Transfer the cake to a wire cooling rack, and run a knife along the edge of the cake. Carefully remove the sides and base of the springform tin.
Serve warm or at room temperature, dusted with powdered sugar and sweetened whipped cream.
A week after the family exploration of the trunk, I sat back and admired the first part of the article about Grand-mère. There was more to come, but what I had was beautiful—lovely photos, truths about how I felt about food—and I couldn’t be prouder.
As much as I admired my handiwork, my neck cracked when turned and my limbs felt stiff. I stretched my muscles before noticing everyone else had cleared out of the office for the weekend.
I drove home, thinking over my next task.
After nearly two weeks of living in my new place, I decided I’d had enough and fished Clementine Grey’s card from my purse once I got inside.
I hesitated before dialing.
It felt awkward, calling a near stranger like that. Asking someone to be your roommate—it made me feel eight years old all over again, asking someone to be my friend.
But it was fair and it was logical, so I straightened my spine and dialed.
I didn’t expect her to answer but was pleasantly surprised when she did.
“So, listen,” I said, after completing the usual phone-call pleasantries. “I’ve moved into my grandmother’s old apartment, and I could use a roommate. I figured since the commute would be just as useful to you once the restaurant opens, I’d ask you first.”
“You’re … asking me to room with you?” Clementine cleared her throat. “Um, how much is the rent?”
“Nico and I are leasing the building from my mom,” I said. “Part of the reason I’m living here is because I need to keep living costs down. Let’s say two hundred dollars in rent, plus utilities and all that.”
“Okay, wait,” she said. “Did you say two hundred dollars?”
“I did.”
“And,” she said, her voice sounding oddly wobbly, “you’re talking about Mireille’s apartment over the patisserie?”
“I am,” I said, trying to gauge her response.
“Um, yeah,” she said, sounding distinctly watery. “Sorry. I … I mean, sure. I’ll take it. If you’re sure.”
“Clementine, are you … are you okay?” I asked, pretty sure I heard something that sounded a lot like muffled sobbing on the other end of the line.
“I can’t believe—I mean—you have no idea …” She paused and caught her breath. “I can’t make my rent at my apartment, and I was going to have to sleep on a friend’s couch or move back in with my parents, and I cannot move back in with my parents, and you just called and offered me a place with rent I can afford that’s not a health hazard. And I think I’m more stressed than usual because I’m not usually this emotional,” she finished, the last word catching. “Sorry.”
“No, I’m sorry,” I said firmly. “I should have called you a week ago, but I put it off. That was stupid. Listen, there’s still stuff in the bedroom—Grandmère’s stuff—but there’s a path to the bed. I’ll leave a key for you under the blue flowerpot; you can move in anytime you need to. Today, if you want. Just whenever.”
Four hours later, I had a new roommate. Clementine had packed her things, minimal as they were, and moved into the back bedroom.
While she set up her room, I decided the wisest thing to do was to make room for her in the kitchen. I cleared out three deep drawers and made space in the pantry.
“Oh good,” she said when she saw me clear space next to the oven. In her arms she held a box full of pastry tools. “Thank you again.”
“You can stop thanking me. You’re good.”
Clementine opened her mouth, then closed it. “Cool. I love this kitchen. I used to help Mireille test recipes in here.” She set her box down and began to lay out her tools before organizing them into drawers. “Who’s taking care of Gigi these days?”
“My sister.”
Clementine lifted an eyebrow. “I met her once. Is she a dog person?”
“I don’t believe I’d categorize her as such, no,” I answered diplomatically. “But her daughter is, and I think her husband is kind to small furry beings, so I think Gigi will be okay.”
“You never asked me what I’m like to live with,” Clementine said. “Are you sure you’re not going to regret this?”
“Pretty sure.” I hoisted myself into a seated position on the kitchen counter. “You didn’t ask about me either. I’m not a particularly early riser, but not very late to bed either. I don’t like lots of noise, but I don’t like too much quiet. If I make a mess, it’s usually in the kitchen. My family will probably stop by at awkward times, so I don’t suggest spending a great deal of time in a state of undress. I’m not very adventurous. I only drink socially, and even then not to excess.”
“It’s expensive to be a drunk these days,” Clementine observed.
“Agreed. That’s all I can think of. I don’t have any particular pet peeves, but if I develop any, I will attempt to communicate them in a sensitive, civil manner.” I moved to the stove. “Would you like some tea?”
“Sure.” Clementine closed a drawer and opened a new one. “I tend to get up early, because if I don’t, I’ll have a headache for two weeks once I’m on a pastry schedule. I’m very good at being quiet in the morning. Since I’m up early, I don’t tend to stay up late, but I’m usually so tired that your whole family could come over for a canasta and tap-dance party and I’d never notice. My bedroom tends to be a mess, but I make sure the door will always close. I get grossed out by dirty bathrooms. If I’m bored, I hate-watch the Food Network.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. “Fair enough.”
“Another thing—do not shorten my name. My name isn’t Clem, Clemmy, or Tiny; it’s Clementine, and if you feel compelled to give me a nickname, I can suggest the names of several respected therapists.”
“Fine,” I said, “as long as you never call me ‘Julie.’ I’m Juliette, Etta, or Jules.”
“You’re just not a Julie?”
“Nope.”
“Deal.”
I reached for a kitchen towel. “How is work going?”
Clementine wrinkled her nose. “I’m doing some freelance pastry work for a few local caterers, but I’m not getting the hours I need. I have lots of first interviews but not a lot of second interviews, which drives me crazy because I know I’m better than the yahoos they’re hiring who churn out molten chocolate cake after molten chocolate cake. I’ll be relieved when the restaurant is open and I can focus more on pastry and less on promising to make molten cakes for catering gigs.”
“They do sell—those chocolate cakes.”
She lifted a shoulder. “A monkey could make one.”
“That is a viral YouTube video I would enjoy watching.” I tilted my head. “I’m working on a new piece for the paper and my regular column on top of it. If you want to help me test recipes, you’re more than welcome.”
“Do you have a focus?”
“The first is a piece about Grand-mère, so any memories you have of working with her would be great. The second is pulling together entertaining menus. I have to do a demo of one on Portland Sunrise next week.”
“That’s cool.”
I made a noncommittal noise and moved the hot water off the burner. “This is fun. It’s nice to have company. What kind of tea do you want?”
“Rooibos, if you’ve got it.”
“Yes, I do.” I dropped one sachet each into two large coffee mugs.
Clementine wrapped her arms around herself. “Does it feel weird being here? Since your grandma died? Because I gotta tell you, I keep waiting for her to walk around a corner.”
I paused, midpour. “Me too.” I looked away and collected myself, and had a bright smile a short second later. “But I think she’d get a kick out of the fact that we’ll be living here together.”
Clementine took her mug and clinked it with mine. “Hea
r, hear.”
I checked my watch. “Oh, wow. I’ve got to run and meet with Nico about the restaurant. Here’s a key,” I said, handing it over. “Help yourself to whatever you find in the fridge.”
“Thanks. I will.”
“Right. Excellent.” I gathered my keys from the kitchen counter and took off in search of my purse. “See you later!” I called, feeling glad in my heart that when it came to my apartment, I was no longer alone.
I woke up Saturday morning to wonderful, amazing smells. When I emerged from my bedroom, I found Clementine in the kitchen next to a plate of freshly baked pain au chocolat and a carafe of coffee.
“Don’t expect this every morning,” she said, “but consider this a thank-you. For letting me move in.”
“You’d be welcome in any case,” I said, “but extra welcome in this case.” I reached for a croissant and took a large bite. “Oh my goodness,” I said once I’d swallowed. “That’s the best chocolate croissant I’ve ever had.”
“It should be,” she said with a smirk. “Your grandmother rapped my knuckles with a whisk if I overworked the dough.”
“She would.” I took another bite. “What time did you get up this morning?”
“Four, as usual.”
“I didn’t hear you at all.”
“Good. I also tried to clean up some. I noticed you had some bakeware on that counter that I figured you were keeping there for a reason.”
I looked to where she pointed. “Oh yeah. That’s Sophie’s. She brought it over last week, and I need to run it back to her.” Another bite. “Maybe we need to have these at the restaurant for dessert. A kind of breakfast-for-dinner thing.”
“No.”
“No?”
“I make good desserts, and serving pain au chocolat during the dessert course is like serving a Danish.” Clementine tucked a piece of hair behind her ear, showing off a series of silver hoops. “Anyway, why aren’t you a chef yourself? Obviously you can cook. What made you join the enemy and become a food critic?”
I laughed. “First off, I don’t think of myself as a food critic, rather a food writer. I went to culinary school, but I knew going in that the lifestyle wasn’t for me. Some people—people like Nico, like my dad—thrive on it, but,” I said, shrugging, “not me, I guess. But I really love writing about food. The way I see it, you can spend hours—days, even—preparing a meal. You eat, you enjoy, but ultimately it’s gone and you’re left with the memories. I like to write about food to preserve it, to remember the experience. I think that writing about a meal makes it last forever.”
“Fair enough,” Clementine said.
“Maybe one day we’ll serve brunch. Or start a catering company like D’Alisa & Elle. I’m just saying these croissants need to see the light of day.” I brushed a crumb from my lips. “I wouldn’t want you to lose your touch.”
Clementine rolled her eyes. “Like that could happen.”
After a leisurely breakfast, I decided not to put off the trip to Sophie’s. My oldest sister answered the door, looking more frazzled than usual. I resisted the urge to hold the baking dish like a shield and chose to smile warmly instead.
“Oh, thanks for bringing that. Come on in,” she said, using her foot to keep Gigi from making a break for it.
“No problem,” I said, bending over to pet Gigi as she jumped by my feet.
I wouldn’t have termed myself a dog person, by any means, but even I could tell Gigi didn’t seem quite right. She hadn’t been groomed recently—Grand-mère had been meticulous about having her trimmed every few weeks. She sat at my feet and wagged her tail, looking me directly in the eyes with an expression that could only be described as begging.
“So,” I said, trying to be casual, “how are things going with the dog?”
Sophie rolled her eyes. “She’s getting into everything. I just don’t have time for it. I’ll take your jacket. Do you want something to drink? Coffee? Tea?”
“Tea sounds nice. Is Chloé enjoying having a dog in the house?” I asked, testing the waters.
“Oh sure. But will she walk the dog? No. I’m thinking of going back to work soon, and I don’t know what to do with the dog all day. Though,” she said, filling the teakettle with water, “I don’t even know what to do with it all day as it is.”
“Mmm,” I said, my mind whirling. Gigi had followed me and stood watch at my feet, again with the begging expression. I patted my lap.
Without hesitation, she jumped up, climbed into my arms, and rested her head on my shoulder.
“Wow,” Sophie said. “I’ve never seen her do that.”
I bit my lip and patted Gigi awkwardly on the back.
I don’t need a dog, I thought. The last thing I need is an animal underfoot when I’m testing recipes.
Despite my thoughts, the words came quickly before I could talk myself out of them. “Do you want me to take her?”
“Really? Would you?” Sophie’s face eased. “That would be wonderful.”
She wasted no time in gathering up Gigi’s belongings and placing them in a pile by the door. She poured tea for both us of, which we drank rather quickly.
I think she wanted me—and the dog—out of the house before I changed my mind.
Sophie even helped me carry everything back to my car.
In my head, I knew this was a terrible idea. I’d never had a dog before; I didn’t have the first idea of what I was doing.
But as I drove away with Gigi curled up in the passenger’s seat, staring at me with her huge brown eyes, I knew I’d done the right thing.
Even if it was crazy.
If you’re afraid of butter, use cream.
—JULIA CHILD
“You brought her!” Clementine cried out, clapping, when I walked inside with Gigi in tow.
“I have no idea what I’m doing with a dog,” I said. “I can’t deal with dog hairs finding their way into the custard.”
Clementine shook her head as she bent over to pet Gigi. “Bichon frises don’t shed. That was one thing your grandmother liked about them.”
“Where did she, you know, have the dog do her business?”
“You mean pee?”
I lifted an eyebrow. “You know I do.”
“I was just giving you a hard time. No, Mireille would take Gigi on walks, sometimes, but if she didn’t want to go downstairs, she’d send the dog on the patio. Had a special patch out there.”
“I think I remember that. I guess I wasn’t paying attention.”
“What were they feeding you?” Clementine asked the dog, who by this time had all four paws in the air and not a care in the world. “Mireille had her on good quality kibble. Her coat had more luster than this. But that’s all right. We’ll fix it.”
“You know how?”
“I love dogs. My aunt and uncle raise whippets out in Gresham. They do the show circuit, the whole nine yards.”
I sat down on the floor and crossed my legs. Gigi left Clementine to sit in my lap.
“Huh.” I gave Gigi a tentative pat. “I guess I’ll be learning.”
I rose early Sunday morning, took Gigi out, and dressed for a cool spring day. The night before, Gigi had slept at the foot of my bed—the only night within recent memory when I’d slept soundly, only waking once when Gigi found a rabbit in her sleep. She consented to recline in her kennel while I attended church, though she seemed delighted and ready to play when I returned.
My trip to the antique shop with Chloé had served as an important reminder that there really were people who knew old things. So I could either wonder about the items in the tin, or I could show them to a dealer and find out what I could.
Not that I was at all interested in selling them—I only wanted to know their secrets.
The week before, I’d called and made an appointment for myself at Maloy’s Jewelry Workshop in downtown, a shop that specialized in heirloom and estate pieces.
On Tuesday, I wrapped the cuff links and ring in tissue paper and s
ealed them in a Ziploc baggie before placing them in my purse.
I left Gigi with Clementine, who was busy testing a custard recipe.
At Maloy’s, I rang the bell for entry.
A woman, who introduced herself as Marla, opened the door and took me to a back room where I showed her the pieces.
Marla examined the ring with a loop before letting out a long, low whistle. “This is a Van Cleef & Arpels piece,” she said, handing me a magnifying glass. “Look at the engraving inside the band—VCA and a serial number. I can contact my rep and see if I can get a more specific date. It looks like it’s from the early forties to me.” She sat back and studied them. “To be honest they’re … well, I’ve only seem a few VCA pieces come through here, and none of them this … simple.”
“It’s okay,” I said, suppressing a smile.
“This ring is more likely to be a custom piece, something designed for a friend of an employee on a budget. It’s of the highest quality, of course. But most VCA are statement pieces. They designed coronets and tiaras for royalty, after all.”
I nodded. I could see Google searches in my future.
Marla moved on to the cuff links. “Now these … these are quite cunning. There’s also a VCA engraving on the side, here—” She handed me a magnifying glass so I could look myself.
In the end, Marla quoted me an appraisal value that made me blink. “It’s because they’re Van Cleef & Arpels pieces,” she said. “Very high quality—the diamonds may be small, but they’re flawless. I’ll give my rep a call today. Let’s see if we can’t find out more about these pieces.”
I thanked her, wrapped up the ring and cuff links, and set off for home.
Dear Neil,
Guess what? I now have a dog. And a roommate. And painters have finished with the walls in the restaurant, which is a load off my mind.
My new roommate is Clementine. She’s also our pastry chef at the restaurant. I like her (which is good, since we’re now sharing living space). Because of Clementine, we now keep a composting bin on our kitchen counter (the lid is fitted with a carbon filter, thankfully) and donate our collected rubbish to an urban gardening project. She also changed out most of the cleaning products for more eco-friendly solutions. But since that means she’s the one doing some of the cleaning, I’m not about to complain.
A Table by the Window: A Novel of Family Secrets and Heirloom Recipes (Two Blue Doors) Page 15
