Smitten with Croissants

by Ellen Jacobson

  “Did you just squeal?” Isabelle asks.

  “Do I look like a guinea pig?” I say, placing my half-eaten cornetto back in the box. “That was a high-pitched yelp. Completely different from a squeal.”

  “Sounded like a squeal to me,” she says dryly. “What happened?”

  “A job at a small art gallery located at a boutique hotel in Paris. Pierre knows the manager.” I scroll back through the email. “They’re looking for someone who speaks English.”

  “You speak English.”

  “Yeah, but there are a million people who speak English. Why would they be interested in me? There has to be something Pierre isn’t telling me.”

  * * *

  While Lorenzo tells Isabelle all about lucha libre—apparently he has aspirations to move to Mexico and become a huge wrestling star—I stare at my phone, trying to figure out how to respond to Pierre’s offer to help me land my dream job.

  A large gray cat saunters across the courtyard, then jumps into my lap. He sniffs at my half-eaten cornetto before I pull him back.

  “Sorry, bub. That one has my name on it. Not to mention my teeth marks.” While I savor the buttery pastry, the cat nestles in my lap, purring loudly. “Pierre is off his rocker. There’s no way a croissant can compete with this. So delicious.”

  After popping the last bit into my mouth, I stroke the cat’s fur. “So, what do you think I should do? If I take this job, it would be because some guy helped me, not because I earned it on my own. You remember the last time that happened, don’t you?”

  The cat rolls over on his side and looks at me quizzically. Then he nudges my hand with his head, indicating exactly where he wants to be scratched.

  “Well, of course you don’t remember the last time that happened. I just met you.” As I scratch behind his ears, I fill him in. “You see, when I worked at the country club, there was this guy. This really rich guy. You know, one of those CEO-types. Some sort of tech start-up . . . or was it an IT firm? Maybe a lingerie company?”

  The cat meows sharply, giving me an impatient look, apparently uninterested in how the guy had made his money and more interested in a distraction-free petting.

  “Okay, I guess that’s not important. Well, anyway, I always wanted to go to art school, but I couldn’t afford it. And it’s not like my parents were in any position to help out. Just when I thought I was going to be a waitress for the rest of my life, this guy says that he can get me a scholarship. I couldn’t believe my luck.”

  I pause and check the pastry box to see if there are any more cornettos left. Nope, just boring, dry, crunchy biscotti. I break off a piece and offer it to the cat. He spits it out. I can’t say that I blame him. Biscotti definitely don’t make my top-ten cookie list. Maybe Italians should stick to making cornettos.

  “So, where was I? Oh, yeah, the rich dude and his scholarship. You’d think I would have learned my lesson the first time I got involved with a rich guy, but I didn’t. He suggested that I come to his house for drinks so that he could help me fill out the application. I assumed his wife would be there. She wasn’t. And you can imagine what happened next. He expected something in return for his generous offer. I told him where he could shove it. The next day when I showed up to work at the country club, the manager pulled me aside and told me one of the members had filed a complaint against me and that they had to let me go. You seem like a smart kitty. I bet you can guess who that was.”

  Isabelle glances at me. “Are you talking to yourself again?”

  “No, I’m talking to the cat,” I say. “He’s a good listener.”

  “His name is Bacio,” Lorenzo says.

  “Can you hand me a napkin?” I ask. “He’s drooling.”

  “That means he is happy,” Lorenzo says. “What were you telling him? It must be a good story.”

  “Not so much a good story as an age-old story,” I say. “Rich guy offers to help, but the offer comes with strings.”

  “That is what this Pierre is?” Lorenzo asks. “A rich guy with stringy job offer?”

  I laugh, thinking this is probably what it sounds like when I speak French. “Not stringy job offer. Job offer with strings.”

  Lorenzo furrows his brow. “Strings? Like a violin?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Isabelle says. “Pierre isn’t rich. He’s a waiter. There aren’t any strings.”

  “Actually, he was a waiter,” I say. “Now he’s a bellboy.”

  “Really? When did that happen?” she asks.

  “It just happened. His contract with the cruise ship ended, and he got a job at the hotel where the art gallery is located.”

  “Honestly, I don’t see what the big deal is. Pierre is just a nice guy trying to help you out. So what if he knows the manager? That’s probably how he got his job too. It’s just good luck, that’s all.”

  “You’re the one with good luck,” I tell her. “After all, you won the tickets for our transatlantic cruise. But when it comes to me, there’s no such thing as good luck. Only bad luck initially disguised as good luck.”

  Lorenzo gives me a bemused look as he pulls his long hair back into a ponytail. “Ah, I understand now.”

  “You mean the string thing?” I ask.

  “No. I understand why you hesitate to accept the job offer. You have romantic feelings for this Pierre.”

  I scoff. “Pierre? Romantic feelings? Hardly.”

  “I see it in your eyes. Italian men have romantic sixth sense.”

  I fold my arms across my chest. “I think your romance sensor is broken. The only feelings I have for Pierre are as a friend.”

  Lorenzo considers my response. After a few moments, he shrugs. “Okay. Then I set you up with my cousin. He also wants to be a lucha libre wrestler.”

  4

  Grammatical Confusion

  Okay, I ended up saying yes. Not to Lorenzo’s offer to set me up with his cousin—a wrestler wearing spandex, a cape, and a mask isn’t really my idea of a dream guy—but to Pierre. Maybe Isabelle is right. Maybe my luck has changed for the better. I’d be a fool not to take him up on his offer to help me get a job at a Parisian art gallery. He doesn’t have a hidden agenda. He’s just an ordinary guy looking to help out a friend.

  Although, if I’m honest, my bank account helped make the decision for me. Whenever I log on to check my balance, there’s a lot of red on the screen. At first, I thought it was some sort of decorative thing for the holidays, like a Rudolph the Reindeer or candy-cane themed web design.

  Isabelle put a damper on that idea, pointing out that: (a) Christmas is a long way off; (b) banks aren’t known for taking a festive approach to accounting; and (c) at the rate I’m spending money, I’d be lucky to be able to afford a candy cane.

  She explained to me that red is bad and black is good. That only made sense to me after she pointed out that, when it comes to clothes, black is slimming. Looking slimmer is good. Therefore, numbers that are black are good. Then she helped me put together a budget. When we got done, I realized how much I needed a paying job. And that’s when I sent a text to Pierre saying, “Oui.”

  He sent back a picture of a flaky croissant and a link to a timer counting down the days until I arrive in France and try the best pastry the world has ever known.

  Finally, the moment has come. After traveling around Europe for a few weeks, I’m at Gare de Lyon in the heart of Paris, stepping off the overnight train from Italy. I sling my Star Wars backpack over my shoulder and wheel my suitcase toward the end of the platform.

  My breath catches when I glimpse Pierre standing on the other side of the ticket barrier holding a bouquet of flowers. The color seems odd—they have kind of a brownish hue to them—but maybe wilted flowers were all that he could afford on a bellboy’s salary. It’s the thought that counts, right?

  As I elbow my way through the throng of travelers, I chew on my lip. Why did Pierre get me flowers? That’s not something you normally do for someone you’re just friends with. Maybe it’s a Pa
risian thing, like eating snails.

  Once I pass through the barrier, Pierre saunters toward me. No lazy grin this time. The man is full on beaming at me. For some reason, I can’t move my feet. They’re stuck to the tiled floor. I must have stepped in some bubblegum. A rather large wad of incredibly sticky bubblegum because no matter how much I will my feet to walk in Pierre’s direction, they refuse to obey.

  When Mr. Hazel Eyes reaches me, he cups my face with one hand and plants a soft, lingering kiss on my cheek. Then he slowly turns my head and kisses the other cheek. I’m used to these European-style kisses from my time in Italy, but this seems different. Really different. Instead of the casual “hello” vibe I usually get when someone greets me, these kisses seem to promise something more.

  I take a deep breath, inhaling the scent of his cologne. It’s a blend of sandalwood, bergamot, and something else I can’t quite put my finger on. Wait a minute. Is that bread I’m smelling?

  I glance down at the bouquet of flowers, except they’re not flowers—they’re croissants, each one fastened on a “stem” made out of a green bamboo skewer adorned with paper leaves. I burst out laughing. I love this guy’s sense of humor. And this totally makes sense now. You get a girl that you’re just friends with a bouquet of pastries, not flowers.

  “Bienvenue en France,” Pierre says softly, in a silky French accent. It reminds me of the rich chocolate mousse filling you find in a French silk pie. It’s my mom’s go-to dessert when the ladies from church come over for lunch. It’s a time-consuming recipe, but so worth it. Although, I’m pretty sure there’s nothing French about it since the pie crust she uses is made from Oreo cookies. But the ladies sure do drool over it.

  While I’m surreptitiously wiping drool from the corner of my mouth—just thinking about my mom’s pie will cause that to happen—Pierre switches to English. His British accent reminds me of crème brûlée. There’s a smoothness to it that evokes the creamy, vanilla-flavored custard base, but there’s also a crisp overtone, like crunchy burnt caramel topping which is the hallmark of crème brûlée.

  I can’t decide which accent I prefer. Come to think of it, I can’t decide which dessert I prefer either.

  “I hope you’re hungry,” Pierre says. “My friend at the bakery made these especially for you.”

  “Really? That was sweet. I don’t even know him.”

  “Her,” Pierre clarifies.

  “Her?” I ask, my voice cracking slightly.

  The corners of his mouth twitch. “Yes, her. Elle. I have female friends. Does that bother you?”

  “Of course not. I’m female, and we’re friends.” I gesture at the bouquet. “That’s a lot of croissants.”

  “One for each day you were in Italy eating those awful cornettos.”

  “I count more than seven.”

  “Maths never was my strong suit.”

  I smile at his British use of maths rather than the American math. I have to confess that it sounds sexy. His accent, not any reference to mathematics. Math is definitely not sexy. All that addition and subtraction. No wonder my bank account is looking so bleak.

  “I wasn’t great at math either,” I say. “I barely passed algebra in high school.”

  “How did your parents react?”

  “Well, I didn’t flunk.”

  “And that was enough for them?”

  “Sure. They had other things to worry about.”

  “Like what?”

  “You know, the usual—paying the mortgage, making sure there was food on the table, that kind of thing.”

  Pierre looks off into the distance. “People shouldn’t have to worry about that kind of thing.”

  “No, they shouldn’t. But when your dad gets laid off, well . . .” My voice trails off as I think about how hard my parents worked to take care of our family. I take a deep breath, then exhale slowly. “But enough about that. Let’s talk pastries. The smell of these is driving me crazy.”

  “If you think the smell is good, wait until you try them.” Pierre tears a piece off one of the croissants. I reach my hand up to take the morsel from him, but he pops it in my mouth before I have a chance. He watches me intently as I chew, waiting for my verdict. “Well?”

  “Well what?” I ask innocently.

  “Did you like the croissant?”

  I brush flakes of buttery pastry off my shirt. “It’s okay.”

  He reacts with mock horror. “Okay? Just okay? What did they do to your taste buds in Italy?”

  “The food was delicious in Italy—zuppa di pesche, ravioli, bombolones, and, of course, the cornettos were to die for.”

  Pierre narrows his eyes as I smack my fingers to my lips. He selects another croissant from the bouquet. Instead of tearing off a small piece for me to sample, he presents it to me as if it is a single, exquisite rose. “Try this one. It’s a pain au chocolat.”

  “Ooh, a chocolate croissant,” I say.

  “Exactly. If you don’t fall in love with French pastries after eating this one, well, then, I’ll just have you deported.”

  “Yeah, right,” I scoff. “Like a bellboy has so much pull with the government.”

  He grins. “Never underestimate bellboys.”

  After I take a bite of the chocolate croissant, I groan with pleasure. There’s no way I can keep up this pretense that French croissants are mediocre. “This is absolutely delicious.”

  Pierre brushes my lips lightly, wiping off a morsel of chocolate and popping it into his mouth. “Oui, elle est délicieuse.”

  I simultaneously shiver and furrow my brow. A weird physical reaction. But what just happened was weird. The shiver I can write off as some sort of sugar high reaction to the chocolate filling, certainly not Pierre’s touch.

  The furrowed brow, on the other hand…that’s because I’m utterly confused by what he said.

  See, here’s the problem with the French language—instead of “it” like we use in English, they use masculine and feminine pronouns. Il for masculine and elle for feminine. So, if we were talking about how a croissant tastes, we’d say, “It is delicious.” The French would say, “Il est délicieux,” using il instead of elle because croissants are masculine.

  But I could swear Pierre said, “Elle est délicieuse.” There was a whole ton of feminine going on in that sentence—the feminine pronoun, elle, and the feminine ending to the word ‘delicious.’

  There are four explanations that I can think of. Number one is that I didn’t pay enough attention in French class, and croissants are feminine after all. That’s actually a pretty plausible theory, considering my grades in high school. The second explanation is I misheard Pierre, and he really said, “It est délicieux.” Also pretty plausible. I was distracted at the time by his fingers brushing against my lips. The third possibility is that Pierre made a mistake, confusing elle with il. Not very likely, though. He was born and raised in Paris.

  I take another bite of the chocolate croissant, pondering the final explanation. Is it possible that Pierre wasn’t talking about the croissant, but instead was talking about me? Was he saying that she is delicious? She meaning me? Does he think I’m delicious?

  No, I tell myself firmly. That is the least likely explanation. People don’t describe other people as delicious. That’s just weird. Sure, I can see that gooey-eyed couple from the cruise ship—the ones who couldn’t keep their hands to themselves in public—calling each other delicious, but normal people don’t say things like that.

  I shake my head. What was I thinking? Pierre would never be interested in me in that way. Polishing off the rest of the croissant, I make a vow to brush up on my French. The last thing I need is a grammatical mishap with Pierre, especially a grammatical mishap of the romantic kind.

  * * *

  I clutch my half-eaten croissant bouquet while Pierre and I wait at the taxi stand outside the train station.

  “First stop, your apartment to drop off the luggage,” he says. “Then, I thought we’d swing by the Louvre
before I take you to the hotel to meet your new boss.”

  At the mention of the world’s largest art gallery, I clap my hands together in glee, inadvertently squashing a few of the pastries in the process. “I have wanted to go to the Louvre ever since I was seven years old.”

  “Don’t most seven-year-old girls want to have tea parties with their dolls instead of going to museums?”

  “I didn’t have dolls,” I say archly. “I had stuffed animals.”

  “Is there a difference?”

  “A big difference,” I say as we get into the taxi.

  As we drive toward the quatrieme arrondissement, the area in Paris where the apartment I’ve rented is located, I tell Pierre about my second-grade teacher. “Mrs. Murphy loved art and wanted her students to appreciate it as well. She would show us pictures of famous paintings and ask us what we thought. I fell in love with The Lacemaker by the Dutch artist, Johannes Vermeer. I was blown away by the detail, especially on the yellow shawl the lacemaker is wearing. Then Mrs. Murphy told me about this magical place in France—the Louvre—full of even more amazing artwork. That’s when I decided that one day I would find a way to get to Paris and see it for myself.”

  “Well, we only have time for a quick visit today,” Pierre says. “But I have a friend who works at the Louvre who can arrange for a private tour at a later date.”

  “You seem to have a lot of connections. The friend at the bakery, the manager of the art gallery who agreed to hire me sight unseen, your friend at the Louvre—”

  Pierre interrupts as we turn down a dark alley. “Are you sure you have the correct address?”

  I check my email. “Yep, this is the right street.”

  The taxi comes to a halt in front of a dilapidated building. The exterior brickwork is cracked in a way that would probably make a structural engineer nervous. The front door is hanging off the hinges. Most of the windows are boarded up. Those that aren’t have cracked window panes, which I suppose are good for ventilation. I hear it gets hot in Paris during the summer.