Page 80 of From Paris, with Butter
“No, thankyou,Margot. I don’t know what we would have done without your talents.” Fatima smiled warmly at me.
Don’t thank me until this is all over,I almost said, but Fatima didn’t need any more stress today.
I relaxed more once I was in the familiar order of the kitchens. I set the first trays of croissants I’d made yesterday into the oven to bake. Once they were cooking, I got to work making the ma'amoul cookies. It was my favorite type of recipe: streamlined, uncluttered. There weren’t many steps or ingredients, but each of them mattered.
I mixed ghee and sugar with flour, then slowly added in rosewater and milk. I kneaded it into a sticky, sweet-smelling dough, then let it rest while I thickenedthe raspberry coulis until it could hold its shape. Then a piece of dough was wrapped around a bit of jam to form the cookies, and I gently pressed the mold into its surface to leave a delicate geometric pattern.
By late morning, the first batch of croissants was cooling, and the second was in the oven. When the croissants were just slightly warm, I drizzled them with a mixture of rosewater, honey, and chopped pistachios. I took the most misshapen one (although, really, they all looked perfect) for my breakfast.
Next, I spent an inordinate amount of time plating the macarons. They were the star of the pastry table, and I wanted them to look like it. I carefully arranged them on golden tiered platters, alternating colors so that they looked like rows of golden, emerald, and violet jewels.
I couldn’t help but feel a little rush of pride when I looked at them. Macarons had been my first baking creation that had really impressed my mother, and they’d been the menu item that had most impressed the gala team.
A sweaty Yasmine hurried in while I was obsessing over them.
“Oh, they look gorgeous,” she said, reaching out a hand. I slapped it away.
“No touching. The extras are over here,” I said, directing her to a small pile on the counter.
Yasmine bit into one and sighed with pleasure.
“Incredible. Now take a break and come see where you’ll be for the gala.”
The dessert area was at the back of the ballroom. I was glad to see it’d be slightly removed from the main bustle of the party. The table was draped in pink and orange silk, and platters were already set up with the cookies and croissants.
“Your team did a lovely job,” I said. Displayed so fancily, my desserts really did look worthy of the event.
“Didn’t they?” Yasmine said admiringly. She plucked a croissant from the back of a platter and winked at me. “No one will notice. Keep doing your thing. I’ll stop by again soon.”
Back in the kitchens, the rest of the culinary team were busy chopping, baking, and sautéing. Laurent’s dishes were all coming together.
There was buttery couscous that’d be garnished with thin slices of preserved lemon, chicken tagine with crackly, golden skin, paper-thin crepes that’d be filled with mushrooms, spinach, and melty Emmental cheese, beef stewbubbling away, heaps of salads, mountains of figs and dried nuts, ice-cold slices of melon, glass dishes of jams and preserves and—my heart twisted—a whole row of perfect-looking quiches.
Focus,I told myself. The first guests would be arriving in less than an hour, and I had dozens of mille feuilles to assemble before then.
I got to work baking the puff pastry. It took several rounds in the oven to cook it all. Once that was done, I began piping perfect circles of pastry cream onto the pastry, then stacking them three high. Next, I striped the blue and gold glazes on top of each mille feuille and dragged a toothpick through them several times to create a chevron pattern. I finished with ten minutes to spare.
In the ballroom, everything looked perfect. Dozens of candles had been lit, and the room flickered with their light. The band was setting up on stage, the bar was ready, and the first guests, dressed in gowns and tuxedos, were walking in.
I was about to turn back to my table when the main doors opened again. It was a sunny afternoon, and the figure was backlit so that I only saw a vague form. But then the person lifted a hand to smooth his curls, a gesture that was so etched into my heart that I’d know it anywhere.
Laurent stepped into the light.
Chapter 31
We met in the middle of the ballroom. I have no idea how I got there. One moment I was standing frozen, and the next I was beside Laurent, grinning stupidly as I looked him up and down.
He looked chic but slightly uncomfortable, the way he always did when wearing a suit. His curls were flopping onto his forehead again, and his face blazed with happiness and pride.
“What are you doing here?” I breathed. “They need you at the restaurant.” My knees were weak, but I didn’t survive that Vespa ride just to keel over at the gala. Without thinking, I reached a hand out. Laurent gripped it with his own.
Laurent grinned, his eyes crinkling. “Don’t worry about the restaurant. I realized I couldn’t miss seeing you shine here.”
I had such a rush of emotions I could barely form a coherent thought: What was Laurent doing here? What did that mean for us? What about the restaurant?
Still smiling, Laurent caught me in a tight embrace, then quickly released me. “I know you have so much to do. Don’t worry about me. I’ll just be milling around, maybe popping into the kitchens if they need me. We can talk when the event is over.”
I nodded dumbly and watched as Laurent melted into the growing crowd. I remained frozen a moment longer, hope and happiness surging inside me.
