Page 75 of From Paris, with Butter
“Oh, we have so many,” the woman working there said. She led me into a room filled with gamboling cats and kittens. I petted half a dozen of them before noticing a small, dark brown cat in the corner, watching me.
“Ma petite chou,” I said, holding out a hand for her to sniff. When she stretched out her little pink nose and crawled into my lap, I knew I wasn’t leaving without her.
I named her Noisette, set her up in style in my apartment, and devoted myself to perfecting recipes for homemade cat treats. In return, she kept me company while I baked and slept next to me every night, purring softly.
It took me a full week to start taking any steps at all toward even considering pastry school. One afternoon, during the break between lunch and dinner shifts, I finally worked up the courage to venture into the kitchens. Chef La Croix was in back, sipping a glass of wine and looking somewhat content. For him.
“Chef? Do you have a minute?” Even though I (mostly) wasn’t terrified of Chef La Croix anymore, I was still terrified by what I was about to say to him.
Chef La Croix set down his glass. “Yes? Get on with it.”
“I…I was wondering if you had any recommendations for pastry schools to attend.”
Chef La Croix raised an eyebrow. “Have a friend who wants to be a pastry chef?”
I blushed. “No. Um, it would be for me. I’d be the one going to pastry school.”
“ABOUT TIME!” Chef La Croix roared. He was so loud I ended up flattened against the opposite wall.
“What?” I squeaked.
“If you hadn’t figured it out soon, I was going to fire you just to force a career change.”
I swallowed hard. “You don’t know this, but I actually attended pastry school once, in Austria. I got asked to leave because I did so poorly.”
I expected Chef La Croix to look troubled or surprised, but he just rolled his eyes. “Such stupidity I’m forced to deal with.” He drained his glass.
“Mademoiselle Delcour, I have tasted your baking. You were put on this earth to be a pastry chef. I don’t care about idiots you’ve had to deal with in your past. Now,” he said, pulling out his notebook and a pencil stub. “Here is the list of pastry schools to consider.”
I took the piece of paper he ripped out. “Are there any that, um, allow for more creativity in recipes? Not just making things the traditional way? That’s what I’ve always wanted to do with baking.”
Chef La Croix took the paper back and made little stars next to a few of the schools.
“There. Any of those will suit you. Now, do not look for other opinions or ask anyone else’s advice. They’ll all be wrong.”
I took the paper back, my mind a mix of fear and hope and excitement.
Several days later, I sat in my apartment with Yasmine, staring at my computer screen. A completed pastry school application glowed on the screen. All I had to do was click “Submit.”
“You know what?” I said, suddenly standing up. “Maybe this is a bad idea.”
Yasmine groaned. “Margot.”
“I should really wait until after the gala. To make sure I’m ready for this.”
Yasmine was trying (and failing) to get Noisette’s attention. “No. You don’tneed an external event to tell you if you’re good enough. You already know that you’re good enough. You’ll submit the application right now.”
“It’s just…I always thought I’d graduate from the same school as my mom. That’s what she wanted for me.”
My anxiety must have been obvious because, when Yasmine turned to me, her face softened. “You’re not doing it for her this time. You’re doing it for you. That means you get to do it the way you want to.”
I realized I was clenching my jaw and shook myself to relax. I looked at Yasmine and tried to grin. “You do realize that you’ve made me do so many terrifying things lately, right? First the gala, and now this. If anything goes wrong, I will hold it against you for the rest of our lives. Every food influencer who comes to Le Jules Verne will get sent to your tables for eternity, and theywillmake you take photos of them for an hour while asking if we have a secret menu we don’t tell any of the other influencers about except them.”
Yasmine grinned back at me. “Deal. Now send that thing.”
I put my index finger on the Enter key and, squeezing my eyes shut, pressed the key down. My eyes flew open, and I watched the page turn white as it loaded. Suddenly, a black check mark appeared on screen. Submitted.
Laurent would be proud of what I’d just done.
