Paris! #2

by Giada De Laurentiis

  The students lined up as Chef Orleans and the instructors headed into the dining room. Chef Orleans towered over Monsieur DuBois, dressed in a crisp, starched white shirt, dark jeans, and a blue blazer. He had salt-and-pepper hair and an amused look on his face. Alfie didn’t know if it was from watching Monsieur DuBois fall all over himself or because he was about to eat food prepared by a bunch of kids.

  Finally they were sent back to the kitchen to wait for their food to be eaten.

  “I wonder what they’re saying,” Andre whispered nervously. “Do you think they can tell what was made at the last minute?”

  “No way,” said Emilia. “Everything tasted as if it took days to make.”

  After what felt like hours of waiting, Madame Rousseau finally called them into the dining room.

  “Students, we were more than impressed with the food you put before us today,” Madame Rousseau began. “We know this was a lot to ask of such young students, but we did it because we knew you were up for the challenge. You certainly did not disappoint us. Congratulations on a job well done.”

  The instructors and guest gave the students a hearty round of applause, which made Alfie and the rest of the students feel amazing.

  “Only I know which meal was created by which team,” Madame Rousseau continued. “So the judges do not know who made what. Chef Orleans, would you like to announce the winner?”

  Chef Orleans stood from his seat at the table. “First I would like to say thank you all for having me, and thank you to the students for creating such fine food for us today. You all deserve a round of applause.” The students clapped for their teammates, and it was clear that the race to win the dinner was a close one.

  “But I must say,” Chef Orleans continued, “that although both meals were extraordinary, I like to always remember that sometimes the best foods are the simplest ones, the meals that let the natural ingredients shine on their own. That is why we have decided to award the dinner to . . . the meal with the extraordinary ratatouille.”

  Jacques’s team! Alfie and his teammates couldn’t help themselves—they jumped and cheered and congratulated one another. Alfie was relieved he hadn’t made his team lose—but having his team win meant Emilia’s team lost. Her dream of eating a fancy dinner in the Eiffel Tower was over.

  She tried to act like it was no big deal, but Alfie knew she was crushed.

  He leaned toward her and said, “I’ll ask if I can give you my place.”

  Finally, Jacques stepped forward to speak for his team. “We just want to say we had a lot of fun making the meal, and I know you’re not supposed to tell your guests the trouble you’ve been through, but I think my team will agree . . . ,” he said, turning to the team, who all nodded for Jacques to go ahead. “We had some . . . problems with our foods this morning, but everyone worked together to complete and even re-create a lot of the dishes. We just don’t think we should win the prize alone, and we know that everyone can’t go, so . . . as great as the dinner sounds, we’d rather stay here with the other team. If that’s okay.”

  The adults all looked at one another.

  “I must say,” Monsieur DuBois said. “I’m very surprised, and impressed. We had no idea that there was any drama in the kitchen. Chef Orleans?” Monsieur DuBois, Madame Rousseau, and Chef Orleans put their heads together and quietly discussed what to do among themselves. “Since these are such unusual circumstances, I’m afraid we have to amend our original winners of the top prize, although you should all be very proud of your work. With that said, the team who will be going to dinner at Le Jules Verne,” he said, “is . . . both teams!”

  Now the students really erupted into cheers. Everyone won!

  “A quick phone call to the chef and maître d’,” Chef Orleans said, “and all will be worked out.”

  The students raced upstairs to change for dinner. Jacques and Andre loaned Alfie some of their clothes.

  “Thanks,” Alfie told them, pulling on Jacques’s shirt.

  “Looks like you’re going to make it through the whole week without having your luggage,” Jacques said.

  “Yeah, it’s weird the airline hasn’t even called,” Andre said.

  “And what was all that about Monsieur DuBois wanting to see you and your sister?”

  “I don’t know,” Alfie said. “Maybe the airline did call.”

  “It didn’t seem like he had any good news. He seemed pretty mad,” Andre said as they started downstairs. “If I were you, I’d steer clear of him tonight.”

  “Good idea,” Alfie said.

  As the class headed out into the cool Parisian night, Alfie and Emilia stayed in the back of the pack, far away from Monsieur DuBois.

  The view was unlike anything they’d ever seen. The beauty of Paris they’d seen all week, walking the streets, eating in the restaurants and cafés, and shopping in the markets, became a picture before them, as they sat high above the city at a table inside the Eiffel Tower.

  They’d arrived at the restaurant via private elevator, and the students and instructors—including Chef Orleans—were escorted inside to a large table along the window. Through the iron latticework of the tower they looked down at the twinkling lights of the city.

  Le Jules Verne served all kinds of elegant food. It was different from the big portions of food Alfie and Emilia were used to getting at home, though. They were served five different courses—five!—which included an appetizer, soup, salad, the main course, and dessert.

  Alfie really couldn’t believe they’d all pulled together to create—or rather, re-create—such a spectacular meal for Chef Orleans. Even though they’d been rushed and stressed while making it, Alfie realized that they’d also had a lot of fun working together. He wondered if that’s what Coach Schrader had been talking about all along.

  As they worked their way through a decadent dessert of spicy chocolate sorbet, Alfie noticed that Emilia had fallen quiet. She sat with one hand on her spoon and the other resting under her chin as she stared out at the twinkling city lights.

  “Are you okay?” he asked her. When she looked at him, Alfie realized she had tears in her eyes. “Emilia! What’s wrong?”

  She swirled her spoon in melting sorbet. “I was just thinking how it looks like we’re going to be here another night. I love it here, and I really like my new friends.” She looked down the table at Madeline, Claudette, and Natalie, who were arguing with the boys over what was better—sorbet or gelato. “But I was thinking how I’m not going to sleep in my bed again tonight. And I miss Mom and Dad and Zia and my friends back home. Is that lame?”

  “No,” Alfie said, because he was starting to feel the same way, too. “We’ll go home tonight.”

  “But how?”

  “Remember—the omelet at the café?”

  “Do you really think it’ll work?” Emilia asked.

  “Sure, why not? I even have some money left over from the market, so we don’t have to worry about that. We don’t have to worry about anything,” Alfie said, like he had it all figured out. Truthfully, he had no idea if it’d work, or even if it had almost worked in the first place. Maybe his stomach had just been upset, or he’d been excited about the day’s activities. It could have been lots of things.

  A clinking noise turned their attention to the end of the table, where Jacques stood with his water glass.

  “To our new American friends, Alfie and Emilia,” he said. “For messing things up, then making them better than before.”

  “Hear, hear!” the group agreed.

  Alfie and Emilia blushed. They raised their glasses with their new friends to toast all the work they’d done together.

  As they got into the elevator to leave, Alfie and Emilia were nervous and unsure about what would happen next.

  “Why so quiet?” Madeline asked them as the elevator raced down.

  Emilia said, “
I’m just really going to miss you guys, that’s all.”

  “We’ll keep in touch,” she said. “Oh, that reminds me. I made you both something.” As the elevator doors opened and the class filed out, Madeline handed them each something small wrapped in wax paper. “Madeleines!” she said. “You know, the cookie?” Alfie unwrapped his and found a small shell-shaped cookie. “I made them earlier today for everyone. You’re probably too full to have it now, but save it for later. And maybe sometime,” she added, glancing at Alfie, “you can make us some homemade Alfredo sauce.”

  Alfie smiled. “Definitely.”

  The students walked together back to the school, talking about the day ahead and how they would all keep in touch once the course ended. Andre dared Jacques to jump onto his back for a piggyback ride, and Jacques took the dare. Andre stumbled a few steps while the class cheered him on but finally had to dump Jacques—who made a dramatic fall to the ground.

  “Monsieur DuBois!” called Madeline. The adults walked behind the students, keeping an eye on them. “Can we please make hot chocolate in the kitchen and stay up for just a little bit?”

  Everyone started walking backward and begging, “Pleeaase!”

  “Absolutely not,” he said. “You know you all have a strict curfew.”

  The class continued to beg, and Monsieur DuBois finally gave in. Everyone cheered.

  When they arrived back at the school, everyone raced toward the kitchen—hot chocolate, Alfie and Emilia knew, might also offer a way home. They thought they could at least give it a shot before heading to the omelet café.

  The kids dashed to the pantry and refrigerators. Claudette and Natalie grabbed flour, sugar, chocolate, and other ingredients.

  “Let’s make cookies, too,” Claudette said as Jacques started on the hot chocolate.

  “I know this really good chocolate cookie recipe that I just learned to make,” Andre said.

  “Don’t forget the sugar,” Claudette said. She opened the container, scooped out a teaspoon, and flicked it onto his head.

  Everyone paused for a moment, waiting to see what Andre would do. In a flash, he grabbed a huge handful of flour and said, “You’re going to get it now!” and tossed it at Claudette.

  “FOOD FIGHT!” someone yelled, and it was on. Suddenly flour and sugar drifted through the air like a snowy mist. Alfie grabbed several marshmallows and pelted Emilia in the head before ducking behind a large soup pot beneath the prep table. His sister launched an egg at him like a seasoned baseball player. Alfie turned his back just in time, and it slammed onto his shoulder blade, a splat catching on his chin.

  After several days of working so hard, learning as much as they could about French food, and experiencing total sensory overload while seeing all the sights of Paris, it felt great to just let go and act wild. Alfie raced toward Madeline with a handful of sugar, but she saw him coming. They pelted each other at the same time, laughing so hard Alfie could taste the sugar in the back of his throat.

  “What is this! What is going on!” They were not questions—they were angry exclamations coming from a red-faced Monsieur DuBois, who stood in the doorway of the kitchen. Madame Rousseau stood behind him. She looked shocked—but her mouth revealed a tiny hint of a smile, Alfie thought.

  “Clean up this mess immediately. And you two,” Monsieur DuBois said, pointing to Alfie and Emilia. “Come with me.”

  Alfie dusted the flour, sugar, and eggshells off himself as best as he could. As he and Emilia started out of the kitchen, Madeline whispered, “Good luck.”

  Alfie and Emilia stepped inside Monsieur DuBois’s office and sat at the chairs in front of his desk.

  “Are you ready to tell us what is going on?” he said. Alfie, panicking, decided not speaking was the best thing to do until his mind worked again and he came up with a plan.

  “You are not enrolled in this school,” Monsieur DuBois stated plainly. “We are not sure how you came to be here, where your family is, or what they know, but we do know that you cannot stay here a moment longer. Alfredo,” he continued, “I think you know that the phone number you gave me was incorrect. Am I right?”

  Alfie looked down at his hands. “Yes, sir.”

  Monsieur DuBois sighed. “I have to say, you have both been good students. But I do not know what this charade is you are playing. Have you run away from home?”

  “No, not exactly,” Alfie said.

  “I need to contact your parents right away. That, or the authorities,” he said. “I suggest you give me the correct phone number. In the meantime, Madame Rousseau will escort you both into the lounge, where you will sit and await further instructions.”

  They followed her to the cozy den, where Lardon sat licking his paw and cleaning his face. Madame Rousseau stepped outside, and Alfie and Emilia finally had a moment alone.

  “Alfie, what are we going to do?” Emilia asked. “Do you think he can actually call Mom and Dad? Will that work?”

  “I don’t know,” Alfie said.

  “What if we have to go to jail? What if we’re sent to an orphanage or something?” Emilia said, the panic in her voice rising.

  “Let me think for a minute.” Alfie could just hear Monsieur DuBois and Madame Rousseau in the other room.

  “Is it going through?” Madame Rousseau asked. Alfie leaned forward and saw Monsieur DuBois with the phone to his ear. He shook his head no. So for some reason, they couldn’t call his parents.

  “Well, I suppose we should call the police,” Madame Rousseau said. “We can’t just let them leave without supervision. They must have run away.”

  “Alfie,” Emilia said. “What should we do?”

  “Yes, this is Monsieur DuBois over at the Young Chefs School of Fine French Cooking,” they heard him say into the phone. “Unfortunately we have two American children who we believe have run away from home. Could you send someone over?”

  Alfie knew the instructors would soon be back in the room, watching them closely until the authorities arrived. He had to think of something fast, so he did the only thing that came to mind.

  “Run!” he said, grabbing Emilia by the wrist and tugging her out of the room and toward the front door.

  Madame Rousseau heard the commotion and quickly ran out of the office toward them. “Children! Wait!”

  Alfie and Emilia dashed out the front door and ran as fast as they could manage. Alfie looked closely at street signs and the businesses he recognized as they whizzed by, trying to get them where he knew they needed to go while escaping from Madame Rousseau.

  “Where are we going?” Emilia yelled from beside him as they ran.

  “The omelet café.” That had to be the answer, since Alfie was sure he’d almost gone home that day with Jacques and Andre.

  After several turns and two stretches down long avenues, they had lost Madame Rousseau. Down the street, Alfie spotted the fountain he remembered the café being across from and then the red awning of Café Bertrand. They finally slowed down, walking the last half block.

  “Are you okay?” he asked Emilia as they both panted, trying to catch their breath. Alfie hadn’t run that fast since he was last on the soccer field several days ago. He wasn’t sure how much, if any, time had passed at home since they left. But knew they needed to get back.

  “I’m fine,” Emilia said, looking down the street to make sure no one was following them. Once they’d calmed down she said, “I feel like a bank robber or something!”

  Alfie smiled. “A bank robber dressed as a cake. You’ve got flour all in your hair.”

  She dusted out her hair and said, “You’ve got egg on your face.”

  Alfie felt crusted egg on his jaw. They had cleaned themselves up as best they could when Alfie noticed that their situation had gotten even worse.

  “Wait a minute,” he said, looking across the street. The café—it was dark. He
raced over with Emilia behind him. When they got to the door they read the notice: CLOSED FOR THE EVENING FOR A PRIVATE EVENT.

  Alfie’s heart sank. He leaned his head against the locked door. Now what would they do?

  “Oh no,” Emilia said. “Maybe we should go get some hot chocolate somewhere? Or sneak back into the school tonight and figure it out?”

  “No, no,” Alfie said. He was beyond frustrated and had no idea what to do next. “We can’t go back to the school and we’ve had hot chocolate enough times here to know that won’t work.” So where would they sleep tonight? On the streets? In some alley?

  “Let’s just stay calm and think about it,” Emilia said. Alfie was glad she wasn’t panicking. He didn’t think he could handle it if she had a breakdown right now. “Oh! Hey, look!” Out of her pocket she pulled the madeleines Madeline had given them. “At least we won’t starve.”

  Alfie took the cookie from her while his mind raced with possibilities of how this night would end. None of them were good.

  He bit into the soft, blond cookie, which had a slight vanilla taste.

  “It’s good,” Emilia said. “Reminds me of my birthday cake this year.”

  “That was a good one,” Alfie said. “If only you’d picked a better birthday dinner.”

  “Hey, how was I supposed to know we’d all get food poisoning!” she said.

  “I wonder if I’ll be spending my next birthday in Paris,” Alfie said, even though his birthday was months away.

  “Not even funny,” Emilia said.

  “You! Children!” A voice filled the street, echoing off the buildings. A police officer. “Stay right where you are!”

  “Uh-oh! We’ve been found!” Alfie popped the last of the madeleine into this mouth as he and Emilia grabbed each other’s hands and dashed down the street. And as they did, Alfie felt a shift in the air.