The Little Paris Patisserie

by Julie Caplin

  ‘He can’t do that,’ she whispered in horror, putting her hands on her cheeks.

  ‘He just did,’ said Maddie with a chuckle.

  ‘But they’re not…’

  ‘Not what? Fit for human consumption?’ teased Maddie. ‘They tasted jolly good to me.’

  Nina bit her lip. ‘But … I’m not … you know qualified or professional.’

  Marguerite patted her hand. ‘I wouldn’t worry, n’est ce pas. Marcel’s a stickler. If he didn’t think they were good enough to eat, he wouldn’t serve them.’

  ‘But…’ And now the waiter was taking the cake stand over to the other couple! What was he doing? Perhaps he was offering them on the house. Yes, that would be fine. He couldn’t possibly charge for them.

  It was only when she’d bade goodbye to Marguerite and Maddie and finished tidying up the kitchen, that she discovered that not only had Marcel been charging customers for the éclairs, but that he’d sold every last one and was insisting she came back the following day to make a fresh batch.

  Chapter 16

  Marguerite’s voice greeted her through the intercom at the pair of handsome wooden doors that led off the street into a pretty courtyard full of potted trees and gravelled paths rather like a secret garden, the tidy landscaping a sharp contrast with the wide boulevard beyond.

  Following her instructions Nina walked through to a second courtyard and to another set of wooden doors where the older woman waited for her.

  ‘Morning, Nina. Do come in.’

  ‘Thank you. This is lovely,’ Nina pointed to the courtyard. ‘You’d never know it was here. It’s beautiful.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Marguerite inclined her head and led the way inside, walking briskly in her elegant low-heeled court shoes, her pale-blue-tinged grey hair perfectly styled.

  ‘Watch the wheelchair. I had a hip replacement last year and haven’t got rid of the horrible thing yet. I refused to use it.’ If it was possible she tipped her head even higher in the air, her disdain quite clear as she skirted the offending item.

  Despite being at home she was dressed immaculately in a blue silk dress with a wide collared cropped jacket, a classic vintage style that it looked as if it might be something Chanel had designed. Nina was glad she’d made a bit of effort and had changed into smart black trousers rather than her usual jeans as they passed through a wide hallway lightly perfumed by the roses in tall white china vases placed on little onyx tables in front of large gilt-edged mirrors. Marguerite pushed through another pair of tall doors into a high-ceilinged room. Magazines and books were scattered on the table, a piece of crochet abandoned on one of the sofas and there were lots of family photos in silver frames on a large, round, highly polished table in an alcove in the corner. Many were of Marguerite and a very handsome man and more of a good-looking boy in various stages of growth. The more recent photos at the front of the table were sparse. The boy had become a man, and was pictured with a bride. There were a couple of baby photos and then two gap-toothed children in what were clearly school photos, with the familiar cloudy blue background that seemed to be universally favoured.

  ‘This is your family?’ asked Nina, immediately drawn to the table, thinking of the huge collection of photos at home that her mum carefully curated to ensure that despite constant new additions, there was always a faithful representation of the decades of family life.

  ‘That was my husband, Henri, and my son, Mattieu. Henri died six years ago.’

  ‘I’m sorry. How long were you married?’

  Marguerite’s blue eyes misted. ‘Over forty years.’

  ‘You must miss him,’ said Nina, unable to imagine what that must be like. Living on her own felt strange enough and quite liberating at the moment but, she realised with a sense of relief, it was finite. What must it be like if someone you loved was never coming back?

  ‘I do,’ said Marguerite. ‘But I can’t imagine sharing my life with anyone else.’

  ‘Do you have any other family?’ asked Nina.

  ‘No, my sister died before my husband. She had two daughters, one of whom lives in Switzerland and the other in America.’

  ‘So, you have no family in France?’

  Marguerite gave her a brave smile. ‘Non, sad eh? You have family?’

  Nina nodded. ‘A big, noisy, interfering family. I love them but it’s nice to be away from them. To be myself.’

  Marguerite nodded, with a serene smile. ‘Ah, we’re never satisfied. I would very much like to have a family around me.’

  Nina shook her head. ‘And I want to get away from mine. But today we’re going to try to connect you back up. Where’s this laptop then?’

  By the time Maddie arrived in a whirl of scarves and layers, apologising profusely, Nina had helped Marguerite to set up a Skype account, downloaded the application onto her laptop and get her into her email.

  ‘Well, that deserves lunch,’ said Marguerite.

  ‘Can I help? asked Nina.

  ‘Actually, I’d like you to do something for me.’ A ghost of a smile hovered at the older woman’s lips.

  Nina gave her a quizzical look as Marguerite took a notebook and fountain pen from the console table behind her and opened it. Writing in beautiful flowing script, she quickly drew up a list of five names. ‘While I go and ring Sara, my daughter-in-law, on the telephone, you should see if you can find these places on the…’ She waved a hand towards the computer.

  ‘The web,’ supplied Maddie helpfully.

  Marguerite nodded and left the room.

  ‘I can’t decide whether to be intimidated by her or not.’

  ‘Me neither,’ said Nina, ‘but I think she’s lovely – just very old school. And she’s been on her own for a long time and is probably used to speaking her mind. Things always sound more direct in another language, don’t you think?’’

  Nina had to update Marguerite’s web browser which was several versions out of date, and then she typed the first name in the search engine.

  ‘Ladurée, I’ve heard of that,’ said Maddie. ‘It’s on the Rue Royale just up from Place du Concord. There’s usually a queue outside. It’s very fancy.’

  ‘And famous for its pastries. Oh my, look at that.’ The screen was filled with images of amazing looking cakes. Suddenly Nina felt that her éclairs were horribly amateur.

  ‘Oh God, I can’t believe that Marcel was actually selling them yesterday. I haven’t got a clue. Just look at these chocolate éclairs. They make mine look like a Reliant Robin next to a Ferrari.’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ said Maddie ‘They tasted delicious.’

  ‘And my dear, you had the balance of flavours.’ Marguerite reappeared at the door. ‘Patisserie is just as much about the marriage of flavours, that delicate balance. It takes real skill to get it right.’

  Nina felt a quick heat suffuse her face. She’d done a lot of tasting of the cream filling and pleased as she was with the results, it was nice to hear someone else praise the ‘delicate balance’ although she still thought that the cream could perhaps have had a bit more coffee flavour.

  Nina was glad that Maddie was with her, otherwise she might not have felt quite as at ease. Even though they were eating in the kitchen, the table looked like a ‘Summer in Provence’ styled World of Interiors photoshoot. It had been laid with a checked table cloth, coordinating table mats, matching napkins in pretty china napkin rings and large chunky pottery bowls. The rustic style place settings looked bright and colourful, as if a sunbeam was playing on the table and the rural feel was enhanced by the earthenware bowl of fat olives and basket of sliced baguette in in the centre of the table.

  ‘This looks wonderful, Marguerite,’ said Maddie. ‘Can we do anything to help?’

  ‘No,’ said Marguerite, firmly. ‘You are my guests. Now I do hope neither of you are vegetarian or anything. I never thought to ask.’

  ‘I eat anything,’ said Maddie. ‘Comes of being from a large family.’

  ‘Me too,’ giggl
ed Nina. ‘My brothers all have healthy appetites. You have to get in quick. A minute’s hesitation and you’ve had it.’

  ‘Say that again. I’ve known my brother to steal a Yorkshire pud from my plate.’

  ‘Or the last meatball you’ve been saving.’

  ‘And the special bit of crackling.’

  ‘Soo annoying!’

  They both laughed in shared understanding. Then Nina had a sudden flashback: Sebastian practising one of his dishes on them and keeping the boys from stealing the last mouthfuls of sausage from her.

  ‘You both make me very glad I only had one child,’ said Marguerite, bringing over a large blue Le Creuset casserole dish, her hands wrapped in a pair of oven gloves.

  ‘Ooh, that smells amaaazing,’ said Maddie as Marguerite took off the lid. ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’s a traditional cassoulet. Would you mind serving while I get the wine?’

  As Nina spooned the piping hot bean and duck casserole into bowls, the older woman crossed the kitchen to retrieve the bottle of red wine sitting on the side.

  As she opened it, wielding a corkscrew with consummate expertise, Maddie commented, ‘Ah, that’s why I love being in France. Lunchtime drinking without the guilt. At home it always feels horribly decadent. Here it’s perfectly normal.’

  ‘I find it is better to have a glass at lunchtime and if I do have a drink in the evening, I stick to having a small glass of champagne,’ said Marguerite as she took her seat. ‘And today I have something to celebrate.’

  Marguerite had said nothing about the outcome of her phone call and Nina hadn’t liked to ask in case it was bad news. Luckily Maddie had no such qualms and with a squeal dived right in there. ‘You spoke to your daughter-in-law?’

  ‘I did.’ Marguerite gave a cool nod, dipping into her bowl of the delicious smelling stew.

  Maddie rolled her eyes. ‘And?’ Her impatient delivery made Marguerite’s serene, and if Nina was honest, rather snooty face, relax into a broad smile and there might even have been a hint of moisture in her sharp blue eyes.

  Without taking a mouthful she dropped her spoon back into the bowl. ‘It was … très … wonderful. Sara was very pleased to hear from me. She’s going to set up a Skype account today. When the children are home from school after their bath tonight, we’re going to speak.’

  ‘That’s fantastic.’ Nina could tell from Marguerite’s unusually rapid sentences, how excited and pleased she was.

  ‘Bon appétit.’

  ‘This looks wonderful, thank you. It’s very kind of you to go to so much trouble.’

  ‘It’s no trouble. I like to cook.’ Marguerite looked uncharacte‌ristically wistful for a second. ‘But it is nice to have an appreciative audience for a change. Wasn’t it nice yesterday?’ Her direct gaze made Nina feel uncomfortably under the microscope.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Those people eating your éclairs. Marcel offering them to customers.’

  ‘Yes but, I wish he hadn’t. They’re not…’

  ‘Yes, they are,’ said Maddie shaking her head impatiently. ‘What are you like?’

  ‘I still need to improve. I … started to train as a chef once.’

  ‘Did you?’ asked Maddie. ‘You kept that quiet.’

  ‘Actually, Sebastian inspired me. He was so passionate about food and cooking, then. He’s my youngest brother’s best friend. They’re two years older than me and were at nursery school together. I can’t remember a time when he wasn’t hanging around our place. And my mother loved him, especially when he got older and got into cooking. He used our kitchen and us as guinea pigs, and the boys, well they would eat anything, but he was always very good.’

  ‘You didn’t complete the course?’ asked Marguerite, with that quick insight she seemed to have.

  ‘No,’ said Nina. ‘I didn’t even last a month. I … I couldn’t bear to touch raw meat. I had a bit of phobia about it.’

  Maddie sniggered. ‘Seriously?’

  Nina nodded. ‘Seriously.’

  ‘Oh God, I’m so sorry.’ Maddie pressed her hands into her cheeks in sudden horror. ‘You really have.’

  She nodded, conscious of Marguerite’s sympathetic gaze. ‘Caused no end of hilarity at home too. They all didn’t stop taking the p… mickey for ages. They still bring it up now.’

  ‘That must have been disappointing.’

  Nina shrugged. ‘Just one of those things.’ At the time the main disappointment came from not being able to have that in common with Sebastian anymore. She’d gaily imagined them holding sensible conversations, without the stupid interruptions from her brothers, where he’d listen to her opinion as they shared advice and tips.

  ‘I guess that’s why I’m interested in patisserie, no chance of having to come into contact with raw flesh. Much safer.’

  ‘So, are you going to train as patisserie chef?’ asked Marguerite, those piercing blue eyes seeming to see more than they should.

  Nina shrugged. ‘Oh no. I’m never going to be good enough. I just … well, I wanted to … have a go. I cook a lot of cakes for the family farm shop. I wanted to try something different, but not as a career or anything. I mean look at my wonky éclairs yesterday. I still can’t believe Marcel sold them. After seeing that website, I’m never going to be good enough.’

  ‘I believe there’s an English phrase. Practice makes perfect.’

  Nina hastily scooped up a spoonful of cassoulet, mumbling, ‘I’m just helping out until Sebastian gets back on his feet,’ as she took a large mouthful, deciding not to confess that she planned to do a bit of practising in the kitchen over the next few weeks. She wanted to experiment in private and not let Marcel or anyone else near the results.

  Having the kitchen to herself was an unexpected bonus. She could play with ingredients and bake to her heart’s content without any critical eyes. This is what she’d come to Paris for, to immerse herself in patisserie, improve her technique and … she had to admit, perhaps she could one day impress Sebastian just a little.

  Chapter 17

  Suddenly, on Tuesday, after another week of radio silence, Nina received a flurry of texts from Sebastian asking her to check on the ingredients for tomorrow.

  What he didn’t realise was that she’d spent the last few days in the kitchen practising her éclairs. Yesterday and Sunday, she’d made up several batches of choux and with painstaking care piped them out onto greaseproof paper in neat parallel lines, practising to get a perfect finish. She’d stored the cooked choux fingers in airtight boxes ready to fill today.

  By the second batch they looked a lot more professional, and the third and fourth, almost worthy of being sold, except she had no intention of doing that. Instead she texted Maddie and suggested she gave them away in the halls of residence, as a way of breaking the ice and getting to know a few people there.

  Today she’d been experimenting with a few flavoured creams and icings and had come up with a mocha éclair that she was rather pleased with, as well as a slightly more ambitious hazelnut and chocolate éclair which brought back memories of Nutella. She’d also improved her presentation skills. She’d been trawling the internet looking for ideas and after a quick trip to the wholesalers on Monday, she’d come back with some eye-wateringly expensive gold leaf and some nibbed hazelnuts for decoration.

  ‘Café?’ Marcel appeared at the door with a steaming cup, just as she was texting back a lengthy reassurance to Sebastian that everything was ready for the following morning.

  Following her nose, she headed for the delicious scent with a sigh. She’d been filling the éclairs and icing the tops for the last three hours and was more than ready for a break. She’d arranged a selection on one of the cake stands, more for her own pleasure than anything else, to see how they looked. They were still a bit wonky and misshapen but she was definitely getting better.

  ‘Thank you very much, Marcel.’ Whatever else his faults, he made fantastic coffee and was very good at bringing regular caffeine injecti
ons. She’d hoped to bar his path but the minute she’d relieved him of the cup, he darted around her like a monkey hellbent on mischief.

  ‘No, Marcel.’

  ‘But these look even better than the last ones.’

  ‘They’re not really, well, maybe a little.’

  ‘Excellent.’ He picked up a cake stand.

  ‘No! You can’t sell them. I’ve promised them to Maddie. For the other students.’

  ‘Why not? You make them. People want them. They pay money for them.’

  ‘They’re really not that good.’

  Marcel took a quick bite and closed his eyes with a blissful expression.

  ‘Délicieux. Oh, this is very, very good.’ He gave her an appraising stare. ‘These are very good indeed. Chocolate and coffee. And they look perfect. You have done very well.’ Coming from him this was actually very high praise.

  Inside, a little squirl of happiness warmed a spot in her chest. ‘You think?’

  ‘I know.’ He took another bite and this time closed his eyes. ‘Yes, very good flavours. The bitterness of coffee and dark chocolate with an underlying sweetness. You have the touch.’

  ‘You still shouldn’t be selling them,’ she said half-heartedly. ‘I was going to give them to Maddie for the students in her halls.’

  ‘Pfft, they’re far too good. Why not sell them?’

  She gave him a quick conspiratorial sidelong glance. ‘Because Sebastian doesn’t know.’

  ‘Pfft,’ said Marcel with a decided sneer. ‘He doesn’t care.’

  ‘But I’m just practising, they’re not for sale.’

  ‘But the customers want to buy them.’

  ‘What customers?’

  ‘The American couple came back especially and they sent people from their hotel around the corner. Word is spreading.’

  ‘Rather slowly. I don’t think four people constitutes a stampede.’

  With one of his gallic shrugs, Marcel marched past her and loaded up her latest batch onto another of the china cake stands and when he came back for a second cake stand, she watched him go with resignation. And now she had to tackle the aftermath of all that cooking.