by A. Gardner
"Food," Cole hurriedly says. "I'll cook for you."
"Barbecue?"
"Dinner," he blurts out.
"You're not serious, are you?"
"Dinner, one night a week."
"Two," I negotiate.
"Your appetite can't handle it," he jokes.
"I can handle it." I giggle. "I can handle Bree using her mixer at 2:00 a.m. I can handle it."
"You have yourself a deal," Cole agrees. "If you speak to your boy J.P. tomorrow and tell him how you feel."
"I will." I sit up—my heart still drumming lightly. "I just hope you don't get sick of me next semester."
"Not possible."
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
The atmosphere in the kitchen is different this morning. Marta is in a good mood, which means the rest of us are too. Jean Pierre is cleaning his station for the hundredth time and getting ready to take his first coffee break of the day. My chest feels heavy as I watch him vigorously wipe the counter in front of him, thinking of my deal with Cole. I'm not sure confrontation is the best way to approach this, but there is some truth to what Cole said. Maybe being bluntly honest is what it'll take to turn the rest of my time here around?
Dandre sneaks a warm croissant from the bunch as usual and shoves it in his mouth before Marta sees him. Destin, busy designing the glazed tops of his mille-feuilles, pauses to shake a finger at him. He doesn't glance in Dandre's direction once, but he knows what his cousin is up to anyway. I cover my mouth to hide a faint giggle.
You can do this.
I casually walk toward Chef Gautier, France's finest pâtissier. A man who crafts brilliant desserts where authenticity meets modern excellence but can't be bothered to train the new intern. The kitchen buzzes as usual as I tap him lightly on the shoulder. He turns around, his eyes embedded underneath sagging skin and miles of creases from years of sleepless nights.
"Oui, mademoiselle?" he answers. His response is enough to grab Marta's attention. She sneaks in a side-glance and slows her pace to observe. A couple of weeks ago, she would've stepped in and spoken in Jean Pierre's place like I wasn't yet worthy of his attention. Not today. Instead, she keeps her distance.
"Um, Chef…Monsieur…can I talk to you in private please?" I anxiously scratch the side of my thumb as he processes my request. I never know how much English gets through. Sometimes he surprises me with what he understands. I tilt my head toward the garden out back.
"Ah, oui." He nods in agreement. I gulp, taking at deep breath as Marta and Destin pause what they're doing to send me a silent good luck.
I head for the back garden. It's partially cloudy, and the spring breeze is light and friendly. I sit at the small café table, reserving the seat across from me for my so-called mentor. Jean Pierre holds up a finger. He retreats back toward the kitchen and leaves me outside alone with only a shrub of currants to talk to.
Minutes later, he returns with two coffee cups. I lean forward in my chair, surprised by the amiable gesture. Steam rises from my mug, and I take a tiny sip curiously wondering how Jean Pierre takes his morning java. I've seen him make his own concoction morning after morning. I bet he likes it black. Strong flavor. Minimal sweetness.
The flavors melding in my mouth make me chortle.
"This isn't coffee." I let my thoughts pour out of my mouth. "Is this what you drink every morning?"
"Oui," he answers. "Since I was a boy." He sips slowly, scanning every plant in the garden. "Chocolat chaud."
The creamy chocolate warms my throat and brings back memories of me and my grandma sitting together at the kitchen table. One steamy cup is all it takes to sprout up a lifetime's worth of precious moments. The nostalgic look on Jean Pierre's face makes him less intimidating. He's even grinning.
"I wanted to ask you something," I say. He waits for me to continue as if he understands what I'm saying. "I'm not sure how to say this." How about, why do you hate me? What did I ever do to you? I channel Cole's carefree attitude. "I'm not a child." I clear my throat as Chef Gautier lifts an eyebrow. "I mean…I know I'm just an intern, but I can frost cakes and pipe macaron batter just like the rest of them."
"I don't understand," he replies.
"I'm not a disappointment," I state. "I'm a good pastry chef." I may not fully believe it, but I act like I do. A morning gust of wind cools my cheeks and blows steam at my face. I quickly fill my mouth with his rich hot chocolate while he formulates his next reply.
"I see," Jean Pierre answers. He crosses his legs, narrowing his eyes as he watches well-dressed Parisians on their morning commute. Some with bags that say Le Croissant. "Poppy, I teach those who are ready."
"Oh, I'm ready," I say quickly. "I've always been ready."
"No." He shakes his head. His favorite word.
"I might have been wearing heels the first time you saw me, but I'll have you know that I carry flats in my purse where ever I go."
"No. No. No." With a sharp tsk-tsk, he points to his ear. "You are not listening."
"Huh?" I firmly set down my cup. "I listen. Of course I listen. What makes you think I don't listen?" I raise my voice. I can't help it. Anything to get through to this man. "And that whole night out with Destin thing doesn't count. Michel's cryptic stone-age rules have nothing to do with pastry."
"Poppy."
"I did everything you asked me to back in England," I continue. "Not to mention every assignment Marta has given me here in Paris." I stamp my foot. "I have yet to have a customer send back one of my éclairs. What's next, huh? Have I been doing it all wrong this entire time?" I'm well on my way to becoming a serial hothead like my old childhood friend Evie. There was even a time when her reddish locks matched the fire-engine shade her face turns when she's pissed off about something. It can be anything too. Even a smug look from someone in the baking aisle.
"Poppy," Jean Pierre says again, "silence." He holds out a hand, and slowly lowers it down to the table. "When I was a student, I strived for perfection."
"Don't we all?" I mutter.
"My last examination in patisserie school was to design and make desserts for a wedding." His accent is thick, but when I listen closely, I understand what he's saying. "The first time…I failed."
"How do you fail at something like that?" I ask.
"My mentor tasted my sweets." He shakes his head. "He said, no Jean Pierre. You are not ready to be a pâtissier." He exhales loudly as if reliving that day all over again. "No. No. My sponge is parfait, I told him."
"You didn't do anything stupid, did you? Like forget the sugar?"
"No," he answers. "My mentor said, Jean Pierre you make the best pastries in all the world, but that makes no difference if you are not ready for the title of Chef." He looks at me like interpreting his hidden message should be easy.
It isn't.
I'm ready to take on the title of Pastry Chef and all that comes with it.
I think.
"How does this apply to me?" I resume taking small sips of his homemade hot chocolate.
"It is not enough to follow a recipe," he responds. "You must take pride in your work. You Americans mistake this for arrogance, or…however you say…French snobbery. Do you understand?"
I wrinkle my nose.
"Sort of."
"Okay, Poppy. I will teach you pastry, but the rest…" He raises his eyebrows as he studies me from head to toe like store-bought shortcake in need of a serious makeover. "The rest is up to you."
"What happened the second time you took the test?"
"Mère, my mother, cried."
* * *
I can't even fathom the way time passes when you don't want it to, and the way it doesn't move when you need it to. Time slipped away from me after I took Cole's advice. My days at the bakery have consisted of shadowing Chef Gautier from dawn until closing and even taking stab at Mère's madeleine recipe. Not for sale up front, of course. I boxed up my batch and took it back to my apartment.
Tomorrow is my last official day in Paris, and M
arta, Destin, and Dandre are taking me out to see the sights. All the touristy spots I missed out on like Notre Dame Cathedral and the Louvre. Dandre promised he would take me all the way to his favorite gelato shop, and Destin promised that he would leave Val at home.
"Okay, are you ready?" Jean Pierre watches with a critical eye as I hand him my plate. The way he stares, as if he's the chef supreme, isn't as frightening. I'm not the same Poppy from day one. I come to work in flats, and I don't care how tiny the bathroom in my studio apartment is…as long as I have one.
"Yes, Chef."
As is tradition, my last dish made in the Le Croissant kitchen is French macarons. Jean Pierre gave me the option of making whatever flavor I wanted. I chose the same exact ones I made for him my first day—pistachio with a blackberry basil jam. He inspects them like he did on day one, holding the plate up and offering a cookie to the rest of the kitchen staff.
Dandre takes one right away. His eyes widen as he pops the entire macaron into his mouth. Destin rolls his eyes when his cousin reaches out for a second one. Destin smacks his hand and takes the next cookie. He takes a smaller bite and nods to show his approval. Marta grins as she takes hers and carefully assesses my filling to cookie ratio. Her gaze wanders as she chews.
"Nice and airy," she comments. I hide my excitement, but my fingers won't stop fidgeting. I settle for lightly tapping my foot instead to avoid looking like a deranged marionette. My true test is getting the same response from Jean Pierre who, last time I was standing in front of him with my own macaron creation, took one miniscule bite and sent me to culinary Siberia.
Jean Pierre picks up a cookie and crushes it between his fingers, observing the crunchiness of the top. He takes a bite. I clench my hands into fists—every muscle in my torso bracing itself for impact.
"Why blackberry?" he asks.
Don't blow it this time.
My last answer to this question was a nervous shrug. This time I pay attention to my posture. I pull my shoulders back, keeping a subtle grin on my face to let him know that I'm proud of my decision to go with the very flavors I thought he hated last time.
My French macarons are perfect. My French macarons are perfect.
"For my grandma," I answer. "She would've given me a little slap on the behind for not using what's growing right outside."
"And…are you happy with the results?" Chef Gautier focuses on my expression. It's almost like he cares more about me than he does my cookie.
Yes. No more worrying. No more complaining. I am a pastry chef.
"One hundred percent," I confidently reply.
Jean Pierre takes another bite of the macaron. And another. He waits to finish the cookie before displaying any kind of hint as to whether he approves of its taste or not.
"Well then…" He looks from Destin to Marta. "If you believe they are the best, then so do I."
Fireworks erupt in my brain.
Play it cool.
"Thank you, Chef." I accept his approval as professionally as I can.
"You pass." Jean Pierre chuckles, placing his thumbs in the pockets of his chef's jacket.
"Thank you. Thank you. Thank you!" I can't contain myself anymore. I end up hugging him like I'm saying farewell to a long-lost French grandfather. Marta, Destin, and Dandre take a step back. Marta lets out a gasp, and I pull back to find that Jean Pierre's grin has been wiped from his face. No one touches the honorable pâtissier Jean Pierre Gautier like that and keeps their job.
This isn't the South, Poppy.
"I just have one thing to say," Jean Pierre announces. He narrows his eyes, shooting me a stern look that gives me goose bumps. One month's worth of hard-earned respect instantly flushed down the toilet. I might as well have jumped into his arms and commented on his taste in cologne.
"Oh, I…uh…" My stomach fills with butterflies.
"Your macarons were parfait the first time," he finishes. "And the chocolate you drizzled on the coconut macaroons at Dovington Manor…divine." His stern glare shifts into a comical smirk. I don't know whether to keep my distance or assume he's joking until he busts out the first laugh.
"Seriously?"
"Oui." He continues chuckling. This is the most I've seen him smile. "They were bon the first time, but you were not. That was the only difference."
Michel enters the kitchen, knocking as he approaches us with a bottle of champagne. He looks well-rested compared to a couple of weeks ago when he worked night and day trying to herd the press away from suspecting Le Croissant of any foul play. His eyes gleam when he notices that Jean Pierre is laughing.
"A toast to Poppy," Michel raises the bottle. Destin and Dandre retrieve a set of small ramekins, and Destin promptly opens the bottle. He fills each dish and passes them out amongst us.
"Santé," Destin chants, holding up his ramekin used at the bakery for molten chocolate cake and cheese soufflé.
The six of us clink our dishes together before drinking to my safe travels. Dandre puts his arm around me and chugs the contents of his dish like it's water on a hot Georgian day.
"Tonight we celebrate," Destin announces. My eyes dart to Michel who was adamant that I follow his no fraternizing with colleague's rule—a rule started after the last American intern thought it was fine and dandy to go and sleep with the sous chef.
"Well since today is my last day…" I look to Michel.
"Oui," he responds. "I've decided to toss that rule." He and Marta make eye contact. Chances are the rule was her idea in the first place. If it would have prevented her from having to work with a two-faced heartbreaker then I don't blame her for ensuring that it never happens again.
I don't think it will.
"We never cared about it anyway," Destin mutters, pouring more champagne into his dish. He winks at me, graciously filling Dandre's bowl to the brim just so he can watch him struggle not to spill it.
"I'll pretend I didn't hear that," Marta slyly replies. She nudges me. "You survived, Poppy." She runs her hand over her shiny locks and up to her smooth bun. Not a hair is out of place. "Pastry school will be a piece of cake now."
"At Calle Pastry Academy," I inform her, "we prefer the phrase 'a piece of pie.'"
Marta playfully rolls her eyes.
"Southern peach pie," I add.
EPILOGUE
He looks like he does on TV. Cinnamon hair trimmed and gelled to create the perfect fauxhawk on top of his head. Eyes that make your heart skip a beat and the muscles to match, though they're hidden underneath his chef's whites. Otto Chimenti is the most eligible celebrity chef bachelor in his early thirties, and he's teaching our class.
It's day one of our advanced-level courses, and Bree already seems to be studying for finals. She skims through our syllabus—eyes gleaming. Her strawberry blonde do is up in a tight ponytail, showing off rounded cheekbones.
"I told you we should've picked the front row," Bree mutters through her teeth.
"Why?" Cole responds. "So you can stare at the instructor instead of the demonstration? You can do that from back here too."
"Hey," I butt in. "A deal is a deal. We agreed to a compromise. No front row…" I glance at Bree. "…and no back row…" I look to Cole who is already leaning back, arms folded. "…that equals the middle, right?"
Our new rank at Calle Pastry Academy means a whole new set of instructors, new whites, a new kitchen on the other end of campus, and new rules. It also means we get to pick new stations, and during our basic courses Bree convinced me to join her in the front. This time she's meeting me halfway.
"Yes." Bree sighs, setting down her syllabus and pulling a compact mirror from her bag. She discreetly smiles, checking her teeth and minimal makeup. Too much will melt away from the heat of the ovens.
Our new classroom is nicer and bigger, with more room up front for demonstrations. Chef Otto pulls out a pot and candy thermometer in preparation for today's class. He checks the time and nods when the last student trickles in. Chatter erupts as he walks across the classro
om to shut the door. All from female spectators.
I rub my forehead, surprised I'm not sweating yet. A southern heat wave rolled in just as soon as I pulled back into town. The whole state of Georgia feels like it's in one giant oven. Hopefully this means something sweet and tasty will come of it all.
I know what sweet tea is now, and I need one.
"Attention, everyone," our new instructor says. The entire room falls silent almost instantly. I glance over at the woman in front of me and observe as she slowly lowers her camera phone after snapping a few photos. "I am Chef Bartolo Chimenti, and President Dixon has kindly invited me to fill in while he searches for permanent instructors. As you know, recent events have opened up a couple of vacancies among the staff. I am here to ensure that Calle Pastry Academy retains its prestige while the dust settles." He scans the room, stopping when he finds the friendly face he's looking for. A woman sitting in the front row with dirty blonde locks held back with a diamond-studded clip. A very impractical fashion choice for day one, but she must have gotten the memo that Chef Otto would be here. "You there. What's your name?"
"Georgina, Chef Bartolo," the woman shyly replies.
"Please, call me Chef Otto." He grins the way he does on TV. Just enough for his pearly whites to make an appearance. He looks to the rest of his students.
Georgina giggles.
"Pass these out for me, will you Georgina?" He moves a box from the floor onto her counter and quickly pulls out a stack of new chef's jackets—ones complete with a neckerchief labeling us as the newest advanced-level bunch. The finish line is in sight.
"Of course, Chef," she quickly agrees. She begins handing out our new uniforms one by one.
"A new term also means a new set of rules," he continues. "I don't know how it worked in basics, but it's time to step up your game like you've never thought possible. I'm talking sugar showpieces, modern plating techniques, sophisticated cakes, and long hours on your feet." He pauses to grin again. "Like I say on my new reality show Bonbon Voyage, don't fudge it up."
