IN THE MONTHS BEFORE G MOVED OUT, I WAS RESEARCHING how to open a bakery. I started with a very apropos book, called How to Open a Financially Successful Bakery. When I told an acquaintance of it, he laughed at me. He was a Harvard MBA grad, and though I wasn’t, I could see the obvious humor in the situation. The reality was that I had never worked in the food industry at all, let alone opened a bakery. I had no idea where to start, and the best people to ask—bakery owners—were understandably not always willing to share information. So I started with the book, carefully reading it to prime myself with as much information as possible.
I
THE QUESTION “WHAT DO YOU WANT TO DO?” IS A DOUBLE-edged, privileged one. As a child, I was often reminded that having a choice was a gift. My mother grew up very poor, in the shantytowns of Hong Kong. She had wanted so desperately to be educated, to be a doctor, and she could easily have been one if she had had the luxury.
I grew up hearing stories about how she was beaten by schoolteachers for wearing a uniform that was too short. I guess they thought she was trying to be scandalous, but in reality, it was because she didn’t have the money for a new one, and children grow tall so quickly. She told me about how she did well in school, always placing second in her class until she was forced to quit so that she could work in factories to earn money for her large family. She was one of the older children but still so young that she had to borrow fake identification in order to work at all. And in the same breath, she would tell me that the best student in her class eventually became a surgeon, all the while reading my encyclopedias from front to back in the night after we had all gone to sleep, and repeating facts about Austria or zygotes the following day.
So while I felt lucky to have had opportunities in life that my mom never did, for many earlier years having a choice was mixed with guilt. And no matter how lucky one is or isn’t, questions always feel heavy and full of anxiety, and the longer they stay precariously in the air without the relief of answers, the more they tire you out.
II
WHEN I WAS FOUR, I WANTED TO BE SPIDERMAN. IT seemed like the perfect career: adventurous, fulfilling, I could help people, it afforded a unique means of transportation, and if that were not enough, I could wear a cool red outfit, a genuine perk to me at any age. My dream ended when my sister told me I couldn’t be Spiderman because I wasn’t a man, and there was a “man” in the name. So instead of arguing with that logic, I decided to be a fashion designer instead. This was my career goal until I was sixteen, when I failed sewing class over a small misunderstanding—I guess I couldn’t just chat in class and sew at home. The ability to pass a sewing class seemed like a required skill to be a fashion designer, like a web-making class would be to a career as Spiderman.
As with my sewing failure, as with the ending of art school, design school, and now pastry school, I was once again deciding what to do with my life. I’d had jobs and careers, developed talents and skills, made money, found security—but something was always missing. The accolades had a sheen that wore off soon after they had arrived. I needed my work, how I spent my days, to mean something to me. I needed to know I was doing something that satisfied the deepest cravings in me to express those innate and creative parts of myself that were unique to the way I saw the world. But I also needed to know I was making something better outside of me, out in the world, even if it was minuscule and no one was better off but me and a handful of other people.
I think I’ve always needed that, to do something I believed in, with a greater purpose. I’m not sure if it’s something we choose, and I’m not sure why I hurt for it so much, but all I can say is that, without it, it always feels like I’m sitting in a waiting room, entertaining myself pointlessly, biding time until…who knows what.
If I stop to think of all the people I’ve known—family, friends, lovers, people I thought I knew from lives I filled in with my imagination—I’ve met some with the same desperate longing and some without. But I do believe everyone does, in some way or another, want purpose; to know that every hardship is for something bigger than themselves.
Or maybe this I’ve imagined, too.
III
FROM THE MOMENT I HAD MET HER, G’S MOTHER WOULD give me books each Christmas and birthday. Some were cookbooks, because she knew how much I loved them, and some were books on food because I loved those, too. She read extensively herself, and I always appreciated that she understood, perhaps more than I, the private beauty created by words picked carefully and then arranged side by side.
Two years before I went to pastry school in Paris, she gave me a novel about a woman with a restaurant where she taught cooking classes. In the story, food (her food) wove its way through her students’ lives and healed them. And in turn, she was also healed through those that she taught, connecting to her own past and to herself.
There was a moment in the book that clung to me. A woman asks her lover what they are to each other, and he replies, “ladders and chairs.” There was something in that that I immediately loved: being a place to climb if the one you love was in need of inspiration, or a place to rest, should he or she need that instead. It reminded me of my Saturday mornings, and of what food meant to me.
After I returned from Paris and I began planning the opening of Beaucoup, it wasn’t enough for me just to open a bakery. I needed to create something that had a chance of making a difference to people, and to me, even if it was a seemingly insignificant one.
The vision and the desire for Beaucoup came so naturally that it felt like breathing, as if it had been written on me word by word, slowly over time. I wanted to do for others what bakeries and cafés had done for me during the years when I felt confused and even afterward, when I started to feel sure of myself and about the world I was in. I wanted it to be a “ladder or chair” for someone, to give the same gift of rest and inspiration that food had given me. I wanted to create Saturday mornings—a book, a coffee, a double-baked almond croissant—for others, out of gratitude for the Saturday mornings that helped me reclaim my life. So I built Beaucoup holding that firmly in my mind.
IV
MAGNETIC…OR MAYBE LOVE? IT’S THE ONLY WAY I can describe that rare intersection of passion, purpose, talents being challenged, and honest-to-goodness hard work. I couldn’t help but be immersed in my passion, surrounded by the presence of it, and fall into it with my whole being. Beaucoup was all I wanted, though I didn’t have any idea what I was doing.
But I did know how to research, and I became an expert in Googling, starting with the search, “how to start a bakery.” So there on the internet I researched everything from demographics and market research to what to look for in a lease, places to lease, how to apply for grants, how to write a business plan, how to apply for a loan, point of sale systems, coffee machines, and operations plans—to name a few topics. I went to government business resources to ask for legal, accounting, and importing advice, I joined business groups and forums to ask questions. I looked for months for the right place to rent, consulting the clerks at the city about bylaws and requirements. Since I was a total novice, I was thankful that so many people were willing to teach me and point me in the right direction. I was diligent, knowing that my inexperience was enough of a disadvantage that I needed to be even more thorough to compensate. I even cold-called businesses to see if they would give me thirty minutes to interview them with carefully drafted questions on everything I didn’t know, and then everything I didn’t know I didn’t know.
In the course of my planning, I began to meet like-minded food entrepreneurs—artisanal ice cream producers, craft doughnut shops, custom cake makers—in the same boat, just starting out, figuring it out together, all with a passion for food and for creating beautiful-tasting things. We all shared a commissary space that I rented as I was testing the last stages of my croissant recipe on commercial equipment.
One day, for fun, I baked a sour cherry pie from local cherries that I found at the market. I made a flaky crust with duck fat, imagining th
e savory flavor contrasted with the tart and sweet filling. We all gathered around, my new food friends and I, added dollops of a bright cardamom ice cream that another person had made, and moaned with pleasure from the combination of the melting crust with the slight hint of almond in the cherries and the fragrant creaminess of the cardamom embracing it all on our palates. On other days, my friend M and I drizzled a salted caramel sauce that he had made over my test croissants (and anything else we could find). We ate so many it made us feel like we’d committed naughty deeds.
I was part of a true community. When one of us needed advice on a flavor or when a texture wasn’t coming out quite right, we would all gather and brainstorm solutions. We helped and encouraged each other because we knew that though we were small, we were stronger together. We did it out of gratitude for the times we were given help and for a passion to see the others like us succeed. Maybe it gave us hope that we could too. But most of all, we did it because it was just plain fun, like playing with friends who loved the same game. I loved food, and for the first time since childhood, I was surrounded by people who truly understood and would find it quite normal to drive to a different city for a good taco or wax on about the many possible uses for grains of paradise.
It was after dozens and dozens of tests and failures at the commissary kitchen that, one day, I finally perfected my croissant. There had been so many failed tests that I was beginning to doubt the possibility of the perfect croissant. And unfortunately, since croissants required such specific knowledge, which none of my friends had, they were at a loss to help me.
That day, after hours in the kitchen, I opened the finicky oven and there they were, exactly as I remembered them in Paris: toasted, golden puffs of yeasty butter. I passed the warm croissants around to the chefs and aspiring entrepreneurs around me, and watched as they melted into pools where they stood, in disbelief that such a croissant existed in the world. I felt as if I had transported these croissants from Paris, and I felt so extremely proud to know that I’d made some people very happy that day.
SALTED CARAMEL SAUCE FOR REALLY ANYTHING
This caramel thickens up drastically as it cools in the fridge. You can use it chilled and thick, spread on brioches like a pâte à tartiner, or warmed slightly to be thinner and drizzled over croissants, as M and I did.
¾ cup (5.5 oz/160 g) granulated sugar
1 vanilla bean, sliced lengthwise and scraped of its seeds and husk reserved
⅔ cup (5.5 oz/160 g) whipping cream (35% milk fat), warmed
½ cup (4.5 oz/125 g) unsalted butter
⅛ tsp (0.4 g) fine sea salt
Place the sugar and vanilla bean seeds and husk into a medium-large pot. Melt and caramelize the sugar over medium-high heat, swirling the pan constantly to evenly melt the sugar. The sugar will be ready when it reaches a deep amber color (216°F–217°F if tested with a candy thermometer).
Wear an oven mitt, then take the sugar off the heat and carefully pour in the warmed cream and salt. The mixture will bubble vigorously and the steam will be very hot, so be careful.
When the bubbling subsides, stir the caramel with a wooden spoon until well mixed. The caramelized sugar will be stiff at first, but will melt slowly into the cream as you continue to stir it. If necessary, put the pot back onto low heat and reheat to fully dissolve. Add the butter and stir until it is all melted and emulsified.
Allow the caramel to cool to room temperature and remove the vanilla husk. Keep refrigerated until ready to use. This can be stored in the refrigerator for up to 2 weeks.
A NOTE ON THE MEASUREMENTS: This recipe is commonly seen in both weight and volume measurements, but I’ve done my version in volume as the proportions in caramel sauce can be more flexible than other pastry recipes. A thermometer would be extremely helpful in gauging when the sugar is done caramelizing.
MAKES 1½ CUPS.
LETTING GO
{2012}
AND THE DAY CAME WHEN THE RISK TO remain tight in a bud WAS MORE PAINFUL THAN THE RISK IT TOOK to blossom.
Anaïs Nin
“IT’S A WEEK UNTIL AUGUST 23. SHALL WE SET A TIME to talk?”
My heart pounded, and my voice faltered almost imperceptibly, but I assumed he caught it. I had waited for this day for nearly six months.
“Yeah, sure. Should we say after dinner that day?” G said it so casually that, to an outsider, we could have been meeting about which shower curtains to order online, or something equally ordinary, like whether to host a Mexican night or a stuff-your-own-baked-potato party.
“OK. Sounds good,” I replied.
While sitting on the couch during one of our Monday meetings six months earlier, I had told him one day, matter-of-factly, as a simple acknowledgment of reality, “I want to let you know that I feel like I’ve done everything I can think of, and I think we should consider a divorce,” I said.
“I don’t think so.” I was thrown off by the conviction in his voice. It seemed mismatched with the repetitive tone of our other conversations.
“OK. I’m willing to try anything you suggest. Let me know. I just have to tell you that I’m done thinking of ideas, and I have nothing left.” A small part of me revived and wanted to honor his intention, to give it one more shot, to stand up once more for us, but it collapsed just as suddenly.
“I don’t think it’s done.”
“I know. Well, I’m open to any suggestions, just let me know what you want to try.”
Over the next six months, nothing happened. We didn’t fight anymore. In my mind, there was nothing to save, nothing to fight for. G and I just coexisted.
I waited for him to join me where I was, acceptance.
On August 23 we met. We sat on the bed in his room and didn’t bother with pleasantries. We both knew why we were meeting, and pleasantries were all we had exchanged for months now anyway.
“So, can you admit that it’s not working anymore?” I asked gently. I think we both knew that what I was really asking was, “Can you let me go now?”
“Yes.”
So it was done. We spent the following weeks ironing out the practical details of tearing our lives apart, with as much love and respect as we could find in the remains.
Seven years before, I had vowed to love him for the rest of my life, and I intended to keep my promise. Only it wouldn’t be through living with him day after day, or experiencing life beside him. I wouldn’t love him as his wife, but as me.
MEXICAN WEDDING COOKIES
These cookies were G’s favorite. Even today, he still asks me about them. And when I am feeling grateful for the experiences we shared and what I’ve learned from them, I bake some for him.
2 cups (8.8 oz/250 g) all-purpose flour
1½ cups (6 oz/170 g) toasted and cooled pecans, coarsely ground
2 cups (8 oz/227 g) confectioner’s sugar, divided
¼ tsp fine sea salt
2 sticks (8 oz/227 g) unsalted butter, room temperature
2 tsp (10 ml) vanilla extract (I prefer Nielsen-Massey)
1½ tsp (7.5 ml) cinnamon
Whisk the flour, pecans, ½ cup of confectioner’s sugar, and salt together in a large bowl or the bowl of a stand mixer. Add the butter and mix until it comes together into a consistent dough. Add the vanilla extract and mix again until just incorporated. Cover the bowl with plastic wrap and refrigerate for 30 minutes to let the dough stiffen slightly. This will make it easier to roll into balls.
Preheat the oven to 350°F.
Whisk the cinnamon and remainder of the confectioner’s sugar in a large bowl. When the dough is chilled, scoop out and roll balls about 1 inch in diameter (or use a small #45—¾ fluid ounce—ice cream scoop) onto the parchment-paper-lined sheet pan about 1 inch apart.
Bake the cookies for 15–20 minutes or until the edges are caramelized and medium golden brown. Cool them for about 15 minutes and then toss each one in the bowl of spiced sugar. Place the coated cookies on a rack to cool completely. Toss the cookies in the sugar aga
in and serve. Can be stored in an airtight container for up to 3 days.
A NOTE ON THE MEASUREMENTS: I’ve left both weight and volume measurements here. This is a recipe for the home baker, but I bake in weight and find it easier, so I thought I would give you both.
A NOTE ON THE CINNAMON SUGAR: If you have leftover sugar, you can save it for the next batch of cookies or add it to whipped cream to make cinnamon whipped cream.
MAKES ABOUT 36 COOKIES.
HOW TO OPEN A FINANCIALLY SUCCESSFUL BAKERY
{2013}
ALL EXTREMES of FEELING are ALLIED to MADNESS.
Virginia Woolf, Orlando
I’VE HEARD THIS THOUGHT ECHOED BY OTHER RESTAURATEURS and entrepreneurs: had they known what lay ahead, they would have chosen not to begin at all. And there are instances where being ignorant is quite helpful and instances where it can be quite harmful. With Beaucoup, I recognize that I was incredibly lucky, but my ignorance was indeed both.
I
THE NIGHT BEFORE I OPENED BEAUCOUP, I WAS WRITING an inspirational quote on the chalk wall and someone asked me if I was anxious. If I was worried that people wouldn’t like the pastries, or wouldn’t like what I had created. That it seemed as if there was so much anticipation built up that most likely I would disappoint. But I felt strangely calm and replied simply, “I’ve done everything I can. I can’t please everyone. I’m proud of what we’ve done, and the rest is not in my control.”
The next morning, I was shocked to see a line forming outside. Everyone was smiling and eager. When I went to open the door, there was no ceremonious pause, no acknowledgment that this moment would become so significant, changing my life in ways I could not have foreseen. I just unlocked the door.
The Measure of My Powers: A Memoir of Food, Misery, and Paris Page 17
