Page 65 of From Paris, with Butter
Things were already bustling when I entered the kitchens. The newly-promoted head chef was just as capable as Laurent had told Fatima she’d be. From the scent wafting across the room, I could tell they were making the eggplant gratin. My heart twisted knowing they were working on the recipes Laurent had so carefully crafted.
Even if Fatima had (hopefully) been exaggerating, I’d made macarons so many times in my life that Icouldpractically bake them in my sleep. As I worked through the steps, I chatted with Fatima and the culinary team. Sabine didn’t seem to be here today. Maybe she’d lost interest in haunting me now that Laurent was gone. Now there’s a silver lining.
I was sitting on a stool, taste-testing different flavors of harissa with the sous chefs, when my timer went off. Wandering over to my side of the kitchens, I opened the oven. And nearly cried at what I saw.
The macarons were overbaked. More than that, they were burnt, scorch marks marring their colorful tops. I pulled them out in horror.
What had happened? The oven temperature was correct, the baking time had been correct. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d messed up macarons so badly. They were close to my signature dish; I’d been making them perfectly since I was a teenager. These were worse than my very first attempt, when I’d still been in grammar school.
The scent of charred almond flour began wafting across the kitchen. Several chefs turned and looked at me pityingly.
“Oh, Margot, what’s this?” Fatima was suddenly beside me.
“I’m sorry,” I stammered, my cheeks hot. “I think maybe this oven runs hot.” It happened, quite often, in fact, and I knew I wasn’t solely to blame. But I should have checked the macarons more often, should have seen they were cooking too fast. I’d gotten overconfident, and now Fatima was looking at me and my ruined creations with a deep furrow between her eyes.
“These things happen,” she said, not unkindly. “But I can’t have these served to our guests.”
“I’m so sorry,” I said again, my voice barely more than a whisper.
“It’s alright,” Fatima said, patting my back. “I’ll see if the cooking team can whip up a dessert quickly.”
My embarrassment only deepened when I realized Fatima didn’t even trust me—their only baker—to come up with a replacement dessert for the donors. I guess she didn’t want to take another risk on me today.
Shamefaced, I started packing my things when a voice spoke behind me.
“Oh dear. What’s wrong with those macarons?”
Merde.
I turned to see—of course—Sabine standing behind me, an exaggerated look of concern on her face. Immediately, I turned away. I didn’t have the energy to come up with a single thing to say to her.
It didn’t matter. Sabine apparently didn’t seem to need me to participate in the conversation. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her slender finger slide across the macarons, pause at one of the blackest, and push it. It crumbled into charred crumbs.
“Oh goodness. It’s such a terrible feeling to let people down,” Sabine continued quietly, seemingly to herself. She lifted her head and gave me a ferocious grin. “At least Laurent isn’t here to see it. Get used to that feeling.”
As I reeled, she turned to Fatima. “Should we do something about this?” Sabine asked, twitching her head in my direction. “We can’t have this happening the day of the gala.”
“It won’t,” I said, looking desperately at Fatima. “It was one mistake. I know the oven now; it won’t happen again.”
“Fatima, this is why I was concerned about takingon a non-professional. There are just skills we can’t expect them to have.” Sabine shook her head sadly. If she could have managed it, I’m sure she would have had a single tear roll down her cheek, just to complete the image of her despondency.
How on Earth had I ended up arguing with Laurent’s ex-girlfriend’s sister to keep my role at a gala I never wanted to work at in the first place? My commitment had gone beyond doing a favor for Yasmine or even making Laurent proud. I wanted to go through with the gala for myself now. To know that I had it in me.
“Please,” I said to Fatima. “I’ll make the macarons again as many times as you want. You can trust me. I promise they’ll be perfect for the gala.”
Fatima hesitated, then smiled at me. “Of course we trust you, Margot. Come back next week and try again. I’m sure it’ll go much better.”
Sabine made a noise that, in a less elegant woman, would be called a snort, but I ignored it, too grateful for a chance to redeem myself.
I did Fatima one better. Over the next several days, I got permission to go back to the kitchens as often as I needed. I cooked the macarons three times, carefully watching their baking progress and adjusting the oven temperature. The following weekend, I sat in front of the oven and watched them the entire time they baked. When they came out, they were absolutely perfect.
“I knew you could do it!” Fatima exclaimed. “You’re doing yourself credit, Margot.” That helped my cracked self-esteem, but Sabine’s words about Laurent remained floating around my head.
But Laurent had been different then, I told myself. He knew better now.
Two weeks after my disaster in the kitchens, I stood at the Gare de l’Est station, eagerly awaiting Laurent’s train. It’d been a full month since we’d seen each other. I was so excited to be reunited that I was going to need to restrain myself from tackling him on the platform.
When his train pulled into the station, I moved to the front of the crowd. I was there in time to see Laurent be one of the first people to step off the train. In his hands was a bouquet of calla lilies, which he barely saved from annihilation as I flung myself into his arms.
