by A. Gardner
I imagine that Grandma Liz is standing right beside me giving me step-by-step instructions like she used to when I was little. She always offered words of encouragement, even when I burnt a batch of her double chocolate chip cookies. When my grandma cooked, she was never in a hurry.
I mix the almond and pistachio flour with powdered sugar and sift it all together. My heart rate calms down a bit when I whip my egg whites with granulated sugar until they form stiff peaks. I take my time folding all the ingredients together and dying my cookie batter mint green. I grab a tray lined with parchment paper and scoop my batter into a piping bag. The batter spreads onto the baking sheet in perfect circles. I keep my head down, concentrating on making each one flawless. After I tap the tray a couple of times to let any air pockets settle, I look and realize that everyone went back to work. Everyone except the Head Pastry Chef, Jean Pierre Gautier. His eyes are directed at the nimble movements of my hands.
"Buttercream or ganache?" I ask. The macaron filling is just as important as the cookie.
"You pick," Jean Pierre replies. Still no smile. Not even a slight grin or nod acknowledging that I'm doing a good job. I slowly wipe my hands, taking time to think about my decision. Jean Pierre is analyzing my every move. I have no doubt that whatever I choose will tell him all he needs to know about me.
Traditionally, a pistachio French macaron is filled with buttercream. I eye blocks of butter sitting on a prep table behind him. But sticking with traditional ingredients might make me seem like I'm trying too hard to earn his approval. Of course, I want Jean Pierre to like me. He's one of the top pastry chefs in Europe. I don't want to him to remember me as the clumsy American suck-up who stupidly wore high heels to her first day of work. I want him to see me as Poppy, the woman who once made him a dang good French macaron.
I think of making a ganache—a chocolaty center that would give my macarons an extra kick. But the taste would be a gamble. I've never tried a pistachio French macaron with chocolate. What if it falls flat? Now you're over-analyzing this. What would Grandma Liz pick?
A breeze floats through the kitchen, drawing my eyes to the green, leafy vegetation out back. My grandma used to say that the best foods were the ones that reminded you what season it was. On the prep table there are crates of fresh produce. Jean Pierre eagerly watches as I look through ingredients. I pick up a fat, juicy blackberry.
"May I?" I ask him. He nods. It's the most he has communicated with me since I began his baking challenge. I take the crate of blackberries and set it next to the stove. I wash and mash a good handful in a saucepan and slowly start to heat it. I stir in some sugar and citrus, and a chunky basil leaf from an herb plant on the windowsill. By the time I've blended together my blackberry jam, my cookies are ready to be baked. I put them in the oven and scoop my jam into a jar. I let the jam cool in the refrigerator.
As I clean up my station, Jean Pierre looks puzzled. He takes a few steps forward and crosses his arms. I smile at him and continue wiping away the mess I made. Jean Pierre sighs and discreetly scratches his pointy chin. Now that he's standing closer I can see that I am slightly taller than him.
"Blackberry jam?" he asks. "Pourquoi? Why?"
"I don't know?" I shrug.
"Hmmm." Jean Pierre's expression looks as if he's eaten a piece of sour candy. He turns his head and walks away, leaving me unsure if I did the right thing. Was blackberry too bold of a flavor to pair with pistachio? Did I overthink this when I should've done the normal thing and made a vanilla buttercream? I rub the side of my forehead.
"He does that a lot," Destin says as he brings me a clean hand towel. His English is surprisingly clear.
"I figured it was an intern thing?"
"Oui," he answers, nodding his head. "Mostly to interns."
"You don't by chance remember the last intern who was here, do you?"
Destin wrinkles his nose and stares closely at my lips.
"Last intern?" I repeat.
"Oh, him." Destin chuckles. "He taught me lots of American words. Hey, girl."
"How thoughtful of him," I reply. I try not to bust out laughing when Destin places his hands on his hips and pouts as if it's sexy.
"Destin, you're crazy but I like it. It'll keep me sane around here."
"Oui." He nods.
When my cookies are finished and my jam is cooled, I assemble them into small cookie sandwiches. Before anyone else has the chance, I take a bite of one, relieved that I've achieved a batch with feet. The blackberry and the nutty cookie blend together better than I'd hoped. The mint green shells and deep purple filling is also an eye-catching mix of colors. I plate my macarons and sprinkle a bit of crushed pistachio on top. Destin and Dandre immediately come over to taste them. Dandre's eyes widen as he pops a whole one in his mouth.
Marta sticks her nose up when she studies my plate. She taps on the shell of a cookie and holds it up to observe the layer of jam in between. She takes a small bite like she's expecting it to taste too savory.
"Not as airy as it should be," she critiques. "But not horrible."
Marta stands aside when Jean Pierre steps forward. He examines the plate like Marta did, even crushing the center of a macaron in his hand to assess its crunch. He opens a macaron and feels the texture of the jam, and then he studies the look on my face. My stomach churns and I nervously twiddle my fingers. When is he going to just eat it?
I rub my sweaty palms on my shirt as he finally takes a bite. I wait for him to make eye contact, my hand slightly shaking. He doesn't. Instead he chews and places the rest of his cookie on the counter. He glances toward the other end of the kitchen where Dandre has been mixing and rolling croissant dough.
"Croissants," Jean Pierre says, looking at Marta. Marta nods in agreement.
"Come with me, Poppy." Marta escorts me to the croissant counter, pushing Dandre out of the way. "You'll start out here making croissant dough."
"Is that a good thing or a bad thing?" I watch the others focus on their individual tasks. Destin is preparing brunch orders while Dandre returns to managing the breads and cakes waiting to go into the oven. Marta's workspace is next to Jean Pierre's. She seems to be in charge of putting the finishing touches on the more elaborate desserts. Mille-fueilles. Religieuses. Petit fours.
"You've made croissants before, right?" She ignores my question and jumps straight to business.
"Yes."
"Well here we work the dough for three days before we bake it," Marta informs me. I glance over at Jean Pierre. He is examining a piece of the quiche that Destin made earlier. "You'll need to roll…hello?" Marta snaps her fingers to grab my attention. "Are you listening?"
"I'll need to roll what?" I reply, biting my tongue.
"All this dough over here needs rolling. Unfortunately, we don't have a machine for that. Chef Gautier likes to do it the old-fashioned way." She opens the fridge and points to a stack of pastry dough labeled with dates. "When you're finished with that, move on to yesterday's batch. Can you handle that?"
"And after that?" I question. "Can I move on to something a little more challenging?" I look around the room, my gaze resting on a tray of assorted cookies on a cooling rack. "Like say…madeleines?"
"No," she snaps. "Don't even ask about madeleines. Chef Gautier handles those. Besides, you should take pride in the job that you've been assigned. After all, Le Croissant is the name of the bakery." She raises her eyebrows and heads back to her station. I pull the first bundle of dough from the stack and start rolling it in a rectangular shape. Croissant dough is wrapped around a large disc of butter, and rolled quite a few times to create a good amount of butter layers throughout. The butter makes the croissant flaky. The ones I made at Calle Pastry Academy only took me a day because the school has a machine that rolls the dough really thin. After folding the dough a few times and running it through the machine, it was ready to be shaped into croissants. Rolling the dough over and over again by hand is something I've never done before. The layers in Jean Pierre
's croissants must be exquisite.
I roll and roll, take a few breaks, and roll some more. Just as I predicted, my feet are already hurting from standing all day. Before I know it, hours have passed. I finish working all the croissant dough and stop to take a few breaths.
My eyes dart again to the open window. While the others are cleaning their stations and grabbing coffees, I step outside. I breathe in the scent of fresh flowers and fertilizer and smile when I see that there are a good amount of flowers in the garden. It's not all just herbs and fruit trees.
"Berries," a voice says behind me. "Lots of berries." I turn and see Destin pointing to a nearby shrub that is overflowing with wild berries. He leans in the doorway holding a small parcel. He lifts it up. "For you."
"What?"
"Oui." He gestures for me to come back inside. I follow him. He and Dandre both study the wrapping trying to guess what it might be.
"Is this from you?" I ask, holding the small package out in front of me.
"It came with the post," Marta chimes in from the corner of the kitchen. She's holding a clipboard and stopping to jot down notes as she looks through the fridge. Jean Pierre is nowhere to be seen. "Were you expecting something?"
"No." I shake my head and slowly open the parcel. Marta watches out of the corner of her eye. Destin and Dandre wait eagerly as I hold up a royal blue box small enough to house an engagement ring. My heart starts to pound.
"Eh," Destin scoffs, throwing his hands in the air. "She has boyfriend."
"No." I did have a boyfriend, but we ended things once and for all at my parents' disastrous holiday party last year.
"Èpoux?" Dandre guesses.
"Husband," Marta translates.
"Nope." I open the box and gasp when I see something glitter beneath the lid. My eyes expand like puff pastry as I pull out a shiny diamond pendant with a small, silver, oval-shaped charm that says Kräm hooked on the clasp.
"Oh my—" Marta covers her mouth with her hand. Destin and Dandre take a step closer and gawk at the valuable jewel in my hand. I gulp, hesitant to put it on.
"Beautiful," Destin mutters.
"You've been in France for what, less than a day?" Marta rolls her eyes and resumes her duties. At the bottom of the jewelry box is a folded piece of paper. My heart pounds as I carefully open it, desperate to see if this glittery piece of jewelry is really meant for me and not some French model named Camilla who lives next door.
The note is typed, and it's short and sweet.
I hope your first day went better than this morning. Sorry about your blouse.—Sam
I raise my eyebrows, thinking back to the suave Englishman who accidentally spilled his coffee on me. I smile and put on the necklace. Destin taps his foot impatiently.
"So?" he says, crossing his arms. "Who's it from?"
I chuckle.
"The guy who made me late this morning."
CHAPTER THREE
Michel calls me into his office. I've spent the last three days doing nothing but mixing and rolling croissant dough while Marta glances over my shoulder every ten minutes to tell me what I'm doing wrong. My arms are as stiff as old-fashioned hard candy. The reality is that I'm doing nothing wrong. My croissants are just as flaky and buttery as Jean Pierre's. But still, my kitchen assignment hasn't changed. Maybe I'm being hazed, and this is Chef Gautier's way of feeling out my boiling point?
"Sit down," Michel instructs me. My feet welcome the break. I show up to the bakery before the sun rises and get back to my bite-sized apartment after the sun has already gone to bed. Destin and Dandre taught me how to order the house special at the pizzeria next to my building. The apartment has a kitchenette, no oven, but I haven't had the chance to use it yet. I've had eggplant and ricotta on a crispy crust along with day old chocolate croissants for dinner two nights in a row. My only moments I've had to really enjoy Paris are the frequent coffee breaks I take in the garden. Dandre makes me a steamy cup of café au lait, and through the locked iron gate on the side of the brick building I can see Parisians passing by on the street.
"I hope you're about to graduate me from dough-roller to tart-maker," I respond. Michel keeps a straight face.
"I want to talk to you about this weekend." He is sitting stiffly at his desk, and his posture matches mine—solid and proper. It's hard remembering to keep my shoulders straight when I'm repeatedly hunching over to roll croissant dough to Marta's exact specifications.
"Right," I answer. "The special assignment." I tuck a strand of loose hair behind my ear. I've been keeping it up in a tight bun underneath a thin beanie most of the day.
"Yes." Michel takes a deep breath. "Jean Pierre had planned on taking you with him to England this weekend for a special event he's catering. It's a very important wedding at Dovington Manor. Lord Dovington himself requested Chef Jean Pierre Gautier in person to make his wedding cake."
"England?"
"Yes, England." Michel shakes his head. "But I'm afraid plans have changed. He does not require your assistance anymore."
"Okay." I'm not sure how to take his comment. Jean Pierre hasn't said much to me all week. So far everything I've imagined about my internship in Paris hasn't come true. I'm not learning top-secret pastry tips from the best of the best. I'm not hanging around posh French cafés where mysterious businessmen offer to pick up my tab, and I'm not guiltily eating my way through the city.
"So, your weekend is free." Michel smiles at me, but it seems forced. "Go enjoy Paris."
With whom?
I nod. I should be beaming inside. This is half the reason I came here in the first place. To see the Eiffel Tower, eat my weight in French macarons, and shop for something with the word Paris written all over it to remind Georgina where I spent my time off. All those touristy things.
But something won't stop gnawing at my confidence. If Chef Gautier doesn't think much of me then maybe I'm not progressing in pastry the way I thought I was? Say something, Poppy. I stand up to leave but hastily change my mind and sit back down. Michel looks startled when I lean forward, invading his personal bubble. His eyes dart from me to the open door.
"Is this about my macarons?" I ask.
"Excusez-moi?"
"The French macarons I made for Chef Gautier on my first day," I remind him. "Does this have something to do with that?"
"Oh I—"
"Because if it does," I continue. "You can tell Jean Pierre not to do me any favors. I can keep up with him at Dovington Manor. Actually, I can do more than that. I can whisk custard and knead fondant just as good as Marta can. All I need is the chance."
Michel's eyes are wide. He scrunches his nose and tilts his head.
"Oh," he responds.
"I spoke too fast, didn't I?"
"No, I think I understand." He still looks puzzled. "You do want to spend your first weekend in Paris…in England?"
"Yes," I say firmly.
"Okay, I will inform the chef of your request."
I return to my croissant station, satisfied with my choice to work instead of sleep. I have to show Jean Pierre that I'm nothing like the last intern, and I won't be going home early. If anything, I'll make Chef Gautier sweat when he realizes I'm nothing like the woman he thinks I am. Grandma Liz wouldn't take his attitude lying down. She would march right up to Jean Pierre and dare him to make a pistachio and blackberry jam macaron that tastes even better. I don't have the guts to do that. I don't get as spicy as my grandma was unless I'm fiery mad.
I finish out the rest of my day like all the others—cleaning and sampling leftover goods. Before Michel leaves for the night he informs me that my request has been approved and that I'll be leaving for England tomorrow by train. I take my time and give my legs a good stretch on my walk back to my studio apartment. I think about sleep, and it makes my eyelids droopy like they're being pressed down with heavy cream puffs. Extra heavy cream.
I enter my apartment just as the cell phone in my bag buzzes loudly. I shelled out the extra cash for tempo
rary international service with my phone carrier. My heart leaps. Because of the time difference and the hours I've been working, I've only been able to talk to anyone back in the states in bits and pieces. I grab the phone before it stops ringing.
"Hello?"
"Hello?" a familiar voice says.
"Bree?"
"Yes, I finally caught you." Bree chuckles. "I've been trying all morning."
"What time is it over there?"
"Break time," she replies. "I'm back to working at the cupcake shop until classes start up again. Yeah, you owe me a bag of Jean Pierre's best goodies for stealing my Paris spot. I don't care if you have to hold them on your lap the entire plane ride home."
"I'll do you one better. I'll give you his croissant recipe."
"That's not the same as tasting a croissant made by the master pâtissier himself," Bree argues. "So come on, what's he like? Is he brilliant?" I hear a timer beep and a soft banging that I can only assume is the oven door.
"Bree, are you cooking something?" I ask. "I thought you said you were on your break? Okay, what happened? Who's the jerk?" Most girls turn to a gallon of cookie dough ice cream or a double fudge brownie when they have guy troubles. Bree turns to her whisk.
"Todd again." She pauses. All I know about Todd is that he's Bree's childhood crush, and he's always messing with her head. "I'm making cinnamon rolls with Nutella frosting. Not for sale. Don't judge."
"Just do me a favor and a space them out. Don't eat them all at once this time."
"I can't make any promises," she responds. "Ugh! He drove me to it, you know. Him and that fruitcake of a girl he's with. But I don't want to talk about that. Tell me all about the pastry chef extraordinaire. I want details."
"Oh, he's…" I hesitate with what to tell her. I can shatter her dreams and say that Jean Pierre turned his nose up at a batch of French macarons that I was forced to make in front of the entire kitchen brigade. And of course, that was right after his sous chef thought I didn't know the difference between a coconut macaroon and an almond shelled macaron. I can also lie and say that he's been a great teacher. But what's so great about rolling dough? "He's unlike any other chef I've ever met."
