Bon Appetit

by Sandra Byrd

  Dan broke the spell, handing me my bag. “Thank you for everything, Lexi. I could think of no one I’d rather be with in Paris”.

  “You’re welcome,” I said. “I had a great time”. I’ve missed you, I thought, but didn’t say it, not yet knowing what my future held.

  “Keep in touch. I’ll pray for your exhibition. Let me know what you decide to do after that, career-wise. It’s the point of no return for you, isn’t it?” He spoke softly, and the rest of the room disappeared.

  “Yes,” I said.

  He kissed each of my cheeks, French style. Then he lightly kissed my lips before pulling away.

  “À bientôt, Lexi,” he said. “I hope”.

  Thirteen

  The French approach to food is characteristic; they bring to their consideration of the table the same appreciation, respect, intelligence, and lively interest that they have for the other arts, for painting, for literature, and for the theatre. We foreigners living in France respect and appreciate this point of view but deplore their too strict observance of a tradition which will not admit the slightest deviation in a seasoning or the suppression of a single ingredient.

  Alice B. Toklas

  For two weeks after Dan left, I was incredibly busy preparing for my final exam and the exhibition. Still, I noticed that Philippe seemed a little … cool. We didn’t run into each other at the bakery too much, because he worked in the mornings while I was at school. One week he missed church because he was in Provence with his father and Céline, and the other week he was friendly, but we didn’t make plans to do anything together.

  The triumphant look in Gabby’s eyes irritated me.

  I knew I was prone to imagine things where romance was concerned, but I didn’t believe I was imagining this. Had someone told Philippe about Dan? And even if they had, while Philippe and I definitely enjoyed each other’s company, we weren’t exclusive yet.

  “The girl always thinks it’s about her,” my brother Nate had told me the year before. He was probably right.

  Probably.

  The last week of December, Chef Desfreres posted the topics for the written examination. Most of them were things we’d already been quizzed on, but this time we’d be expected to know everything from definitions to techniques to tastes and textures on dishes we may not have prepared for months.

  L’École du Pâtisserie Examination Topics

  Palate development Baking chemistry

  Measuring Baking finance

  Techniques and methods Product identification

  Génoise Butter work

  Flavored cakes Fillings

  Wedding cake assembly Icing and glazing

  Sugar work Sugar decorations

  Pulled sugar Sugar blowing

  Caramel cages Petits fours

  Puff pastry dough & Danish Bombes using molds

  Coupes with fancy decorations Fancy ice creams

  Charlottes Custards

  Bavarian creams Mousses

  Soufflés Chocolate artistry

  Chocolate tempering Advanced chocolate decorations

  Macarons Breakfast pastries

  Croissant mastery Bread baking

  Brioche Tartes

  During our English lessons, Anne and I studied together, mostly at the café, though we sat inside now that it was cold. The café had been strung with pretty white lights, and we ate gougères, hot cheese puffs, and drank vin chaud, warmed wine, while we studied.

  “I want to know the names and terms in English too,” Anne said. “I’ve sent a few inquiries to England and Germany, just in case the bakery in Paris doesn’t work out”.

  “Still working for the Christmas season?” I asked.

  “Oui,” she said. “And hopefully beyond. I plan to pump out plenty of Christmas breads and Bûche de Noël. I start next week after the examinations”.

  “Oh, I hope to make a Bûche de Noël too,” I said. But I didn’t know who I’d make it for. The traditional Christmas cake was a filled chocolate layer cake rolled in the shape of a log. “I could decorate it with little mice and meringue mushrooms,” I said.

  Anne laughed. “Back to work!” She tapped her notes. “The examinations begin next week”.

  The next Monday I arrived at school to find the classroom both eerily quiet and buzzing with tension.

  Désirée looked like her face had been made up with lead powder, the whiteness of her skin more dramatic against the darkness of her hair. Although Jean-Yves and Juju still kept clear of her, I tried to be more sympathetic now that I knew what was riding on her examination.

  I still watched my back, though.

  The first day of exams was the hardest, as I had to recall how much sugar and butter to remove if you substituted white chocolate, how much butter would be required for a certain sugar, how much flour to replace with cocoa in order to make a recipe chocolate. The chemistry was difficult, but Anne and I had studied hard, and I felt confident I passed.

  Each day after the written examination, Chef Desfreres or one of his colleagues handed us a piece of paper with the name of a dish or dessert on it, and we had to create that dish under their watchful eye. After baking, chilling, or decorating, they would sniff, pinch, pull, break, look at our product from all angles, and finally taste it. No smiles, no affirmation, simply notes in the book next to my number.

  I breathed a sigh of relief when I was assigned brioche. I’d have to thank Philippe for training me so well.

  I pulled mille-feuille as my pastry assignment and I asked, a bit boldly, I thought, if I needed to make traditional mille-feuille or if I could do a variant. One of the younger chefs was grading me that day, and he agreed to let me make a raspberry mille-feuille. I reduced some sweet ice wine down to syrup and drizzled it across the top. Chef Desfreres may not have approved, but this chef did. He ate more than half of it—much more than the one bite required for judgment.

  I also made croissants, and I thought I did them competently, though mine didn’t shine like Anne’s did. Anne’s croissant had more layers than you could count; they tasted like soft sheets of butter. They were perfect. Even the formidable Chef Desfreres ate the entire croissant when she was tested.

  Désirée was always a good baker, so I assumed she’d struggled with the math and food history before. This time, she seemed to do well on her written exam—she finished as soon as or sooner than most of us. Of course, she’d taken the exam before, and I am sure her father made certain the answers were drilled into her this time. Chef seemed to go a little easier on her. I wasn’t sure if it was because her family funneled students his way or if he simply felt sorry for the fragile woman. She made her gâteau au fromage blanc, and it was not runny at all. She made a lovely butter cake and, when compared to Anne, serviceable breads. Unless her exhibition was a disaster, she would earn her diplôme.

  Which reminded me I needed to ask Patricia for a couple afternoons off to assemble my props for the exhibition. I’d work late other days doing prep work to make up for it, if I had to. I knew the bakeries would be busy now, preparing for Christmas. Patricia had already asked if Anne could work part-time during the holiday season. With relief, I’d told her no. Anne had a job in Paris.

  She’d looked disappointed. Who wouldn’t? Anne was very good.

  I worked in the village that day. After learning the reason behind Désirée’s behavior, I looked in vain for some explanation for Odious. Did she have a pushy dad in the background? Not that I could see. He visited the bakery on occasion, and she seemed as rude to him as she was to me. I guess some people were just rude—no reason required.

  After work I walked home slowly, savoring the village dressed in its Christmas best. Swags of greenery hung over each storefront, and I peeked in several. The boucherie had its finest wares for the season out—large hunks of beef and skinned rabbits hanging by their not so lucky rabbits’ feet in the coolers, prime for the season.

  The charcuterie had bean salads and prepared potato dishes on display under br
ight lights. Cheery children eagerly anticipated Father Christmas.

  The church, however, stood empty.

  I walked past the hotel in its pink stucco splendor, hung with lights and bulbs. I saw the chef through the window and stopped to watch him practice his art. He saw me and waved. I blushed, caught admiring his skill, and waved back.

  When I arrived home, I kicked off my shoes and noticed the light blinking on my answering machine. I listened to the message.

  “Hey Lex, it’s me”.

  Tanya.

  “I have something exciting to tell you. Call me back right away. Don’t worry about the time”.

  I looked at my watch. Six o’clock here, eight in the morning for Tanya. She must have called before she’d gone to bed last night, while I was at school this morning.

  I dialed her number and she picked up right away.

  “Good morning,” I greeted her.

  “You don’t sound like a good morning,” she said. “You sound dead tired”.

  “I am,” I said, remembering Chef’s admonition that the most important skill a chef required was the ability to be on her feet all day. “I had exams today, and then I worked. I’ll do both again the next few days, and then Saturday I have the day off. I’m going to go Christmas shopping in Paris. But enough about me. What’s the great news?”

  I knew what it was before I asked.

  “Steve and I went ring shopping this week. He didn’t officially ask me. Or my dad. But we did go and pick out what I liked. I’m expecting he’ll formally ask me for Christmas. If you were here, I’d want you to know all the details. Actually, you’re not here, and I still want you to know all the details”.

  “Tanya, I’m so happy for you!” I said. I knew what courage it took for her to overcome her inhibitions after being date raped. Now she was ready to get married.

  “Scars, not wounds, right?” I said.

  “Scars, not wounds,” she said. “They’re there to stay. But even Christ kept His scars”.

  “Yes,” I said. “So when is the big day?”

  “I don’t know. Sometime next spring, I imagine. June maybe. Will you be able to come?”

  “Absolutely,” I said. “I’m not sure when I’ll arrive, but it will definitely be in time to make sure you don’t order a wedding cake from a grocery store!”

  “So, speaking of romance,” Tanya continued. “Any further contact with Dan? Or thaw from Philippe?”

  I sighed and sat in one of the needlepoint chairs. “Nope. Dan’s been pretty quiet lately. And Philippe is—I don’t know. A couple weeks ago, I had two guys whose company I enjoyed, and they enjoyed mine. Now, the only affection I get is from Céline”.

  Tanya laughed. “Do you remember when we did that magazine quiz in high school where you had to pick whether you wanted kids or a husband, but not both?”

  “Yes,” I said with chagrin. “You picked kids. I picked a husband”.

  “Now I’m getting married, and you have a kid who loves you”.

  I laughed with her at the irony of it. “Céline isn’t my kid, but I am growing to like her a lot. And hopefully you’ll have kids”.

  “And you’ll get married,” Tanya said with finality.

  “We’ll see,” I said. “Right now, I’m focused on finishing school. That reminds me—have you been browsing Web sites for your wedding preparations?”

  “Of course!” Tanya was ultraorganized.

  “Will you send me some links?” I asked.

  “Sure,” she said.

  We finished our conversation, and I thought about my brother’s wedding last June and now Tanya’s this coming year.

  Always a bridesmaid and never a bride?

  Trust me, I heard as I fell asleep.

  When I walked into the bakery at Rambouillet on Thursday, Simone grabbed my arm and pulled me aside.

  “Lexi,” she said. “Is it okay that I told Patricia about the American man who called a few weeks ago?”

  I nodded slowly. “Yes. Why?”

  Simone exhaled her relief. “I just wanted to make sure. I was telling her that I was practicing my English with you, but then when a man called speaking English, I could not understand him. She looked surprised, and asked who had called speaking English. So I told her”.

  Ah ha.

  “Was that the friend you were in Paris with a couple weeks ago?”

  I nodded. I had nothing to hide. “Yes”.

  Simone said, “Patricia thought so too”.

  I heard a slightly raised voice in the back. A man’s voice.

  “I’m glad it was okay,” Simone said. “You wouldn’t know it was almost Christmas with the problèmes going on around here”.

  A customer came in the door, and Simone went to help her. Before I went into the back, I noticed the beautiful, artistic touches Simone had made in the shop. Lovely garlands, swags of greenery, and ropes of cranberries decorated the display cases. She’d lined each case with forest green velvet and sprinkled gold dust throughout.

  It was a wonderful place to work.

  I went into the back and looked for my chef’s coat on the hooks near the office. A muffled, rapid-fire French argument took place on the other side of the door. I couldn’t hear the words, but I could tell it was Philippe and his father.

  I went back to the cool room. On the way, I prayed for Philippe. When I got to the kitchen, Patricia was already there.

  I turned on my emotional radar. Patricia smiled at me, genuine. I relaxed.

  I knew she was used to getting her way and being in charge of the kitchen, but what she did for Céline and Philippe was truly selfless. She wouldn’t hold it against me if it didn’t go according to her plans, which made me want to help her even more.

  “How were the examinations? Did you pass with one hundred percent?” she asked.

  “I think I did well,” I said. “Better on cakes and mille-feuille than bread. Thankfully, they tested me on brioche. Philippe helped me with that, so I was right on”.

  Patricia smiled. “Philippe, he is a good man”.

  “Yes,” I agreed, “he is”. I changed the subject. “You said it was okay for me to take a day to gather what I need for my exhibition. I’d like to go to Paris on Saturday, to the flea market. Would that be okay? I think I can get most of what I need there”.

  “Oui,” Patricia said. “Can you stay late tomorrow night, then? I will too. We’ll work together and I can show you a few new things”.

  I smiled at how far our relationship had come since Seattle. “I’d love that”.

  “I’m not good for the chocolate today,” she said. “I’m going to prep the dough for tomorrow’s kugelhopf”.

  She handed over the chocolate to me. We were dipping chocolates for the Christmas season. The good news was I’d purchased some red and white striped peppermint candies and crushed them in dark chocolate, and the bakery customers liked them. The bad news was I tried to make chocolate peppermint croissants, and they had to be thrown away.

  An hour later I saw a special order for a local business—four dozen petits fours. I smiled, remembering the special orders I’d filled—and occasionally messed up—in Seattle. I decided to check with Patricia before filling this one.

  I washed my hands and walked out of the cool room. I headed toward the oven room, where I could hear Patricia and Philippe talking.

  “She needs to go to the flea market on Saturday,” Patricia said in a low voice. “You could take her. I can take care of everything here”.

  I heard Philippe sigh. “I can’t, Patricia. I told Papa I would bake here in the morning and meet him at Versailles right after. And then I have a program to go to at Céline’s school”.

  “Ah,” Patricia said. “I just think it’s better, you know, à deux. And Andrea has been gone some time, now”.

  My heart clenched. What did I want him to say—to feel? What did I feel?

  “Listen,” Philippe said. “I like Lexi. Very much. But between you and Papa, you’re
trying to run my life. I am a grown man with a child. I will run my own life, now. Ça va? Please give me some space”.

  I slipped back to the cool room and decided to take some initiative and do the petits fours. I had a lot of time to think as I worked, cutting, filling, icing, and decorating with the smallest of tips, the littlest knives.

  I didn’t hold Philippe’s lack of clarity against him, as I suffered from it myself. Somehow I knew things were getting sorted out for both of us, though perhaps slowly.

  I wondered if Philippe had only been interested in me because of Patricia’s pushing. I wondered if she was pushing harder now, because of Dan. Every day life became more complicated.

  Friday I came into work and found Patricia making couronnes.

  “What can I do?” I asked.

  “Help me with the breads,” she said. I rolled up my sleeves and helped her form the dough into the couronne’s crown shape. We put them into the proofer, and she took me to the back to show me the growing list of orders for Bûche de Noël.

  “I want them to be decorated nicely. Would you like to figure that out?”

  I grinned. “Would I! I told Anne I’d love to do that, and now I can”.

  I sat down and sketched out some ideas before I got to work. The roll was chocolate cake with a smooth filling, rolled into a log shape. To my American eyes, it looked like a huge Hostess Ho Ho. I laughed.

  After making the cake, which could be filled with coffee cream too, I frosted it with chocolate icing. Dragging a comblike tool through the icing gave it the texture of a tree trunk. I mixed white fondant for the ends, and dragged some brown icing through them so they’d look stumpy. Meringue mushrooms and twigs made out of chocolate-covered orange peels completed the look. Maybe I’d make some marzipan poinsettias to bring in some red.

  As I iced, I felt someone come up behind me. I looked up. It was Philippe.

  “Hi!” I said in English.

  “Hi. That is beautiful”. He pointed to my cake.

  “Patricia asked me to make the designs for this year’s Bûche de Noël. Most of it’s pretty traditional, but I thought the chocolate-covered candied orange peels made a nice twist”.