by Sandra Byrd
The customers petered to a trickle, and Madame came to get me. “Odette can handle it now,” she said. “You’re here to help me”.
I followed her into the back of the bakery, where several men were prepping bread. It was smaller than L’Esperance, where I’d worked in Seattle. Madame and her brother, Marcel, had inherited the family business from their father. Marcel usually worked at the bakery in Provence, several hours to the south. His son, Philippe, managed the bakery in Rambouillet, not far away.
“Clean this up, please,” Madame said. Bowls lay everywhere, mixers dripped with chocolate ganache, and a huge pile of cookie sheets, stacked like a deck of cards, needed scrubbing.
I nodded cheerfully. Luc had warned me I’d be the low girl on the totem pole.
As I stood in the washing room, cleaning and hanging the utensils, I watched Madame work. She slung dough and barked orders in salty French. The bakers ducked away from her and kept a low, respectful tone when talking to her. I grinned.
“Something is amusing?” Madame stacked another set of pans in front of me. “I could use a good laugh”.
“Oh, no,” I said. “Nothing at all, Madame”.
“Bon. Call me Maman. I am the maman of the bakery”. She went out back and smoked a cigarette, then came back in to make puff pastry for éclairs. She reminded me of Patricia, her niece, the baker in charge of the pastry room in Seattle. Patricia was here now too in Rambouillet. I’d see her again when I worked a shift at that bakery. I was a floater, a commis, helping wherever I was needed with no permanent home.
That thought struck too close.
One of the bread bakers walked by and looked at my face. “You are sad?”
I shook my head. “Tired”.
“Ah,” he said, and left. A few minutes later, he came back with a chocolate croissant. “To wake you up”. He handed me a cup of coffee. “Take a break. Not be sad anymore”. He hadn’t fallen for my tired talk.
I looked to see if Maman approved, and she nodded. I went out the back door and sat at the picnic table set up for staff breaks.
I bit into the pastry and remembered something I’d once read. The croissants in France are so light they must be made by angels, and the coffee, so thick and black, by the devil. I sipped my coffee, hot and strong, and agreed.
Church bells chimed the start of the workday. It was eight o’clock in the morning, my first day of work in a real French bakery. It was eleven o’clock the night before in Seattle. Tanya was probably still roasting marshmallows at the lake.
I drained my coffee and went back to the kitchen. The day went quickly as I cleaned the dishes, the back bakery room, and neatened the supplies. At lunchtime, I heard a happy shout.
“Poupée!”
As I turned, I saw Maman open her arms and smile, and ten years dropped off her face. “Are you ready for the celebration tonight?”
“Oui,” a little girl answered. “I can’t wait!”
Maman gave her a treat and went back to work. The little girl—whom Maman had called poupée, or doll, a term of endearment—turned and looked at me. She offered her hand. “Bonjour. My name is Céline”.
Such perfect manners. Such a sweet spirit. Totally unlike the only other Céline I’d ever known at a short-lived job in Seattle. Little Céline’s school uniform was starched, her hair tied back in a neat ponytail with the tiniest pearl studs clinging to her earlobes.
“Hello”. I shook her hand. “My name is Lexi”.
“Lexi! I like that name”. She sat next to me.
She liked my name! She didn’t think it was strange. Take that, mean work permit woman.
“Are you taking the place of Dominique?” she asked.
Dominique was Luc’s sister. “I’m working here while she works in my town”.
“In America?” Céline asked, biting into her cookie.
“Yes”.
“Do you live in California? I love California”.
“No”. I watched her eyes droop. Not ready to lose my first and only French friend, I added, “But I live very close to California”. As U.S. geography goes, I thought.
“Oh, good. That’s fine then”. She hopped off the stool next to the weighing counter, taking her cookie with her. “Do you know my papa?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “What is his name?”
“Philippe”. She took another nibble out of her cookie.
“No, I don’t know him yet”.
“You’ll like him,” she said. “He’s très sympa”.
I laughed. “I’m sure your dad is very cool”.
She laughed too and walked up front to bask in the adoring gaze of Maman and Odette.
I smiled for the first time that day. Céline was definitely bien élevé, well-raised, and polite.
A few minutes later Maman came and handed me a list of ingredients. “Weigh these out for me, to prepare for tomorrow”.
“Immediately,” I said. Then I added, “Céline is a delightful child”.
She nodded. “I know. If only I had grandchildren. She is my brother Marcel’s granddaughter. She’s in the village today for the fireworks celebration tonight. Normally she’s in Rambouillet with her father. But school is now out until September, and since her mother died a few years ago, we all take care of her”.
I hadn’t known Philippe was a widower. I remembered Patricia talking about her brother when she was in Seattle and knew she doted on him. Poor Céline. No maman.
“Ah well,” Maman said. “Luc is getting married next month, and maybe I’ll have grandchildren myself soon”.
“The wedding will be very exciting!” I said. Even though I’d had my fill of weddings at home, it would be fun to see a French one. And I had truly begun to like Marianne, Luc’s fiancée.
Maman looked at me strangely and walked away.
I shook it off and began to weigh out the butter, exactement, according to her instructions.
Out of the corner of my eye I spied Odette, who had been eavesdropping, I was sure. She hung her apron on one of the pegs in the back. The bakery was closing early due to the holiday.
I tried again to make polite conversation. “How nice that your name is embroidered on your uniform!” I said. “I’ll have to get that done”.
“Temporary workers and floaters don’t have their names on their uniforms,” she said. “There is no reason for it, as the customers and suppliers, even the other bakers, won’t need to know their names, and they don’t stay long enough to matter. It’s for those who are permanent. It would be a great faux pas to have it done yourself”.
“Oh,” I said, busying myself with the butter. I blinked back tears and was ashamed to admit I wanted my own maman despite being twenty-five years old.
Odette took a pastry box out of the refrigerator case and readied herself to leave for the day. “You won’t be going to Luc’s wedding,” she pronounced. “It’s for family and friends”.
And then she left.
I grinned. That was where she was wrong. I knew the bakery would close for two weeks in August, as many businesses in and around Paris did, and that the family was traveling south for the wedding.
I couldn’t wait to visit Provence. Odette may not have realized it, but I was Luc’s friend.
Two
Sacred cows make the best hamburger.
Mark Twain
A few weeks rolled by, and every day after my shift, I plopped down at an outside table at the village café, eating a late lunch, drinking iceless Orangina—though I really wanted a Coke with lots of ice cubes—and trying to look like I fit in. I doodled or read so I didn’t look alone. I loved France. I loved the French. Why didn’t they like me? Everyone was polite enough—except for Odious—but not friendly.
“Bonjour,” I said to the same waiter every day. “Une salade niçoise, please”.
“Yes, certainly, right away,” he said with French efficiency and a brief smile. But there was no small talk.
Maman said very little to me, but
one of the bakers let it slip that they all had to do the elbow-busting work of the commis before they went to baking school. I held on. School started in September, and I knew that after schooling, pastry chefs made much more in France than in Seattle. So I cut the bread, bagged it, and swept up the crumbs. I kept the front pastry case looking fresh. I wrote the specials of the day on the chalkboard with French-style printing. I kept my uniform clean and my hair neatly tied back.
For all this, I earned a quick, smile-free nod of acknowledgment from Maman and more dirty dishes.
My heart was empty. I never thought it would happen to me, but it did.
I was homesick.
“Tomorrow is your day off,” Maman said to me one Thursday afternoon. “What will you do?”
“I’m taking the train to Paris,” I said, encouraged by her slight thaw. “I want a new dress and some shoes”.
“Bon!” Maman said. “That will be a wonderful day. What girl wouldn’t want to go to Paris?”
I couldn’t imagine any girl who wouldn’t want to go to Paris. This girl had dreamed of it her whole life.
I hopped on the train to Paris and immediately felt more cheerful. Unfortunately, I wouldn’t have time to do much sightseeing, due to the train schedule, but I’d still be in Paris. When the train arrived, I got off, had a café crème, and walked to one of the secondhand designer shops I’d looked up online.
“God,” I prayed under my breath, “Some people might think it’s silly to ask You for help finding a dress, but I want the perfect one, and I’m on a budget”. I had some birthday money my parents had sent me a week ago, but that was all.
I pushed open the door to a small boutique in the Eighth Arrondissement, one of the more exclusive neighborhoods.
“Bonjour!” the saleswoman called out to me.
“Bonjour,” I replied.
She smoothly came alongside me. “How can I help you?”
I put myself firmly in her chic, fashionable hands. “I’m looking for a dress to wear to a wedding in a few weeks. And shoes to match. I want to make a nice, understated appearance. The wedding will be in Provence”.
“Bon, I can help you”. She bid me sit in the upholstered armchair next to the dressing room while she whisked about the store, gathering items here and there. A few minutes later, she stood in front of me with her choices.
First she showed me a sea green silk dress that hit midcalf and midchest.
“Too low cut for me,” I said.
She didn’t blink and offered the second dress, peach and classically cut. It would definitely show off my warm skin tone.
“Let’s try it”. I stood and reached for the dress.
“Attendez!” she said, motioning me back with her hand. “Wait one minute. I will offer you one other”. She held up a navy blue summer dress made of linen.
It was chic. It was young. It had polka dots, a white, wide-brimmed hat, and a set of large, long, white beads. I had never dared to wear anything so bold.
“Do you think?” I asked, holding my breath.
“I know,” she said with a certain nod. She handed me her choices, opened the dressing room, and closed it firmly behind me.
First I wriggled into the peach. It looked great, but it also looked like something I could have bought and worn at home. I took it off. Next I slipped into the navy. I zipped it up and straightened to my full height before looking in the mirror.
I, Alexandra Stuart, looked French chic. I grinned at myself in the mirror, and heard a discreet knock on the door.
“May I see?” the saleswoman asked.
I opened the door. “Voilà,” she said. “It’s perfect. You must buy it”. She pinched the back zipper, which was the tiniest bit strained. She didn’t need to say anything.
“Too many baguettes,” I admitted.
“No baguettes this week, and it will be just so”. She closed the door behind her, perfectly confident in her professional assessment, and perfectly confident I would take her advice.
And, of course, I did. I let her ring up the purchase, not daring to look at how many euros this ensemble would cost me until it was a done deal.
I “licked the windows” for an hour, as the French call window shopping, and stopped at a chocolatier for a few lush goodies to nibble on as I walked around Paris. I wanted to beat the hours-long commuter rush I’d been warned about, so I hopped on the Métro, took the train back to the village, and strolled home. I hung my to-die-for polka dot dress in the small armoire in my bedroom and settled the shoes neatly under it to await their grand debut.
When I went to work the next day, our customer flow was slow, as many of them had gone en vacance for the month of August. I was in the back shelving items when a little voice called out, “Lexi!”
Céline ran into the back, ponytail bobbing. “I came to see you,” she said.
“To get a goûter, a sweet treat, more likely,” I teased her. She grinned, and I saw that she’d lost a tooth. “Did the tooth fairy come?” I asked.
She wrinkled her nose. “What’s the tooth fairy?”
“She comes through your window on the night you lose your tooth. If you leave your tooth out where she can see it, she will leave you a euro in return”.
“Oh, would you please ask the tooth fairy to come from America and visit me next time?” she asked. “I don’t think she knows how to get to France. We only have a little mouse who comes and takes the teeth away. A fairy would be much more beautiful”.
I laughed. “I’ll see what I can do. Now, why did you come to see me?”
“I’m leaving to visit my grandparents in London, and then we’ll go to Papi’s house in Provence till school starts. I wanted to say goodbye. And to have you meet my papa”. She tugged my hand and led me out to the shop front.
When we got there, I saw Odette talking—flirting—with a man who looked about thirty. At a quick glance, he reminded me of Luc, his cousin. He had the same muscular baker’s build and the same medium-length hair, though his was not queued in the back. It ended at the bottom of his neck with a couple of light waves.
What were different were his eyes. Luc’s eyes always had a “come-on” look in them, flirtatious, challenging, laughing. When Philippe looked at me, I noticed that while he was still very attractive, his gaze was more direct. Kinder.
Odette pursed her orange lips, and Céline said, “Papa, this is Lexi. She’s the new Dominique”.
I smiled and held out my hand. “I am certain I cannot take Dominique’s place, but I’m glad to be here, and thankful to Luc for sending me. It’s nice to meet you”.
“Ah yes, Alexandra,” Philippe said.
Blood rushed to my face. “How did you know my name?”
He grinned. “Luc told me you were coming. You’ll work with me at the bakery in Rambouillet too, now and again?”
I nodded. “I’m looking forward to seeing your sister again”.
He laughed out loud. “Patricia? You’re the first person I’ve ever heard say that. Patricia is a bit … firm. Opinionated”. He lowered his voice. “But Lexi knows our secret, doesn’t she, ma puce,” he said to Céline. “That below Patricia’s hardened face lies a heart as soft as buttercream”.
Céline giggled and looked at me. “I will see you when you’re at my bakery. Don’t forget to talk to the tooth fairy”.
She ran off with Odette to get a cookie.
“Thank you for agreeing to have me work in Rambouillet,” I said.
“Ah, it’s not my place to say,” Philippe said. “I am sometimes at this bakery, sometimes in Provence, sometimes at the office running the numbers. My father is the real patron, the boss, of the family business. He agreed to bring you on at Luc’s insistence. Luc said you had promise and that, since we were working in America, it would be good to bring an American here too”.
I could have imagined it, but I was paying close attention to every inflection when people spoke to me in an effort to perfect my French, and Philippe’s voice hardened w
hen he mentioned his father. I had yet to meet Monsieur Delacroix. Maybe I didn’t want to. I hadn’t known that Luc had insisted I come.
“I will have to thank Luc again,” I said.
“You can do it soon,” Philippe answered. “He and Marianne will be here next week”.
Maman came up from the bakery to see what I was doing. She said nothing, simply looked at me.
Philippe understood the look too. He grinned and winked. “Back to work, eh?”
I smiled back. “Alors …”
“I will see you soon,” Philippe said.
“Oui,” I answered.
Odette rushed up to Philippe and restarted her conversation until a customer demanded her attention. I watched Philippe politely disengage, take Céline by the hand, and walk out the door.
He was kind. He and Céline were somehow different than most of the other French people I’d met so far.
I walked home that day, running my hand against the long stone wall, tired but feeling like I was breaking through the ice and beginning to find a place here. I saw a car in Maman’s driveway, but didn’t recognize it.
A few days later, I saw it back again. I peeked through my own lace curtains this time, thankful for the privacy they afforded, and began to feel much more French in that matter. Philippe was putting suitcases into the car’s trunk, and Céline loaded up toys and books.
Normally, I am not a kid person. If someone had asked me a few months back what I thought would be appropriate gear for a road trip with a child, I’d have said a muzzle and some restraints. Depending on the kid, maybe pepper spray. But I didn’t feel that way about Céline. Maybe it was because she was my first real French friend, despite her young age. Maybe it was something else.
I opened my armoire the next morning and pulled out a clean uniform, pausing to run my finger down the navy dress. Smiling, I closed the armoire door and walked through the misty dawn toward work.
Once inside I was seduced by the warm, buttery air, sweet with dark chocolate and vanilla cream. Odette ran the register, and I pulled the croissants off the cooling racks one by one, then stacked them in the display case. The village bakery wasn’t fancy, but it was much more appealing than any small bakery I’d seen at home. The only really lovely bakeries in Seattle were owned by the French—Luc’s two and one other that, in my opinion, wasn’t even comparable. Instead, we had coffeeshops with cases stuffed with over-processed, overpreserved breakfast breads that tasted like something made by Hostess. Every resident of even the smallest French village would not expect to eat bread more than six hours old. Many of our customers came to get bread in the morning and then again before dinner.
