Page 76 of From Paris, with Butter
Except I wasn’t thinking about Laurent anymore, so his opinion didn’t matter. In fact, I was sure I was going to stop dreaming about him any night now.
Onward.
“Oh mon dieu,” I breathed. “That was awful. That was terrifying. I really need to get out more.” I turned to Yasmine. “Let’s get out of here.”
As we pulled on our shoes and walked outside into the Parisian spring, I felt a heavy weight, one that had been around for so long I’d almost started to think of it as part of me, begin to lift. Just barely, but I noticed.
Chapter 29
Itook the two days leading up to the gala off from work to get started on the massive amount of baking I needed to complete. For the past week, I’d supervised deliveries of kilos of flour, kilos of eggs, kilos of sugar, chocolate, and butter to the kitchens. Then there were the specialty ingredients: cardamom pods, orange extract, saffron, Medjool dates…
“I should have never let Yasmine talk me into this,” I grunted, dragging a giant sack of flour to my work station.
As I lugged the boxes to the appropriate places, I remembered Laurent and I joking about how much I’d baked for his family before Christmas. Something sharp twisted in my chest, but before I could even identify it, I forced the memory out of my mind. I had work to do.
The gala’s graphics team had typed my menu up in an elegant script and printed out copies to have on display. I had one they’d given me to review propped against the stand mixer.
Patisserie Menu
Macarons (lemon, pistachio, fig)
Baklava croissants drizzled with honey and rosewater syrup
Mille feuilles with date paste and lavender-scented whipped cream
Saffron and cardamom crèmes brûlées
Ma'amoul cookies with raspberry coulis
The macarons needed a day or two to rest and reach the perfect texture, so I tackled them first. Yasmine herself came by at lunchtime, bearing gifts of coffee and ham and butter sandwiches.
“Look, I made it myself,” she said, holding up takeaway containers. “Iconsidered bringing dessert too, but you seem to have that taken care of,” she added drily.
I’d fully run out of counter space by now, so I had a dozen trays of drying macarons spread across the floor.
“After this, I’m off sugar for the next decade,” I told her, scrubbing my hands under the sink. “But look,” I said, delicately picking up a macaron. “Look how good the feet look.”
Yasmine surveyed the kitchens. “When I forced you into this, I didn’t realize how much work it’d be.” Suddenly, she hugged me. “I’m really proud of you, Margot.”
I could barely take in her compliment. All I could think was that there were less than thirty-six hours until the gala. As the date had inched closer, succeeding at the gala had become inexorably linked to my self-confidence. If I could pull this off, it meant, somehow, everything else might turn out alright.
And maybe—maybe—if I was really good, my mother would notice, somehow, wherever she was, and she’d be proud. But I couldn’t think about that too much because if I did I started crying, and saltwater is ruinous to baked goods.
***
The next day was even more harried. I started by tackling the miniature crèmes brûlées. It’d been tricky to get the brûlées’ saffron and cardamom flavoring just right, but after dropping over a hundred euros on saffron and nearly setting the countertop on fire when I got too excited with the blowtorch, I was pleased with the final result.
I had a surprise guest that afternoon. I was filling the dishwasher (for the thousandth time that day) when I heard a harsh knock outside the kitchens. I lifted my head. Standing there, filling the doorway and looking as dour as Death himself, was Chef La Croix.
As with the time he’d appeared outside my apartment, I had no idea how he knew where the gala was being held or that I’d be here. He said nothing, not in greeting and not when I led him into the kitchen.
He took in the mounds of dough, bowls of jam, heaps of cracked eggs, rowsof spices, and the absolute mountain of dirty dishes awaiting me. I watched him as he moved around the tables. He looked terrifying, but, then again, he always did. At the edge of my vision, I saw one of the chefs across the room elbow another. They both stared at Chef La Croix, wide-eyed.
“May I?” Chef La Croix asked, pointing to a bowl of pastry cream nearly scraped empty.
“Of course.”
He tasted it, his face still expressionless. I grabbed a macaron and passed it to him. He ate it slowly. I watched his face, looking for any sign of his opinion.
