by Sandra Byrd
“No need for religion,” I said.
“Religion is okay,” he corrected me. “As long as it stays a … condiment. Not a main course”.
I nodded.
“When Andrea died,” he said, “I realized I could fill myself with good things—with baking, with my career, with Céline, with anything I wanted—but the only thing that took away my pain was my faith. Until she died, I didn’t realize that”.
I smiled, thinking of my lonely weekend in Paris and the lesson I’d learned. “Until you were hungry, you had not developed the need”.
“Oui,” Philippe agreed. “Exactement”. He handed me a tiny porcelain figure. “This, mademoiselle, is for you”.
The figurine was a woman in a white apron holding up a beautiful cake. The title at the bottom was pâtissière, a cake maker.
I bought handfuls of fèves, taken with them. I didn’t know why I wanted so many, but they were cheap and would make good gifts. They were just for bakers, and I was a baker.
We stopped at one last booth that sold marble cheese platters, as Philippe said he needed a new one. To the side hung a sign.
“What is a bachelor?” Céline asked me.
I looked at the sign that had caught her attention.
“A man who is not married,” I answered.
“Is my papa a bachelor, then? Even though he used to be married?”
I nodded. “Oui”.
“Oh,” she said.
Afterward, the three of us went to a café and had a drink. “Table for three?” the waiter asked, and Philippe nodded.
Céline ordered a menthe à l’eau, water with mint syrup. Philippe and I each had a glass of Burgundy, as the new wines had just been released. We nibbled on bread and a variety of cheeses.
We drove home together in companionable chatter. Céline stayed in the car as Philippe walked me to my door.
“Thanks for today,” I said.
“Thank you,” he replied. “I have not enjoyed the flea market like that in quite some time”. He smiled and it lit up his face. I noticed the five o’ clock shadow again along his jaw line.
“I’ll see you at church tomorrow?”
“No”. He shook his head. “I’ll be working. I took today off instead”.
Patricia had said he never missed church. Except this week. He’d taken a rare day off to be with me. Out of obligation? In the greater interests of warmer Franco-American relations?
When I looked up and caught his little smile, I knew it was something more. Maybe only a bit more, but more.
Instead of shaking my hand, he leaned in to me, near enough that I could smell his aftershave. He kissed each of my cheeks, French style, rough cheeks brushing against my smooth ones.
“Bread and cheese and kisses,” he said, and left.
The next morning I went to church. I walked slowly from the train station to the church, half a mile. I had time, since the train schedules were a bit inconvenient on Sunday. Anne was going to meet me at a café in Versailles afterward, and we were going to shop for a while.
“Hello!” The vicar’s lovely wife greeted me when I reached the church. “We’ve missed you”.
“Even though I’ve just started coming, I missed being here,” I said, honestly. “I had to work, and then my father visited from the US”.
“Lovely,” she said, handing me a bulletin for the day. “I’m glad you’re back”.
I walked toward the front, and recognized Gabby. “Hello,” I said politely.
“Hello,” she responded coolly. She looked behind me—checking for Philippe, I assumed—and saw no one. She allowed herself a small smile in my direction at that point.
As for me, I’d spotted the ever-rocking Buki. I slid into the pew beside her, and she greeted me with a hug and a grin.
The praise and worship service began, and I closed my eyes and let myself get into the song. I let both my hands rise in praise and drifted away in the Spirit toward the Lord. Somehow, here, in the midst of strangers, I was best able to be myself in worship.
I missed being here. I longed for worship with others. I yearned to hear someone talk about God, a closed subject in this very open land.
After the worship we greeted one another, some with handshakes, Buki with a hug.
“Staying for coffee?” the pastor asked as I prepared to leave.
“No, I’m meeting a friend in town,” I said.
“Ah”. He nodded. “Been reading Jean?”
I smiled. “Yes. In fact, I’ve read the entire book since I was last here!” As soon as the words left my mouth, I felt foolish, like I hoped he’d put a gold star on my bulletin or something.
“A quick, cursory read is a great way to start a study,” he said. “What part will you focus your in-depth study on?”
Quick, cursory read? In-depth study? “John 15,” I blurted without thinking. That was the chapter I’d read with my dad last weekend.
“Great chapter,” he said. “See you next week?”
“See you next week,” I affirmed, and then made my way out the door before Gabby could grab my arm and ask about Philippe.
I walked down the road, the October air slipping through my thick, cabled sweater. I’d need to start wearing my coat soon. I knew Versailles was a great shopping town, and I had a secret purchase in mind today. A parasol! Nothing too frou-frou. I could get an umbrella anywhere, but I wanted one that looked very French and perhaps just a little Marie Antoinette—in her town, of course.
It still awed me to walk casually down the streets of Versailles. The bakers for Marie Antoinette may have lived very close. Rose Bertin, her dressmaker, had driven her carriage of trunks of extravagant fabrics through these very lanes. The château in the distance dominated the town now as it did then. Louis the XIV’s conquests may have retreated in shame or vainglory down the road I trod upon.
I came to the corner of the café and spied Anne, who waved at me. I smiled and waved back. Thank you for this friend, Lord, I said in my heart.
I had the distinct impression He wanted her as a friend too. The thought stopped me in my tracks for a moment. I no longer call you servants, because a servant does not know his master’s business. Instead, I have called you friends. John 15. Yes, I would read that again in-depth.
We sat inside the café, drizzle starting to fall from the sky just as we arrived.
Anne popped shut an umbrella. “How was your morning?”
We passed the menu board, and I glanced at it, trying to choose one of the specials for lunch. Onion soupe sounded great. I’d made some from a recipe from Gourmet magazine at home last week, but I never grew tired of it.
French Onion Soup
Ingredients:
3 lbs onions, sliced into thin rings
2 bay leaves
1 tsp dried thyme
¾ tsp salt
½ stick
(¼ cup) unsalted butter, cut in half
¼ cup all-purpose flour
¼ cup dry white wine
6 cups beef stock
½ day-old baguette
3 tsp butter
Onion salt or powder
1 cup grated Gruyère cheese
Directions:
Cook onions, bay leaves, thyme, salt, and half the butter In a large, heavy pot over moderate heat, uncovered, stirring frequently until onions are very soft and deep golden brown, about 45 minutes. It’s okay if the bottom of the pan browns, as long as it doesn’t burn. The brown “stuff” on the bottom of the pan is the fond, and having lots of It will make your soup taste richer. If It seems as though It may start to burn, turn down the heat.
Once the onions are browned and you have lots of fond, add flour and cook for 1 minute, stirring constantly. Add wine and cook 2 minutes, stirring constantly. Add stock and simmer, uncovered and stirring occasionally, for 30 minutes.
While soup simmers, put oven rack in middle position and preheat oven to 350°F.
Cut the baguette into large cubes and toss with the rem
aining butter and onion salt to taste. Arrange bread in a single layer on a large baking sheet and toast, turning once, until golden brown, about 15 minutes. They’ll be like large, slightly soft croutons. Remove from oven.
Preheat broiler. Put 4 ovenproof soup crocks on a cookie sheet.
Discard bay leaves from soup and divide soup among crocks, then top each crock with croutons. Sprinkle Gruyère to cover tops of crocks. Broil 4—5 Inches from heat until cheese Is melted and bubbly, 1—2 minutes.
Anne ordered some soup too, and we chatted about the past week in school and started brainstorming about our projects.
The waiter arrived with the soup. “Bon appétit!” he said as we hungrily dug in.
“What did you do yesterday?” I asked.
“Read,” she said. “Baked bread”.
“Baked bread! On your day off?”
“Yeah,” she grinned. “Keeping in practice”.
“You’re so good,” I said, putting another spoonful of soup into my mouth. No wonder Maman couldn’t stop singing her praises. I hadn’t passed that on to Anne, though.
“What did you do?” she asked.
“Went to the flea market,” I said. “Then I went to church this morning”. I decided to ask again, though I didn’t expect her to give up her sleep. “Sure you don’t want to come with me someday? It’d be good for your career to speak English with more than one person!”
“Hmm …” she said. “I suppose so. It’s kind of … quiet around my apartment. And I do need a job. I’ll do almost anything to help my chances”. She sat silently for a moment.
Almost anything? I wondered, doubt blooming in my mind.
“Maybe I will come with you,” she said. “Why not?”
Nine
There are three possible parts to a date, of which at least two must be offered: entertainment, food, and affection. It is customary to begin a series of dates with a great deal of entertainment, a moderate amount of food, and the merest suggestion of affection. As the amount of affection increases, the entertainment can be reduced proportionately. When the affection IS the entertainment, we no longer call it dating. Under no circumstances can the food be omitted.
Miss Manners’ Guide to Excruciatingly Correct Behavior
The next week we worked on breakfast pastries in class. If I had to do bread, I’d want to do these. First we did filled croissants. They’re a staple, so it’s important to get them right.
Jean-Yves, one of the French guys at our table, partnered up with me that week, scooting Anne aside. I’d noticed he’d been avoiding Désirée for the past week or two, and she’d been chasing him again that morning.
“Go ahead,” Anne said. “It’ll be good for us to work with new people”. It was almost the end of October, halfway through our program. I agreed with her. She offered to work with another man at a nearby table, but he looked down his nose at her and declined. He found another guy to work with, and Anne worked with Désirée.
Jean-Yves and I rolled out our croissants on long tables. After cutting the dough into triangles, we stuffed some with chocolate nibs, some with tender almond paste, and the rest with pistachio paste—my idea, like I’d done at home last year.
We rolled them up, took them to the oven, and as soon as they were cool, ate one.
“Look!” Jean-Yves opened a jar of strawberry jam and a pot of crème fraîche and set them aside. We daubed it on the hot croissants. “My maman used to serve them like this”.
“Delicious!” I said in English, and he laughed.
“Délicieux!” he agreed in French. I sat next to him that day at lunch, and he shared stories of growing up on a farm in Bresse, and how their chickens were the best.
Désirée joined us for the croissant desserts. “I’d like to try one of the strawberry croissants,” she said, looking around the buffet, “but none were left. Perhaps you’d make one for me?”
“Perhaps,” Jean-Yves said pleasantly. Then he turned to ask me questions about the US, and if everyone was really like the people on CNN or MTV.
“Do I look like I’m from CNN or MTV?” I asked.
“Non. “ He smiled flirtatiously. “You are much, much prettier”.
Ooh la la, he reminded me of Luc and of the flirtatious French men who dropped their sunglasses and looked appreciatively and appraisingly at every woman on the block.
Désirée left the table in a snit.
Tuesday we made kugelhopf.
“Why are we making German pastries?” I asked as we whipped up the dough.
“European Union,” Jean-Yves said as he helped me measure out my ingredients. “Look at Monsieur Desfreres. He looks like he needs smelling salts”.
I laughed out loud. I gathered this was a part of the homogenization that got under his skin. Still, since I’d heard about his wife leaving him, I felt a little softer toward him.
Wednesday we made Danish pastries, but French style, with lots of butter and panache. The cooking school was working on breakfast dishes too, so each day at lunch we really ate “brunch”. Désirée didn’t try to sit with Jean-Yves, Anne, and I that day.
Anne and Jean-Yves each tried one of the Danish I’d made, with poached apricots, amaretto, and toasted almond slices.
“Not bad,” Jean-Yves teased. “If I woke up next to you, I’d be glad to eat one of these in the morning”.
“In your dreams,” I said, but I knew he was teasing. He’d said something similar to Anne a few days ago, and I knew he had a serious girlfriend in Bresse. They planned to live together when he moved back.
So many people lived together, so few got married. Not me.
What would have happened if I’d slept with Greg, my ex-boyfriend. He had wanted me to. And, to be honest, I’d wanted to. I could understand Jean-Yves and his girlfriend’s desires. But now Greg was on his third girlfriend since our breakup.
Nah. I’d wait.
Wednesday, after school I went to the bakery in the village. I’d been there all week because Maman had thrown her back out. Patricia came once in a while to do the pastries, but they let me do the cakes, petits fours, and mille-feuille. I was in heaven!
I headed toward the kitchen, excited to start baking. As far as I knew, the customers hadn’t noticed any difference. I would have been sure to hear about it otherwise. Odette would have let me know.
Monsieur Delacroix stood in the doorway between the shop front and the kitchen.
“Bonjour, Monsieur Delacroix,” I said as I passed.
“Bonjour, Mademoiselle Stuart,” he said, retaining less of his original formality but still with a modicum of professional pleasantry.
He turned toward the hooks that held the aprons and chef jackets. He searched through a few, looking at the embroidered names. “Je regrette, I am unable to find yours. I was going to hand it to you,” he said.
I blushed and reached for the apron on the far peg. “This is it”.
He looked confused.
“No name on it,” I reminded him gently. I was the only temporary employee, and he didn’t spend a lot of time in the bakery proper.
“I hear you spent the day with my granddaughter searching for fèves”.
“Oh yes!” I said, face lighting up with delight. “She taught me all about them”.
He cracked an actual smile at that. “Naturellement,” he said. “She’s a Delacroix!” As his face softened, I could see Philippe in him. It endeared him to me in a fatherlike way.
Odette came into the back with a cup of coffee. “Café, monsieur?”
“Non, merci. We do not have the machine for express, here, which I prefer. But thank you”.
“Of course,” Odette said cloyingly.
Ick. I turned to go back to my work.
“Mademoiselle Stuart,” Monsieur Delacroix called.
“Oui, Monsieur?”
“I have received the invitation to your exhibition in two months. I always invite the entire staff to professional exhibitions. We are all looking forward to see
ing the culmination of your studies”.
“Thank you, sir,” I said.
“Can’t wait,” Odette said quietly as she left.
A few minutes later, she came back, this time urgently.
“Monsieur?” she said, seeking out Monsieur Delacroix. “It’s the telephone for you. It’s Luc”.
Luc? I checked my watch. It was two o’clock in the afternoon here, five o’clock in the morning in Seattle. The start of his baking day.
Monsieur Delacroix’s face hardened as he took the phone. “Not again,” he grumbled to himself. “Another problème?”
Thursday morning I arrived at school extra early. Chef Desfreres had told us the school had a special order for four thousand macaron cookies for an industrial client—Airbus, I think. French industries often placed large orders with the school—the price was cheaper, and they got a government write-off for supporting other institutions.
French macarons are not like American macaroons. American macaroons are made of coconut held together by egg white and sugar—tasty but sweet, and honestly, a little unsophisticated.
French macarons, on the other hand, are two light cookies, airy almost, with a thin, smooth shell that crumbles at the slightest touch. The inside of the cookie is chewy and sticky, and the bottom, called the foot, is firm. Between the two cookies is sandwiched a flavored buttercream. French chefs, in their individual laboratoires, or pastry kitchens, compete to come up with novel-flavored macarons.
Today, each student was to prepare one hundred perfect macarons in traditional flavors—vanilla, chocolate, coffee, and raspberry—and box them up for Monsieur Desfreres.
Because we couldn’t all be at the oven at the same time, we worked in shifts. As soon as my macarons were done, I carefully made my way back to the table where my butter cream pots waited. I worked next to Anne that day, but Jean-Yves called me over.
