Page 84 of From Paris, with Butter
I can do this,I told myself.I’ve made palmiers since before I could reach the kitchen countertop.They were one of the very first recipes my mother had taught me. I could see her so clearly in my mind now: showing me how to spread the sugar mixture over the dough, explaining to my toddler self the importance of the lemon zest to balance the sweetness, exclaiming over the perfect heart-shapes I made, as though I really was as talented at baking as she was.
As I plated the warm palmiers, I could almost feel her in the kitchens with me: her long, curly hair pulled back into a bun, her sky-blue apron dusted with flour, her face relaxed into a smile as she observed my work.
“These are wonderful, Margot,” she’d said to me, over and over again throughout my life. For a moment, I thought I could hear her voice again, here in the gala kitchens. It was almost like she was right—
No. The moment passed. But still, I felt so close to her right now. I took a minute to savor the feeling.
The party was in full swing when I returned. I sent Laurent off, ordering him to enjoy himself, and arranged the palmiers on the stand the macarons had occupied. They perhaps weren’t quite as fancy, but they looked just as appetizing. My mother would be proud, I think.
The gala was a smashing success. Hundreds of people filled the ballroom, the band sounded incredible, the bids on the silent auction items kept creeping higher and higher, the tables were laden with food, and all around me I heard people laughing and chatting.
“Did you try the tabouli salad with the mustard vinaigrette? It’s incredible. Oh, and the lamb meatballs, don’t miss those!” one woman said excitedly.
“Save room for dessert, though,” her friend advised. “Those baklava croissants, I’ve never tasted anything like them. And the palmiers; they’re some of the best I’ve ever had. The tahini adds such complexity.”
I swelled with pride.
There was plenty to focus on, and the dessert area was crowded with people tasting my creations. This was France, of course, so many of them were interested in knowing how each recipe had been made and what ingredients I’d added. I was happy to tell them, and I even wrote out a few quick recipes for people who seemed especially keen.
Just then Colette, resplendent in a merlot-colored gown with a high slit, appeared with a dashing gentleman. She was giggly with champagne as she kissed me on each cheek.
“Everything is fabulous, Margot. When you become more famous than Dominique Ansel, I’m going to tell everyone I knew you back when we were servers and you were the only person who didn’t yell at me when I dropped all the cutlery.” She leaned in closer. “What do you think of Eduardo?” she whispered, her breath tickling my ear.
I eyed her companion, who looked very suave in his tux.
“Gorgeous,” I whispered back. “Why does he look familiar? Wait, no,” I said, gasping as I realized. “Colette, you arenotdating a member of the Spanish Prime Minister’s security team.”
Colette giggled again. “Why not? His mother lives in Paris, and he needs a tour guide when he comes to visit her. Wish me luck!” She winked as she drew her beau back into the crowd.
Yasmine was helping her mother and Fatima, and she knew dozens of people herself at the gala, but she made sure to check on me when she had a spare moment.
“Margot, these are absolutely the most delicious things you’ve ever made,” she said as she devoured her third croissant.
“My mother said Fatima is over the moon with how good your desserts are. You should have seen Sabine’s face when she mentioned it. God, when I heard she’d knocked over your macarons…” Yasmine looked as murderous as a person could with a dollop of honey on her nose. “I’m going to find Sabine and tell her we’ve already decided to ask you to be pastry chef for next year’s gala, just so I can see her expression,” she said, grabbing a cookie for the road.
Later in the evening, Sabine reappeared. She appraised the dessert table with her lips pursed, her mouth just short of a smirk. When she came to the palmiers, already half gone, she paused.
“What’s this?”
“Palmiers!” a woman next to her exclaimed. “And they’re wonderful. Here, have one,” she said and tried to put a pastry in Sabine’s hand.
Sabine backed away, flicking crystals of sugar from her fingertips. She frowned at the palmiers, then at me, but she didn’t seem to know what to say in front of all the people surrounding the dessert table. Turning on her stiletto heel, she stalked off. And I didn’t see her for the rest of the evening.
As the night wore on, I was kept busy with final requests for dessert and wrapping up little packages of leftovers for people who wanted to take them home. At the end of the evening, I brought the dishes and platters back to the kitchens where a new team was already busily washing up. As I set down the empty platters, Fatima strode in, looking exultant.
“This is the most successful fundraiser we’ve ever had,” she said delightedly. I smiled back, buzzing with pride and accomplishment. I’d actually done it: I’d been the pastry chef for a fancy event, people thought the desserts had come out well, and—shockingly—I did, too.
When I’d (reluctantly) taken this job, I’d seen it as a one-off, a taste of professional baking I could fondly look back on when I returned to baking just for fun. But why stop now? I had pastry school applications in the mail and a successful event under my belt. Maybe this gala wasn’t the huge event in my life. Maybe this was me just getting started.
Guests trickled out of the ballroom as I carried dirty dishes to the kitchens. Each time I came back out, there were fewer people remaining. And when I’d dropped off the final plates, there was just one person left. He was seated at a corner table, drumming his fingers nervously on the wood. When he saw me, he smoothed a hand over his curls and smiled.
Chapter 33
Iwent up to him.
“Can I give you a ride home?” Laurent asked, breaking the silence. “I have a rental car.”
“Yes,” I croaked. My voice seemed to have fled.
