Bon Appetit (19 page)

“Oui,”
he said. “I picked out the site. Me and … my father”. He bent to take a bite of his salade, the next course.

“Does it bother you, working with your father?” I asked. I hoped I wasn’t treading on ground of too personal a nature.

“Oh, I like my father well enough,” he said, “but every man wants to have a place of his own from time to time. Not have his parent looking over his shoulder every day”.

“I understand,” I said. “I’ve experienced real freedom, in a fresh, adult way, since I came to France. Without my parents”.

“Oui
. If he’d stay in Provence, we’d be fine,” he continued. “That was the plan. Now with the new bakery and
pâtisserie
, I don’t know if he will. But I must talk to him about it, even if it forces a confrontation”.

“Do you plan to bake at Versailles?” I asked.

“Bread at Versailles, that is the plan. Kamil will take over for me at Rambouillet, a step up for him”. He sighed. “But I doubt my father will return to Provence until things are running to his satisfaction”. He shrugged. “Whenever that is”.

I wondered if the
laboratoire
, the pastry kitchen, was big enough to justify an assistant to the person Monsieur Desfreres recommended. Some kitchens had more than one pastry chef. I’d have to find out.

Or maybe there’d be another opening, somehow. Perhaps Rambouillet?

T
he next week was odd. Monsieur Desfreres was home sick the first few days while we worked on pastry doughs. I wanted to point out that Désirée was particularly good at manipulating pliable dough, but no one but me would get the connection. And besides, my mother taught me that if you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all. The fact that I was tempted to slip into cattiness meant that I had better amp up my prayer life. I’d noticed I was only super critical in areas I was insecure.

On Tuesday, I saw Jean-Yves and Désirée working on
pain au raisin
—raisin pastries—and of course, she used Anne’s raisin plumping method. Jean-Yves left his
tartes aux fraise
, strawberry
tarts, on the long cool table they shared. When Jean-Yves came back, Désirée was hovering over them with a spray bottle.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

She backed away, flustered. “Nothing! Just looking. They look so beautiful”.

He calmed down and said nothing more. I looked to my side and saw Anne glance up at me and nod.

Monsieur Desfreres was still not there the next day, but the other two chefs helped us along. We were coming to the final six weeks of the course and had much more freedom. We were supposed to do plated desserts that week, but were waiting for Monsieur Desfreres. I didn’t mind. It gave us some time to specialize.

That afternoon, Désirée gave a little cry of surprise. We all looked over to her work station. “My
gâteau au fromage blanc
, it is completely runny!” she said. “I know I measured everything just so”.

Her small brood of hangers-on ran over, clucking in a superficial display of sympathy. Jean-Yves, because he was so kind, went over to see if he could help her figure it out, as did Juju, though I could sense her reluctance. The rest of us went back to work.

I spent the rest of the day forming my brioche—some I made with almonds, some with emmenthale cheese—to be served for lunch tomorrow. One I made into the shape of a teddy bear for Céline to take with her when she went to Provence on Thursday.

After the brioche was set to rise, I took out some puff pastry and experimented.

“What are you making?” Anne asked, coming alongside.

“Les religieuse”.
I piped cream into the puffs and then swirled them in chocolate. Afterward, I piped tiny dots all the way around
each one. I dipped some in coffee-flavored glaze and striped them with tiny lines.

Anne laughed. “They are beautiful—treasures. But it’s taken you as long to make a half dozen of them as it’s taken me to make an entire pan of mille-feuille”.

I agreed with her, chagrined. I had more fun being the artiste than artisan.

Anne and I sat at lunch that day with a couple of women from the cooking school. The four of us had become an informal critique group of one another’s work. It was much more pleasant, in any case, than sitting at the table where Désirée held court with her hangers-on. I think most of the people buttering her up—literally—hoped she could get them a job in one of the many pastry shops her family owned around France. Today, of course, everyone commiserated about her runny cheesecake.

“Have you ever felt tempted to befriend her?” I asked Anne as we changed into our street clothes before leaving for the day. “She does have a lot of connections”. Deep in my heart, I knew I was asking about myself as well as Désirée.

Anne shrugged. “I have to admit, the thought crossed my mind at first, but only for a second. Don’t worry, Lexi. I would never befriend anyone for a job. I’ve been applying at bakeries all over Paris. I’ll find something on my own”. She smiled her honest smile, and I felt bad I had wondered, and that she’d known I was referring to myself too.

“Sabotage makes you question everyone, doesn’t it?”

“Oui,”
she said.

“I don’t question you,” I reassured her.

“Nor I, you”.

We said our good-byes, and I walked to the bakery at Rambouillet. Patricia was allowing me to do more in the pastry kitchen as long as she looked over my shoulder. However, I was doing less and less in the bread bakery, which was fine by me. I’d understood it was going to be part of my training, though.

When I walked in, I could see Philippe and his father in the office with door closed. No Frenchman was known for a quiet arguing voice, and I couldn’t help overhearing as I slipped my chef’s jacket off the wall.

“Are you going to come and pay your respects?” Monsieur Delacroix asked. “We leave tomorrow”.

“Yes, Papa, I am coming,” Philippe said. I could hear the exasperation in his voice. “And so is Céline”.

“Bon,”
his father said. “Sometimes I wonder”.

“Wonder what?”

“If this religious attitude of yours makes it easy for you to overlook those who have passed on”.

“No, Papa,” Philippe said. “Of course I miss Maman, and Andrea too. But life moves forward”.

“So why do you think this great God of yours felt it necessary to take your mother—and Céline’s?” Bitterness galled Monsieur Delacroix’s words.

Why were they arguing about this today? Their wives had been gone for several years.

“He gives and takes away,” Philippe said quietly. “I think He’s giving me good things, even now”.

“I give you good things,” his father said. “Like a job”.

“I’m very aware of that,” Philippe said, bitterness poisoning his voice too.

I slipped back toward the pastry kitchen, wanting to escape before they saw me. As I entered, I looked at Patricia, who looked tired.

“Everything okay?” I asked quietly.

“Oui,”
she said. She curled her finger to indicate I should come closer. “Lexi, I have a favor to ask of you. Friday is November first, All Saints Day. In France, we visit the graves of our family who have departed and pay our best wishes, and those who want to, pray. My brother and I are going with our father to Provence tomorrow night so we will be there on Friday. I would like to ask Monsieur Desfreres if you could miss school on Friday and come in to work all weekend. I will arrange for there to be help, but you will have to take over some of my duties entirely for three days”.

I grinned. “Of course! I am glad to help”. She trusted me with the entire
laboratoire
at Rambouillet—the big kitchen—for three days!

“Bon,”
she said. “We will go over the lists together, everything that needs to be made and when. I will divide the work, of course, and leave your list with you. I need to call someone else to come in as well. Would it be okay if we contacted your friend, Anne? The one who worked at the village bakery? Maman said she did a fine job”.

“Of … course,” I said. “She is a fine baker”.

We sat down and went over the weekend orders. There was a special order for petits fours.

“I know you do these beautifully,” Patricia said. “Madame
Gasçon is having company for November first, and she will pick them up early tomorrow. Make sure they look beautiful. Saturday morning, Monsieur Étienne will be by for
tarte aux nougat-pommes
. Can you make one?”

“Oui,”
I said. I would come in extra early to make sure it was perfectly crafted. I’d leave myself plenty of time—and no room for error.

“Bon,”
she said.

“Will you see Xavier in Provence?” I dared to ask.

“Oui,”
she said, features softening. “I may stay at his house. I am not sure. He wants to talk”.

She showed me what I needed to prep for that day, and then turned back. “I hear you and Philippe went to Paris last week”.

I nodded. No secrets when you work in a family business.

“Did you enjoy yourself?”

“Very much”.

She gave me a satisfied smile and started humming. I, on the other hand, felt slightly claustrophobic.

I turned back to my prep work and had been chopping and measuring for half an hour when I felt, more than saw, someone come up behind me.

I turned around. “Hi,” I said in English.

“Hi,” Philippe said, smiling. “You may have hit upon a good idea”.

I looked at him questioningly.

“If we speak in English, few other than Patricia will understand the whole conversation”.

I laughed. Even Patricia’s English was iffy. Somehow, speaking together in English, in France, seemed even more intimate. I wasn’t sure if I was ready for that.

I switched back to French. “Patricia asked me to come in while you are gone”.

He nodded. “Yes, and it was her idea, so that’s a big step. She told me she was impressed with your petits fours. Otherwise, she’d have made them before we left. I think she wants you to feel at home in the
laboratoire
. Someday you’ll have your own”.

I grinned. “I hope so. I
know
so”. My tone sobered. “Will you and Céline be okay with the … situation in Provence?”

He reached for my arm and tugged the sleeve of my chef’s jacket up until he came to the well-healed burn. “Oh yes,” he said. “It’s a scar, now, Lexi. Not a wound”.

His hand felt cool and soft on my arm, friendly and familiar and welcome. He pulled the sleeve back down.

Thursday morning I arrived at school a little late, but with enough time to change and quickly run into the classroom. Anne desperately tried to catch my eye, but there was no time to talk. Monsieur Desfreres was back, the picture of health and running the classroom like a ship.

“I want to make sure each of you is working on your exhibition ideas. If you need to consult with me, please feel free. Or consult with some of your colleagues,” he said, waving his hand over the
classroom. “But remember that when you graduate, your classmates will be both colleagues and competitors”.

On that cheerful note, he began the day’s lecture on rolling
tuiles
, tile-shaped cookies. My mind was far away, dreaming of my exhibition. I had one thought, one item I planned to make especially for Monsieur Delacroix. As my hopefully future employer, I wanted to impress him. But I wanted to thank him too, with something special just for him.

The rest of my theme was beginning to take shape in a far-off way. Despite Monsieur Desfreres’s insistence that we must do things the French way, I had decided to be risky—not to rely solely on traditional French recipes and presentation, but to meld the best of American Lexi and French Lexi. He had told us to take all that was in us, and all that was around us, and let that influence our work,
n’est-ce pas?

I had no idea how it would go over, but I was ready to take risks.

After class, Monsieur Desfreres motioned for me to come to his office. “Mademoiselle Anne too,” he said.

I glanced at Anne, who seemed to know what he was up to. We followed him down the hallway.

“Mesdamoiselles”. He ushered us into his office. “My good friend Monsieur Delacroix has asked me if it would be all right for the two of you to miss school tomorrow so you can help in the bakery while they are in Provence for All Saints Day. I, of course, gave my permission. Working in a real bakery is an important part of your learning here. I assume that each of you was already asked if this would be okay”.

Anne looked at me—for an okay to move forward, I gathered, which I appreciated. I nodded and smiled, glad for her desire to make sure things were good with me first. Patricia must have already asked her to work at the bakery.

Monsieur Desfreres dismissed us, and we went to change for the day.

“Is everything okay with this?” Anne asked.