Bon Appetit

by Sandra Byrd

  I felt like telling her that from what I heard, the two of them deserved each other. Instead, I kept my cool so the chocolate wouldn’t seize.

  Apparently it wasn’t true there were no secrets in a family business. It’s just that I wasn’t in on them. I should have figured Maman would be happy about that. I wondered when they’d tell me officially.

  Tuesday after school I went to Rambouillet to work for the rest of the week. I wondered why I was being scheduled to work at Rambouillet so much more often than the village. Not that I minded. It was bigger and busier, so that was probably why. I think Patricia did most of the scheduling.

  After putting my apron on, I worked on the chocolate Patricia had left for me to temper. After cakes, I liked working with chocolate best. It allowed me to be creative. It wasn’t quite as—dare I admit it—pedestrian as bread and typical pastries.

  Plus, they were both made in the same cool room to keep the chocolate or icings from getting too warm. The room was painted a soft green, and I had turned the radio to classical music to keep my mind soothed and freed while I created truffles, bonbons, dipped delicacies of every kind. My new favorites were softly dried cherries with dark chocolate drizzles.

  A little after three o’clock, Céline raced into the cool room, pigtails flying behind her.

  “Lexi!” she said, her joy in seeing me obvious.

  I broke out in a big grin. “Céline, ma jeune fille,” I said. “How are you? I’ve missed you!”

  “I’m fine, très bien,” she said. “But I’ve brought someone to meet you. Come on!” She tugged on my apron.

  I washed my hands and followed her to the front. There, chatting with Simone, was a middle-aged woman with a neat chignon.

  “Madame, this is Lexi,” Céline introduced us, sounding much older than her young years. I suppose not having a mother made her grow up faster than she should have had to. “Lexi, this is my teacher, Madame Poitevan”.

  “Enchantée, Mademoiselle”. Madame Poitevan extended a thin, well-manicured hand toward me, and I shook it. I hoped I’d gotten all the ganache off. “I wanted to come by and thank you personally for the stunning cake you made for my husband’s birthday on Sunday. It really was fantastic; we were most impressed. When I found out it wasn’t Patricia who made it, why that made it even more remarkable”.

  “She told Papa it was the best cake they’d ever eaten,” Céline said. She quickly lowered her voice. “But don’t tell Tante Patricia”.

  From out of nowhere, Patricia materialized. “Don’t tell Tante Patricia what, ma puce?”

  “De rien,” Céline answered, holding back a smile. “Nothing at all”.

  I turned back to Madame Poitevan. “Thank you very much. It makes me truly happy that I was able to assist your celebration in any way”.

  “I will ask for you again,” Madame Poitevan reassured before turning to chat with Patricia for a moment, and then leaving with a bag of fresh chouquettes.

  Céline chose some chouquettes for herself and Patricia led her back to the office to begin some homework. That left Simone and I alone in the front.

  “How did she know I made the cake?” I asked Simone.

  “After you went to church, Madame Poitevan came by to pick up her cake. I was busy, and your friend Anne helped carry the boxes to her car, to assemble at home. I heard Madame exclaim how lovely it was and try to thank Anne, but Anne would have none of it. She made sure Madame knew it was you who had dreamed it up”.

  I smiled. Dear Anne.

  Simone saw me. “You have discovered a few faux amis,” she said. “I think you have also found some wonderful vrais amies, true friends, in France too”.

  “You among them!” I said, giving her a quick hug, which seemed to both surprise and delight her. Then I went to the back.

  I stopped in first to see what Céline was doing. “Homework?” I asked.

  “Oui,” she said. “Just a little, until my papa comes to get me. He’s with my papi this afternoon in Versailles”. She sipped her hot chocolate, a perfect drink on a chilly day when the sun was setting early.

  “Did you have a good time in Provence?” I asked softly. I didn’t know if I should approach the topic of her mother.

  “Oui,” she said. She lowered her voice. “Don’t tell my papa this, because it would hurt him, but I don’t remember my maman much. I was very little. I just have her picture”.

  I squatted down near her. “I understand,” I said. “That’s not bad. You can still love someone who’s hard to remember”.

  She nodded, relieved at having admitted that to someone, anyone.

  “I think next time I lose a tooth, I am going to ask for a maman”. She stared at me intently.

  “You can’t simply wish for a maman”. I rumpled her hair. “But you can talk with God about it. He listens and hears you. He says the angels of His children are very near to Him”.

  “I have an angel?” Céline nearly stood up out of her chair.

  “The Bible says you do,” I reassured her.

  “You know the best things,” Céline said.

  I didn’t know what else to say. Life was simple for her. For me, it was complex and getting more complicated every day.

  I went back to the cool room, where Patricia was collecting ingredients. “Chocolate in school this week, n’est-ce pas?” she asked.

  “Oui …” I had two questions I wanted to ask her.

  “I heard that Madame Poitevan was especially happy with her cake. The petits fours were a big hit too. You must have a good boss teaching you all of these things”. She beamed with something like maternal pride.

  “Absolutely!” I grinned back. “Thank you so much”. Now seemed like a good time to ask. “I wondered—would it be okay if I experimented a little with the chocolates this week? I’ve been thinking about the family being from Provence, and thought I might make some Mediterranean chocolates. With figs, maybe. Lavender, of course. Some orange peel, pistachio”.

  Patricia smiled. “Bon! I used to do some of that myself before I got too busy with the day-to-day things I need to do in the laboratoire. Yes, you may do that. I think our customers would be glad to see that. Philippe and Papa too,” she said cheerfully.

  I guessed by her demeanor that things had gone fantastique with Xavier last week.

  And now, for the second question. “I have a friend coming from Seattle this weekend,” I said. She didn’t need to know my friend was male. “I’d like to do some sightseeing. Would it be okay if I took a little time off?”

  Patricia cocked her head. She nodded, not pleased, really, but not angry. Bless Xavier, I thought.

  “Would your friend Anne be able to come in?” she asked. “I hear she did really well last weekend, and that would keep us from being in a pinch”.

  I’d anticipated this. “She offered to do so,” I said, feeling a little deflated.

  “Bon!” Patricia said. “Have a good time with your friend. I will let Maman know that I have arranged this”.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  Patricia had met Dan in Seattle. He’d been in the bakery a couple of times, and I think she realized we’d dated. I wondered if she’d have been as eager to help if she knew who was coming.

  Wednesday at school we intently worked on chocolates. We had little tempering pots and molds to make our fillings. I based mine on my new Mediterranean fillings. I chopped and molded figs, placed them on a little square of shortbread, then dipped the whole thing in the darkest chocolate we had. An upscale Fig Newton, if you will.

  I poured little squares of chocolate and set a small curl of candied orange peel and a salty, roasted pistachio on each one. I made fillings of creamed lavender honey and drizzled them with milk chocolate.

  Chef Desfreres came by and noted his approval. He tasted one and nodded. “Trying to impress someone from Provence, Mademoiselle?” he asked in his cool, professional voice. But I noted a softening in his gaze.

  Juju made chocolates from the island,
absolutely divine, with bananas and coconut and lemon grass.

  “Making chicken-flavored chocolate?” I teased Jean-Yves.

  “Cluck cluck,” he said, and laughed.

  Easy But Impressive Chocolate Truffles

  Ingredients:

  8 ounces good quality semisweet chocolate chips

  ½ cup heavy cream

  2 Tbsp liqueur, such as Crème de Cassis or Crème de Framboise, or vanilla or almond extract

  ½ cup sweetened cocoa, sifted

  ½ tsp Gold or Silver Luster Dust(Can purchase at www.confectioneryhouse.com)

  Directions:

  Place chocolate chips in a bowl. Bring cream nearly to a boil in a small, heavy saucepan. Stir frequently, until steaming but not boiling. Be careful to scrape the bottom of the pan constantly so the cream does not scald. When hot, pour cream over chocolate chips. Let stand for 3 to 5 minutes; gently stir until smooth. Add liqueur or extract and stir to combine. Cover loosely with plastic wrap and refrigerate for several hours, until firm.

  Sift cocoa and luster dust into a bowl and gently blend with a fork until dust is evenly distributed. Using a measuring teaspoon or a small melon bailer, scoop up chocolate chip mixture and quickly roll between your palms until you have a smooth ball. Roll each truffle in cocoa to coat. Chill until firm. Store in an airtight container in the refrigerator for up to 2 weeks.

  You may have to wash your hands and/or cool them off during the process if the chocolate is melting too quickly. Truffles will be firm once refrigerated. Let them come to room temperature for about 10 minutes before serving.

  I had to ask Chef Desfreres for some saffron, as it was so expensive, and went to find him in his office. At the door, I overheard his voice and another man’s. Since Chef often had students in his office, I stood outside, listening to see if the conversation was casual and I could enter or if it was private and I should leave.

  “I appreciate your giving her another chance”. It was a hardened man’s voice I did not recognize. “Her sister and brothers had no problem at all the first time around. I don’t know why it’s so different for her. Her mother has indulged her, I think”.

  Chef Desfreres answered in a reassuring, calm voice. Almost like a subordinate to a superior, I thought. I wondered if the other man was one of the school’s owners. “Give her time,” he said. “She’s still very young”.

  “I have standards, and with everything she’s been given, she should stand above the crowd,” the man said. “I’m losing patience. If she doesn’t do well this time, then as far as I am concerned, she can make crêpes at a stand outside Nôtre Dame”. His voice had the edge of a man used to getting his way. There was no love, only insistence that she meet his expectations.

  I scurried back to the classroom and found Désirée at my table. She was looking my chocolates over. I scanned them for signs of arsenic or damage, but saw nothing.

  She looked up at me. “I’ve finished early. Do you need help?”

  “No thanks,” I said. “I’m almost done”.

  “Bon,” she said. “I won’t be eating lunch with you guys today, so please let me know how my caramel au chocolat goes over with everyone else. My papa is here today, visiting with Chef. I’ll be eating with them”.

  I felt a rush of pity toward her, almost like I felt with Céline. Her papa was here to do some finish-line damage control, I guessed.

  “I’ll let you know how they go over,” I said softly.

  She nodded and left.

  At lunch, I sat with Anne. I pointed to Désirée and the two men at a distant table. “See who she’s eating lunch with?” I asked.

  Anne nodded. “Oui, there’s a lot of gossip about favoritism. I believe that is her papa, the famous Monsieur LeBon, who owns three famous pâtisseries. Sitting apart won’t make her any friends”.

  I leaned close to Anne and whispered what I’d overheard. “I still don’t trust her, perhaps more than ever. But I understand now”.

  “Me too,” Anne said. “I have an awful father as well”.

  For the first time since my dad had gone home, I felt heartsick for my family. Dad was so normal and nice, and my mom was usually supportive. Neither would ever talk about me behind my back, or gossip, or use words or anything else to abuse me.

  Seattle seemed a long way away.

  Because I had the afternoon off, Anne and I made plans to go to Paris after school. “Come shopping with me. I want your opinion,” I told her, and she happily agreed.

  “I’d like to stop in a few bakeries in Paris too,” she told me. She hoped to find a job in Paris when we graduated in four weeks.

  We hopped on the train and went to the secondhand boutique first.

  “Ah, Mademoiselle!” the chic shop lady greeted me at the door. How many customers did she greet each week—each month, each year? And yet I’d only been here twice, and she remembered me. “The wedding, it is back on?”

  Anne looked at me wonderingly, and I told her I’d explain later.

  “Non, but I have a special dinner on Saturday night. Nothing too fancy, but I want a dress that will be remembered,” I said.

  She efficiently bustled about the shop and finally came back with two outfits. One was a camel-colored, light wool dress, and the other was a red dress, with elbow length sleeves and a fitted bodice, that hit just above the knee.

  “La Véronique,” the shop lady said, mentioning the designer. “Are you feeling subdued or bold?”

  Anne and I looked at each other and both said at once, “Bold!”

  Madame smiled. “Bon. You try this one, and I will find some accessories”.

  The dress fit perfectly, close enough to flatter, but not too tight to move freely. Madame came back with some black pumps and a gold necklace with a black onyx drop in the middle.

  “Lexi!” Anne said. “You look perfect!”

  I looked in the mirror, turning this way and that. It looked good. Even better than the navy blue polka dot one I’d had to bring back a few months ago.

  “And you, Mademoiselle?” Madame turned her formidable talents toward Anne.

  “Oh, no, not me,” Anne said.

  “Why not?”

  Madame went back to her racks and brought back two outfits. One was a professional but completely fabulous navy blue suit. When Anne changed from her jeans and sweater into the suit, she looked fantastique.

  “And now, this”. Madame handed over a soft, midcalf-length dress in a Moroccan print. The deep blue perfectly set off Anne’s blond hair.

  “Go on,” I said. “They both look gorgeous”.

  “Well,” she wavered, “I do have a date this weekend”.

  “You do ?” I said. “You didn’t tell me”.

  “With the security guard,” she admitted sheepishly. She looked at herself in the mirror again. “I do think my grand-mère would have wanted me to have some fun with her money”.

  “Absolutely!” I agreed.

  “May I wear the suit out?” she asked the saleswoman.

  “Of course”.

  We paid and walked toward the first of three bakeries Anne planned to visit.

  At the first one, the woman at the counter took Anne’s name and number and promised to have Madame call her.

  “But,” Anne said dejectedly, “I turned around to get the name of the woman who would call, and as I did, I saw her throw my name and number into the poubelle, the wastebasket”.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “But, bon courage. Let’s go to bakery number two!”

  The second bakery was more promising, as Anne got to talk with the proprietor. He said he’d keep her in mind, and folded her name and phone number in half before putting it into his wallet.

  “Final bakery, and then dinner and the train,” she said, a little buoyed.

  The last bakery was rather small but cute. I waited outside while Anne went inside. She stayed for a long time. I didn’t want to peek, so I walked up and down the street and window shopped.

  Fina
lly, Anne came out, looking triumphant. “He’s interested! He said to come back just before Christmas, when they need extra help. I can work a few hours, and we’ll see how things work out”.

  “Extra!” I said, using my new favorite French word.

  “But they’re so small,” she said. “I don’t know how they’d be able to keep someone new after Christmas”.

  “Don’t worry,” I told her. “It’s a step. Have faith”.

  “I don’t need faith, I am not applying to be a religieuse, a nun,” she teased. But she seemed chipper. She’d told me she’d gone to the English-speaking practice group at the church the week before.

  “We both have something super-bon to wear on Saturday night,” Anne said as she prepared to get off the train at Rambouillet. “Now may we both have a super-bon weekend”.

  Indeed.

  Twelve

  I recognize happiness

  by the sound it makes when it leaves.

  Jacques Prévert.

  I had said I’d meet Dan in the lobby of his hotel.

  It was a quick train ride from Rambouillet and then only a few minutes on the Métro. The hotel was midsized but luxurious, a Sofitel in the Sixteenth Arrondissement. It seemed like a good place to meet. The plan was to have dinner, and then I’d go home on the train before it was too late.

  I asked the front desk to call him, then sat in the small, perfectly appointed lobby. I wore a slim jean skirt, a black sweater with three-quarter sleeves pushed back, a thin, long jean coat, and some silver bangle bracelets and earrings. I’d brought my feminine but not too frou-frou parasol, as it was a little drizzly out.

  I tried to look casual, but as Dan turned the corner from the elevator to the lobby, I couldn’t stop the rush of feelings. It was a huge bouillabaisse of homesick—I still like you—this is an adventure—you look good—we’ve moved on—what’s going on?