Page 72 of From Paris, with Butter
“I can pack up the final course; if you’re still hungry.”
“I still need to pay,” Austin began, but I waved him to silence.
“On the house.” Le Jules Verne would probably comp the meal themselves, and if they didn’t, I’d cover it. There was no way I was going to make this manpay for the worst dinner of his life.
Austin stood up, then faltered again. “We’re staying in the same hotel room. We still have two days left of the trip,” he said helplessly.
Alright, time for a plan.
“The first thing is to get another room,” I told Austin, “Even just a bed in a hostel. Text Jackie that you want to give her space, and she can have the hotel room to herself. Then ask if there’s a time tonight you can get your things from the room without bothering her. Who knows, maybe she’ll want to talk things out. But if not, get your seat on the plane moved before check-in. A transatlantic flight is not the time to try to repair a relationship.”
Austin nodded, looking overwhelmed. “What if she doesn’t want to see me at all? I mean…she ran out of the restaurant. How am I going to spend two days alone in Paris?”
I smiled, despite everything. “That I can help with.” I pulled my notebook from my pocket. “Now, what do you like to do?”
Several minutes later, I sent Austin off, a written itinerary in his pocket, and a box containing two chocolate mousses in his hands. He’d taken the food, although I couldn’t imagine he’d actually want to eat the mousses, given the memory associated with them. But who knows? Maybe Jackie was waiting back in the hotel room for him, appalled by her mistake, and the ring would be on her finger at the end of the night. I didn’t feel optimistic about it, though. But, to be fair, I wasn’t feeling optimistic about anything these days.
***
That evening, I sat in my window seat and stared dully outside. I’d loved this view since the first time I’d walked into this apartment. To me, it captured the very essence of Paris: the ornate buildings, the allées of graceful plane trees, the beautiful people walking to and fro, and the Eiffel Tower, unmistakable in the distance. For five years I’d lived here, this place I’d fled to after my mother’s death and my failure at pastry school. That was thousands of sunrises, thousands of dusks, thousands of evenings spent looking out the window.
For the first time, its view didn’t enchant me.
I sighed, the sound cutting through my silent apartment. “I can’t keep going on like this.”
Chapter 27
When things are falling apart (which they certainly were for me, and in quite a spectacular fashion), when everything appears hopeless, a true child of France knows that there is only one thing to bake: the croissant. There is nothing that demands such attention and patience, and reveals such a sublime reward, as whorls of buttery, flaky dough baked to golden perfection.
A few hours before dawn, I decided that sleep was going to remain elusive. I got up, put the dough hook on my stand mixer, and measured out flour, salt, sugar, and yeast into the bowl. Then I made a little well in the middle and poured in water and milk.
I made myself a cup of tea while the yeast did its thing. When I was done, I added in the butter and turned the mixer on again. Not having the inclination to do anything else, I stared at the dough as it mixed, watching it become smooth and glossy. After ten minutes, I pulled on a piece of it to make sure it was the proper consistency: stretchy and not sticky.
I wrapped the dough in plastic wrap, stared blankly at a magazine while I waited for the requisite hour to pass, then moved the bowl to the fridge and tried to get a few hours of sleep.
It worked, a little. I awoke, not refreshed, but at least not as exhausted as I had been. I wondered what Austin and Jackie were doing, if there was any hope for them, or if Austin had passed the night in a bunk at a hostel, wondering how his life had so suddenly come apart.
Speaking of lives coming apart, what was Laurent doing right now? Working, of course, or catching a few hours of sleep before he returned to working. I wonder if he even thought of me.
But enough of that. Back to baking.
I worked my way through the steps, forcing myself to make everything neat and perfect. The harder I concentrated on baking, the fewer unsolicited thoughts that could creep in. I took the dough from the fridge, then rolled it into a rectangle, each side and corner perfectly formed. Then I stretched the dough over the cold butter I’d similarly rolled into a rectangle, making sure there was not a single crack in the seams. I put it in the fridge to rest.
Once it had, I took the dough out and cut it into thin rectangles. Then I cut each of those in two to form triangles. Next—my favorite part—I rolled each triangle into the classic croissant shape, starting at the wide end, and taking care to keep the point centered and the shape gently curved. I gave them each an egg wash, then put the croissants in the oven to proof.
It was nearly dawn by the time the croissants were done proofing, but time was meaningless. I pulled them out of the oven just as the sun peeped over the horizon and began soaking Paris in pale, golden light. I took a moment to admire the croissants’ doughy perfection. They got another egg wash while the oven preheated, then went back into the oven to bake.
When the timer went off, I pulled the croissants out and set them on the stove. As they cooled, I appraised them from every angle. Try as I might, I couldn’t find fault. They looked beautiful. But, of course, the proof was in the eating.
I plucked the plumpest-looking croissant from the tray and took a bite. The golden-brown crust crackled, and the airy inner layers nearly melted in my mouth. The taste of it sent me back to all the thousands of croissants I’d eaten over the years: at breakfast with my mother, at school, on stilted dates, quickly while waiting for a train to arrive, late at night from a greasy paper bag, in strange new countries, in my own home.
I chewed slowly, savoring every bite. When the croissant was gone, I licked its buttery remnants from my fingers.
“That was very good,” I said aloud to my empty apartment. For a few moments, I soaked in the quiet feeling of pride.
“Alright,” I sighed. “What should I make next?”
So, as it had all my life, baking pulled me out of the depths of despair. In the days that followed, I baked everything I knew and found new recipes when those ran out. I baked squashy eclairs, rainbow-colored macarons, and baguettesby the ton. I baked maple pecan sticky buns, tarte au citrons with candied lemon, tiny petit-fours scented with rose and lavender, Cornish pasties filled with beef and onions and cheddar, apple strudels, chocolate chip biscotti, banana honey nut bread with a crackly top.
