by Cleo Coyle
Esther cackled. “You’re going to pull shots and texture milk in that outfit?”
I patted his shoulder. “Sorry, Matt. She’s right. You’re not dressed for the part. But I must say, you do clean up very well.” (A serious understatement . . .)
Matt’s fitted Armani jacket draped like flowing black water over his muscular frame, and the whiter-than-white dress shirt, worn with a fashionably open collar, was pressed to perfection. (No burger grease stains tonight.)
As for the rest of him, in recent months, Matt’s flirtation with facial hair had him swinging from goatee to trendy scruff to mountain-man beard and back again. Tonight he’d shaved close and clean, reacquainting me with the strong line of his jaw. His raven locks appeared trimmed, too—still long enough to look rakish, yet neatly brushed back, giving him an air of relaxed elegance.
The man looked good enough to eat, and I told him so (although not in those exact words).
“Thanks.” He grinned. “But Bree should get the credit. She dressed me.”
“She dressed you? What? Like a life-sized Ken doll? Hey, doesn’t this place sell those?”
“Wrong floor.” Matt jerked his thumb up. “Barbie and Ken are on the mezzanine. You, however, are located on the first floor, which features stuffed animals and Muppets.”
“The perfect shopping floor for you. I’ve met a number of your ‘extracurricular’ lady friends. Stuffing-for-brains pretty much describes them.”
“Very funny.”
“Oh, come on, admit it,” I said. “Tuck’s Death of Popularity theorem sums up your love life.”
“It does not.” He folded his arms. “For one thing, I don’t do anything alphabetically.”
“You mean your little black book is arranged phonetically?”
“Okay, okay . . .” Matt formed a time-out T with his hands. “I didn’t come here to discuss my little black book. I came here to relieve you.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m losing my jacket and rolling up my sleeves,” he said. “Just take off your apron, hand it over, and then you can, well—take off.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because Janelle Babcock wants to talk with you.”
“Janelle? Can’t it wait?”
“Apparently not. She grabbed my arm and said she needed to see you, ASAP. She’s very upset with you, Clare.”
“With me? Why?”
“She says you betrayed her.”
“What?” I cried. “I’m Janelle’s friend! How could I betray her?”
Matt showed me his palms. “She wouldn’t say, and her display table was swamped so she sent me to get you.”
“Give it ten minutes,” Tuck called over to us. “Her mob scene will disperse—and so will ours.”
“What happens in ten minutes?” Matt asked.
“A surprise floor show in the grand entrance,” Tuck said. “I heard it from one of the personal shopping elves—an actor friend.” He filled us in. “Every kid will rush to see this show when they announce it, and the parents and their camcorders won’t be far behind.”
“Just go, boss,” Esther insisted. “Mr. Boss can go, too. Tuck and I got this covered.”
“You’re sure?”
The two nodded, and I pulled off my apron.
“Brace yourself, Clare,” Matt warned. “It’s a madhouse out there.”
“Then by all means—” I extended my arm.
Thirty-six
DODGING kids, nannies, elves, and flying gumdrops, we maneuvered our way through the open café area, which flowed right into the store’s colorful candy shop. That’s when Matt got bonked by a balloon bouquet and I was pelted by a hail of jelly beans.
“We can make it!” Matt assured me, and I followed his end run around the Necco Wafers display and onto the toy industry’s equivalent of a jam-packed main street.
At the other end of this crowded center aisle the grand entrance rose up with three stories of spotless plate glass, forming a massive Fifth Avenue storefront. Matt gestured toward the impressive lobby.
“Did my mother give you the rundown on what’s going on up there?”
“Too busy—both of us. What’s the deal?”
Matt briefly described the red-carpet treatment for tonight’s guest families.
“Two living toy soldiers greet them at the door, then four Nutcracker ballerinas dance them to the coat check and usher them to the ‘photo-op area,’ where their pictures are supposed to be taken with the stars of some new hit kiddie movie: Santa Zombie something?”
“Santa Claus, Zombie Hunter.”
“That’s the one. And, of course, right next to the faux Hollywood set, the store is displaying its entire line of toys from the movie . . .”
Of course! I thought. And so convenient for purchase. But then that was the draw for tonight’s location: one-stop holiday shopping.
The kids had the run of the place all night. They could play with the display toys, enjoy interactive exhibits, munch on free cookies, all while making up their gift lists for Santa Claus.
An army of personal shoppers, dressed as Santa’s elves, kept track of these lists. And every elf knew just how to process a titanium credit card.
It was a dream come true for any child (at least the ones whose parents could afford it).
Matt looked a little like a child himself as he gawked at the floor-to-ceiling displays of toys and games. “I think it’s been like fifteen years since I was last in this place. I was trying to buy new ice skates for Joy.”
“Except this toy store doesn’t sell ice skates.”
“Yeah, I figured that out—after about an hour of screwing around.” He shook his head. “You have to admit, this is one cool place.”
“Oh sure, especially if you’re in the market for an eight-thousand-dollar stuffed giraffe or twenty-five-thousand-dollar Barbie Foosball table.”
“Aw, come on, Clare. I know you’re down about what happened to Moirin. I am, too. But it’s not like you to be cynical. Aren’t those gumdrop drinks of yours bringing back a few good memories? When Joy was little, didn’t you show her how to make her own gumdrops?”
“I’m surprised you remember that.”
“Of course I do . . .” He paused, then said, “It wasn’t all bad. Our little family had a lot of good times, didn’t it? You even made Gumdrop Cookies out of those homemade gumdrops. They were one of Joy’s favorites.”
“But not yours.” I gave him a weak smile. “You always asked me to make my—”
“New York Cheesecake Cookies. I remember!” He nodded then sighed. “I haven’t had one of those in years. Too bad Bree doesn’t bake.”
“Your wife’s here tonight, isn’t she?”
“Not yet, but there are so many tall, thin salon-blondes at functions like this, I may have trouble locating her.”
“Why don’t you stand at the door and watch for her fur?”
“Furs are out this year.” He waved his hand. “She’s been wearing that new Fen reversible coat. It’s all the rage this season, or so she says.”
“She’s right. I saw it on a few women last week.” Can’t afford it, but I saw it.
“Red, black, who knows what side she’ll show the public,” Matt griped. “I told her to text me when the cab pulls up.”
“Speaking of texts . . . did you get the one from Desdemona in Crete? Something like next time she’ll bring the grappa?”
“You know what? I’d appreciate it if you didn’t read my text messages.”
“Believe me, I didn’t mean to. I thought you were trying to reach me.”
“No. But I have a suggestion. The next time you jump into a sports car with an ex–rock star, bring your own cell phone.”
“So I assume you’d prefer I not mention Desdemona to Bree?”
“Hey, listen, just because I shared a bottle of grappa with a socialite whose father happens to own a chain of cafés across Greece doesn’t mean anything nonkosher went on.”
&nbs
p; “So Breanne knows about Desdemona?”
“Does Quinn know you shared a pizza with ‘Wildman’ Brice?”
“Let’s drop the subject.”
“Yes, let’s . . .”
During our barbwired trek through the crowded store, we were continually passing bakers’ stations. Their tables were positioned to the right and left of the center aisle, around elaborate toy displays.
Tonight’s Cookie Swap theme was “Global Goodies: Holiday Cookies from Around the World,” and once again the participating bakers provided delicious delights. There were holiday treats from Norway and the Netherlands, the Ukraine and Poland, Italy, Ireland, Great Britain, and the Middle East. (I was so stressed-out, even this dazzling variety of cookies couldn’t tempt me!)
“Are you sure you don’t know why Janelle is upset with me?” I tried asking Matt again.
“I swear I don’t.”
“It’s not like her . . .”
At last, near the shop’s grand entrance, we came upon Janelle’s French-themed table. The spread was stunning. She not only filled her display with cookies but bite-sized masterpieces of French pastry.
My eyes went wide, my saliva glands awakened, and (stress be damned) my rumbling stomach announced it was time to start sampling!
Thirty-seven
GIVEN her culinary training, I expected Janelle’s table to be a Gallic delight, but her New Orleans roots were on display, too, and I was pleased to see it.
During her years in the Big Easy, Janelle had created impressive desserts for minor then major restaurants. But her contributions to the city’s famous “Reveillon” dinners were what earned her national attention.
Reveillon, derived from the French word for “awakening,” was a Creole holiday feast dating back to the 1700s. Families returning from Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve dug into this lavish meal. The tradition fell out of favor until NOLA’s restaurants revived and transformed it into a citywide prix fixe dinner—multiple courses of spectacular dishes that would “awaken” the holiday spirit.
Once, in my coffeehouse, over late-night lattes, Janelle recounted some of her past holiday dessert courses to me. I swooned at her descriptions of Eggnog Crème Brûlée served with Pecan Brittle; Cherries in Snow Vol-au-Vent; and “New Orleans Gingerbread” (aka spiced Cajun Gâteau de Sirop) plated with warm Caramel Bourbon Sauce and cane syrup–sweetened Crème Fraiche.
She served Bananas Foster Tarte Tatins; White Chocolate Pots de Crème with tiny Candy Cane Cookies hanging off the rims; Pain Perdu Holiday Bread Pudding (a dish that inspired my own plans for Mike Quinn’s Christmas morning breakfast); and finally a Spiced Pumpkin Roulade with Cream Cheese Filling.
(Rolling cake was a tricky technique, but Janelle’s description sounded so festive that I adapted it for my coffeehouse customers into a much simpler Cream Cheese Swirl Pumpkin Bundt Cake—sold by the slice!)
“This is an amazing spread,” Matt gushed.
“And clearly we’re not the only ones who think so . . .”
The table was so crowded with guests that Janelle didn’t notice our arrival. She stood at the far end of the display in her colorful Mardi Gras chef’s jacket and toque. A group of women in elegant party dresses had gathered around to hear her explain the difference between a French praline and a New Orleans praline—both of which were represented on her table.
Closer to our end, Janelle’s newly hired assistant, Boris Bokunin, was busy replenishing the stock. As fast as some little hand grabbed a doily with a pastry, Esther’s boyfriend refilled the empty space.
Wiry and tightly wound, Boris was a sweet guy at heart with perceptive gray eyes. He wore his blond hair in short, scary spikes and sported tattoos under his white baker’s jacket, yet his manner was always respectful.
Though no taller than Esther, Boris typically vibrated with the compacted energy of a firecracker. But tonight he seemed tired, and I knew why. He’d been working around the clock to help Janelle prepare for this Swap.
I also noticed the usually loquacious young man (aka “Russian émigré, slam poet, and urban rapper”—in Esther’s words) was staying unusually quiet tonight. He nodded affably at each guest, but if anyone asked him a question, he pointed out Janelle.
“Miss J, she has no problem with my accent,” he explained when I asked why no spontaneous rapping tonight. “But I do not wish to confuse the people.”
“You mean because you’re serving at the French table?”
“Da.” He nodded. “. . . though a Russian chef at a French table is not so strange. Of noble traditions, I could explain of Catherine the Great and dishes invented on Franco-Russian plates—” (He wasn’t kidding—beef Stroganoff was a classic of this marriage, and one of my faves.)
But he shrugged. “Why bother? These kiddies have no patience for learning such things. They want their goodies and their little kid bling.”
“I understand,” I said. “On the other hand, I always enjoy your rapping.”
“You are a sweet lady, Clare Cosi. So for you, the boss lady of my beautiful Esther . . .” He leaned close. “Clare Cosi, Clare Cosi / a fresh urban posy / have a taste of these treats / a miraculous feat / of butter and cream / and sweet pastry dreams.”
Now there was the Boris I knew—and Esther loved.
I smiled. “Don’t mind if I do . . .”
Then I dug in, and Matt joined me.
We started with Janelle’s miniature Yule Logs, what the French called la bûche de Noël, a rolled cake made of chocolate and chestnuts, representing the special wood log burned on Christmas Eve. Then we moved on to her bite-sized triple-chocolate Mille-Feuille.
Literally translated, these “one thousand sheets” of buttery, crisp chocolate puff pastry were layered with mocha pastry cream, topped off with ganache, and sliced into small sampler squares.
Both of us tried the petite Red and Green Macarons (pistachio meringue cookies with raspberry buttercream) and tiny Budino Blancs—Janelle’s clever white-chocolate-dipped marzipan version of the traditional French Christmas sausage boudin blanc.
Then Matt gobbled three Mendiant Cookies. These were my friend’s take on the traditional French Christmas candy. (Instead of tempered chocolate, she smoothed ganache over the surface of buttery French sablés, using the chocolate icing as her canvas for the traditional studding of nuts and candied fruit.)
Finally, I sampled the Tuiles . . .
No doubt Janelle added these light, crisp French cookies after last week’s brush with the perpetually dieting models and actresses. (Smart!) Even I felt zero guilt scarfing her three varieties of sweet, delicious curls—orange-pecan flavored with Grand Marnier; mocha with chocolate and Tia Maria; and traditional almond with a hint of Amaretto.
“Ladies and gentlemen!”
I stilled, midcrunch on my Mocha Tuile, as the announcer’s deep voice blared over the store’s public address speakers.
“Rudolph the Red-Nosed Supersonic Robo-Rocket is about to land on our plaza with a special gift for you! So come to the front of the store to watch from our grand lobby or bundle up in your coats—and come outside to watch the show and meet Robo-Rocket Rudolph in person!”
Matt and I blocked our ears as every child in the store shrieked with excitement. Then the stampede was on. Party dresses and little suits flung themselves down the center aisle, their elegant parents hurrying to catch up, personal shopping elves bringing up the rear.
Matt got bonked again by flying balloons, and I was shoved so hard by some man trying to film his excited child’s sprint that I literally leaped behind Janelle’s table to avoid crashing into it!
When the pixie dust settled, you could practically hear crickets chirp. Up and down the now-empty aisle, bakers glanced around in a kind of daze, wondering what, in the name of Santa, had just happened.
Matt, Boris, and I now stood completely alone. At the other end of the table, Janelle finally realized I’d come by. Turning, she locked eyes with me, and her smile turned upside down.<
br />
“You!” she cried, stabbing the air with her finger. “I have a bone to pick with you!”
“For heaven’s sake, Janelle, what did I do?”
“I’ll tell you what you did!” she cried, barreling close enough to bite my nose off. “You took a big ol’ carving knife—and stabbed me right in the back!”
Thirty-eight
I stood bewildered, mouth gaping. “Janelle, what are you talking about?”
“How could you not warn me that St. Nick was here!”
“St. Nick?”
Fearing for Janelle’s sanity, I exchanged confused looks with Matt. Was she working too hard?
“What’s your problem with Santa Claus?” I asked.
“Not Santa Claus!” She threw up her hands. “St. Nick Bacque!”
“Who?”
She tried again to explain, and I assured her: “I have no idea who you’re talking about. Who is ‘St. Nick’ Bacque?”
“Do you remember my mentioning my ‘expensive’ employee problems? Well, Nick was it! He comes off sweeter than praline—he’ll yes you to death, smooth talk you, tell you anything you want to hear. Then you find out he’s a thieving snake!”
“But what does that have to do with me?”
Janelle’s powerful baker’s hands went to her ample hips. “Your employer—and former mother-in-law—is on the board of this thing, isn’t she? I figured you and she knew all about it. And you didn’t even warn me that he’d be here! How could you let a snake like him wrap himself around potential high-end customers at a function like this?”
“But I’ve never even met this St. Nick!”
She froze, staring at me, finally thinking it through.
“Oh my gosh . . . you never did, did you?”
The fury seemed to drain out of her and she shook her head. “Nick worked nights, baking for me, eleven to seven. I guess you never did have cause to come by my shop during those hours . . .”
“We’re friends, Janelle. Why didn’t you ever mention the problems this man caused you?”
She looked away and her body slumped even more. “Nick came to me as a friend from home—a cousin of a gentleman chef who gave me one of my first big breaks. Well, I was happy to do the same for him, but he turned out to be a real piece of work. He cost me plenty.”
