like the tiny traitor he was, Bijou sneezed three times in succession.
“Well, you enjoy yourself, ma chérie,” Madame Blanchet said, politely suppressing a cough of her own.
“Oh, is Monsieur Roche here too?” she asked, as a frazzled-looking Laurent appeared, clutching a broom in a death grip. “Are you two having dinner together? How lovely,” she said as another black cloud of smoke briefly enveloped her head. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone what’s been going on,” she added as she left.
Which meant the entire building would know about it by tomorrow.
I closed the door behind Madame Blanchet and turned to face Laurent.
