“Wait patiently for the others,” Madame Rousseau said.
When the others arrived half an hour later, they did not look happy.
“What happened?” Alfie asked Emilia.
“Monsieur DuBois made everything into a lesson,” she said. “And you know it’s bad when I’m bored by a lesson—especially about Paris. He went on and on about the birth of the Paris cafés until we were falling asleep over our café au laits.”
“You had coffee?”
“It was decaf, but, yeah. It was okay. I’d rather have had more hot chocolate.”
“What foods did you get?”
“Wait till you see!” she said, finally smiling.
Madame Rousseau called everyone to attention.
“Very good, everyone,” she said. “I hope the trip gave you a nice view of Paris and its wonderful food. Now—is anyone hungry?”
The students dove into the pile of food at the center of the prep table. Jacques and Madeline went for the macarons, Emilia snagged some chocolate, and Alfie ripped off a piece of bread and grabbed a knife to spread some cheese. They were like savages who hadn’t eaten in a month.
“Slow down!” Monsieur DuBois called. “We have lessons for each of the foods. For example, the macaron was invented here in France. Do not listen to people who try to tell you it comes from England or Italy! We French know better.” He paused for a moment. “Is anyone listening?”
Madame Rousseau said, “Students, if you want to keep eating, you must listen.”
The students quieted down. Eating quietly while pretending to listen to a lecture on the history of French cheese making, the invention of the macaron, and more was better than not eating at all.
Once the food was gone and Monsieur DuBois had talked himself hoarse, Madame Rousseau told the students about the next part of cooking camp.
“The teams you were in for the scavenger hunt are your teams for the next challenge,” Madame Rousseau said. “You will each prepare a meal for us and a guest. The winning team gets—”
“Not just any guest,” Monsieur DuBois interrupted. “An extraordinary guest, a great guest! Chef Auguste Orleans, a national treasure and my own former instructor, will dine with us. Students, it is extremely important that you take this seriously.”
“Well, yes,” Madame Rousseau said, eyeing Monsieur DuBois. “Try your hardest, as we know you will. But we know that you don’t have all the experience of an adult chef.”
“They can still try,” Monsieur DuBois said.
Madame Rousseau sighed. “As I was saying, we have a most excellent prize for the winner—dinner at Le Jules Verne restaurant atop the Eiffel Tower.”
Everyone got excited at this announcement, but Emilia was jumping up and down and clapping her hands as if she’d already won.
“I’ll take that to mean you’re excited about this,” Madame Rousseau said. “Now it’s time to choose your team leader, so gather around and vote.”
Alfie wanted to be the leader, even though he felt slightly out of his league after that scavenger hunt.
“So, any volunteers?” Madeline asked. Everyone eyed one another. No one wanted to speak up first.
“Do you want to be captain, Jacques?” Madeline asked.
“I guess I could,” Jacques said.
“Or maybe Madeline,” Andre said. “You were really good on the scavenger hunt.”
“Thanks,” she said. “Yeah, if you want, I could be captain.”
“But if you don’t want to be,” Andre quickly said. “I can be.”
“Like I said,” Jacques said, stepping in. “I don’t mind being the team captain.”
Alfie saw a great opportunity to settle this once and for all. “I’ll be captain. Back home I’m practically the captain of my soccer team, so I have a lot of experience in, you know, leadership and stuff.”
The others turned to look at him. “But you didn’t even know what a macaron was,” Jacques said plainly.
“Yeah, but it’s about leadership, not cookies,” Alfie said.
“Macarons aren’t cookies.” Madeline laughed.
“I have been around food—you know, because of my father—since I was a baby. I’ll take the nomination,” Jacques said.
“We’ve all been around food since we were babies,” Alfie muttered.
“I guess Jacques is a good option,” Andre said, looking resigned.
“Yeah, I guess,” Madeline said. “That okay, Alfie?”
They could have at least pretended to consider him, but he went ahead and agreed to elect Jacques as team captain.
They headed upstairs to the boys’ room, away from the other team, to plan their winning menu.
“You have more experience,” Andre said to Jacques as they discussed who should do the main dish.
“Plus,” Madeline said, “you can’t deny that being taught by one of the best chefs in all of France is a great advantage.”
“It doesn’t mean I’m any better than anyone,” Jacques said sternly. “Besides, we have to work together. This is a competition—we have to win.”
“Agreed,” Alfie said. Finally something he could understand!
“I think we should do a fancy meal service,” Andre said. “Really show off.”
“I think we should do simple, classic cooking,” Madeline said.
“Alfie, what do you think?” Jacques asked.
“Whatever will help us win.” He still felt a bit sour about the whole captain thing.
“But what’s your opinion?” Jacques pressed. “You have to help us.”
“I am helping,” Alfie said.
“I mean by having an opinion,” Jacques said. “What’s the one dish you’re really good at making?”
Three sets of eyes stared at Alfie, waiting for him to answer. Although Zia Donatella and his mom had been cooking a lot more at home and he was tasting better and more interesting foods, he still didn’t really know how to cook anything on his own.
“Well, I can make pasta,” he offered. Zia had taught him how to know when it was perfectly al dente—although he still didn’t know how to make sauce.
“You can make pasta from scratch?” Madeline said, impressed.
“Well, I mean . . . ,” he began. What he’d meant was, he could dump a box into boiling water and know when it was perfectly al dente. Sort of.
“We need to do French cooking,” Jacques said.
“How about if I make a classic French vegetable soup for a starter?” Madeline offered. “That’s simple, but it lets the ingredients shine. I heard Monsieur DuBois say we’re going to the market tomorrow to get our ingredients, so I’ll pick the freshest and best.”
“Great start,” Jacques said, writing it down. “Andre? Any ideas?”
“My grandmother taught me how to make her famous sausage wrapped in pastry. It was the first thing she learned to make when she moved here from Gabon. I can’t do it as well as she can, but it’ll make a good first course.”
“Sounds excellent,” Jacques said, adding it to the list. “I guess my dad did teach me to do steak really well. If I can find a great cut at the market I’ll do it au poivre. Sound okay?”
Feeling silly, Alfie raised his hand and said, “What’s au poivre?”
Madeline said, “You know—‘with pepper.’”
“Oh, yeah,” Alfie replied, hoping he sounded convincing.
“Now all we need is dessert,” Jacques said. “Looks like it’s you, Alfie. Are you okay with that?”
“Yeah, totally,” he said, even though the only dessert he’d made on his own was putting prepared cookie dough discs on a pan and shoving them into the oven.
“Any ideas?” Jacques asked. Alfie stared blankly, his mind racing for something, anything, besides ice cream with store-bought chocolate sauce.
“Jac
ques, your dad has that awesome raspberry charlotte recipe,” Andre said. “That’d be a great finish to our meal.”
“Doesn’t that recipe take a long time?” Madeline asked.
“Yeah, sort of,” Jacques agreed. “There are a lot of steps, but if you pay close attention it’s doable. I don’t know—maybe there’s an easier version that Alfie could do.”
“Yeah,” Madeline agreed. “Something simple that can’t be messed up.”
“Hey,” Alfie said, insulted. “I can handle it.” Maybe he didn’t have all their training—or even know what a “raspberry charlotte” was—but he could certainly follow a recipe.
“Are you sure?” Jacques asked, annoying Alfie further.
“I’m sure,” he said. “Just give me the recipe, and I’ll make the best raspberry dessert you’ve ever had.”
“Charlotte,” Jacques said. “Raspberry charlotte.”
“Whatever.”
“Okay, I guess. I’ll get you the recipe,” Jacques said. He looked down at his list and said, “Well, I guess that’s it. We have our menu.”
“Good job, everyone,” Madeline said.
“So, tomorrow morning we’re all going to the markets to gather ingredients,” Jacques said. “Then tomorrow afternoon, we’ll start our prep, and on Friday we finish and present our meals.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Alfie said with all the confidence he could muster. But the truth was, he had a really bad feeling that he could be the one to lose this for everyone.
“All this talk about food has made me hungry,” Jacques said. “Want to go to a café?”
“I’m going to meet up with the girls,” Madeline said. “I heard they’re going to Notre Dame.”
“Have fun,” Andre said.
Jacques led Alfie and Andre out of the school and down the street, taking corners and turns like he’d done it a million times—which he probably had. They came upon a café with red awnings hanging above small round tables with wire-backed chairs. Jacques chose a table outside. Even though it was a little bit chilly, they had a great view of the bustling crowd on the sidewalks and a large spraying fountain across the street.
“Café Bertrand is one of my favorite cafés,” Jacques said. “Any time I have extra money I come here for an omelet at lunch.”
“Eggs for lunch?” Alfie asked.
“Of course, why not?” Jacques asked. The waiter came over for their order. Alfie ordered the same as Jacques. “Have you been here before?” Jacques asked Andre.
“No, but there’s a place my grandmother takes me not too far from here on St-Germain-des-Prés,” Andre said. “They have really good fries that I like to get. My grandmother is the one who taught me to cook.”
“Who taught you to cook?” Jacques asked Alfie.
“My zia. That means aunt in Italian,” he said. “She’s actually my great-aunt, but we just call her Zia. She’s traveled the world, and now she’s staying with us for a while. She and my mom cook together, and Emilia and I help out sometimes.”
The waiter came by and dropped off their food. The omelet was neatly rolled and a perfectly golden yellow. Alfie cut off a bite.
“So then your mom cooks, too,” Andre said, biting into his ham-and-cheese sandwich, which was golden and crispy with cheese oozing out the sides.
“No. Well, yes. Sometimes,” he said. He chewed his omelet and couldn’t believe how good it tasted. The eggs were warm and fluffy, and the cheese and chives were creamy but not too overpowering. “What kind of cheese is this?” It was yet another kind of cheese, different from the one on the first night and the cheese they got on the scavenger hunt. How many different kinds of cheese do they make in this country? he wondered.
“Gruyère,” Jacques said. “It’s good, isn’t it?”
Alfie shoveled in another bite. “So good!” he said through a mouthful while Jacques and Andre laughed.
“He has an appetite like me,” Jacques said, tucking into another bite.
“Mom used to cook with Zia when she was younger, and now that Zia is staying with us she’s started again,” Alfie said through a mouthful. He took another bite of the creamy, fluffy omelet. “Last Saturday they made breakfast for us. Not an omelet—the eggs were scrambled with shredded cheese sprinkled in.” He took another bite. “We were all in our pajamas, and Dad had just turned on the heat for the first time all season. Emilia was wrapped in a blanket. Mom made the bacon, but Zia made the eggs, and we all argued over what movie we would watch at home while Mom begged Dad to start a fire in the fireplace. It was a great day.” He took another bite and closed his eyes, letting the hearty yet delicate dish warm him up.
Suddenly, Alfie felt like he was spinning. He felt his stomach drop. It was happening—he was leaving Paris in the middle of this café in front of his new friends . . . and without his sister.
Alfie spit the eggs out onto the table.
“Hey, watch it!”
“Gross! What’s wrong with you?”
“Sorry,” Alfie stammered. He had to get to his sister. He had to tell her that he almost left Paris. At least, he thought that’s what just happened. And what if—what if she was somewhere, eating something and leaving without him? They never should have separated.
“I need to find my sister,” Alfie said.
“Isn’t she with the girls at Notre Dame?” Andre said.
“Can you take me there?”
Jacques and Andre both nodded. “Of course,” Jacques said. “We’ll go right now. I know the way.”
Andre signaled for the waiter, and Jacques scooped up the last bits of his own omelet as they stood to go. “Sorry,” he said through a mouthful. “It’s just so good.”
Alfie looked at his own half-eaten omelet. He also wanted to finish it, but he couldn’t risk going back home without his sister.
After paying for their meal, the boys led Alfie through the streets, and Alfie tried to pay attention so that he could find his way back on his own if he had to. Alfie was good with directions, but he hoped he could remember it all in his worried state.
He saw the French gothic beauty of Notre Dame before they even crossed the bridge over the River Seine—two huge towers rising above circular windows and three arched doorways at its base. As he got closer, he spotted its famed gargoyles watching the crowd from high above.
“There they are,” Andre said, pointing to a bench where the girls sat. But Alfie didn’t see Emilia.
They raced over.
“Hey,” Jacques said. “How is the planning going?”
“Trying to steal our secrets?” Claudette teased.
“Alfie’s looking for his sister,” Andre said.
“She’s inside,” Madeline said. To Alfie she said, “She’s completely obsessed. She loves this building. I mean, who wouldn’t, but it’s like she could just about move in here. Want me to take you inside to get her?”
“That’s okay,” Alfie said. “Thanks.”
He walked through the crowd of tourists toward the entrance, feeling the power of the giant wooden doors and the row of life-size statues of kings above him. Inside, the ceiling rose up several stories high, peaked in the center. In front of him was a gorgeous, colorful series of stained glass that stretched the width of the interior.
As he walked quietly through the cathedral, he couldn’t help but think of the church in Naples where Emilia had gone when they were separated. She loved history so much it was no wonder she was somewhere in here, soaking it all in.
He found her near the front standing below a statue of a girl dressed in armor. Alfie let out a sigh of relief—at least he hadn’t lost her.
“Who is that?” Alfie asked, standing next to his sister.
She looked over at him. “Hey.” Looking back at the statue she said, “Joan of Arc. She didn’t make it into the cathedral until 1909. Guess how old
this place is?”
“Emilia, we have to talk.”
“They started building it in 1163. Can you believe that? And it took almost one hundred and eighty years to finish.
Bet you don’t know what Notre Dame means.”
“Something’s happened. It’s serious.”
“‘Our Lady,’” Emilia said. “Makes sense, right?”
“I was eating earlier and I almost went back.”
Finally, Emilia turned to face him. “Really?”
“Yes, really,” Alfie said. “I was at this café with Andre and Jacques eating an omelet and telling them about that morning at home when we were all eating breakfast together in our pajamas. I closed my eyes and, well”—he shrugged—“I started to get that . . . feeling. And then I panicked and spit out the food. I guess it stopped me from going back.”
“Jacques and Andre must have thought that was totally normal,” she said sarcastically.
“Yeah, they were only slightly suspicious,” Alfie joked. “I told them I had to find you. I didn’t really give an explanation. Emilia, the café is on the way back. We both have to order that omelet.”
“But the banquet is coming up,” she said. “Can’t we just stay for that? Especially if you figured out the way back.”
“Emilia, we can’t stay here forever.”
“I’m not saying forever,” she said. “But dinner at the top of the Eiffel Tower . . . Alfie, please. It’s just a little longer.”
When he looked at his sister, with her pleading face, standing in this gothic cathedral full of the kind of history she loved, he reconsidered. He may have already missed the soccer game and he did find the way back—he was pretty sure that omelet at that café was the way back. When he looked at her pleading eyes, begging him to stay—how could he say no?
So he decided to stay. Where was the harm in that?
Just like the day before, Alfie woke up in Paris. Part of him felt scared about being here for so long, over several nights even; a bigger part of him felt ready to take on the day—and the competition.
Paris! #2 Page 4
