Bon Appetit (21 page)

The only difficulty was, I didn’t know exactly what I wanted to create or how to go about making sure it turned out perfect.

I took the last train home that night, and before I flopped into bed, I checked my e-mail. One from Sophie.

Wow. I didn’t envy Luc having to tell Monsieur Delacroix the bad news. I said a quick prayer that Luc would be able to get out of the lease. I, like Sophie, bet he could.

The next morning I hopped on the early train to the bakery. Kamil and his crew were already baking. Anne had arrived early too.

“Come here,” I said, leading her to the walk-in. I opened the door and showed her the birthday cake I’d made last night.

“Oh, it’s
fantastique
!” she said. “The raspberries, dusted with gold, look like jewels! The pink ribbon encircling each layer looks like the satin bow on a wedding dress!”

Something clicked inside. I made a mental note to come back to it later.

“Do you want to go to church today?” she asked. “It’s a slow day, and I can handle it”.

I wrestled with conflicting thoughts—on one hand, I didn’t want to leave her working here while I did something else. On the other hand, things really were under control, and I had stayed really late last night.

Trust me
, I heard in my heart.

“Yeah,” I said. I looked at my watch. “If I go now, I’ll make the service. Then I’ll come straight back”.

“No
problème,”
Anne said. “It’s under control”.

I walked into church in the middle of the worship tunes. I noticed Gabby was absent, and wondered for a moment if she’d finagled herself a trip to Provence. Buki was there and scooted over to make room for me in her pew.

“Thank you,” I said, and she took my hand and squeezed it. The simple display of Christlike friendship brought a tear to my eye. I told myself I was just tired.

After the sermon, the pastor invited us for
La Sainte Cene
, the holy late meal, which is how the French refer to the Lord’s Supper.

I was so glad Anne had come to church with me last week, and yet so glad she wasn’t here with me this week. I wanted to be intimate
with my Lord—to remember Him, yes, but also to enjoy the indescribable mysticism that came from sharing His body and blood.

I waited in line with the others, eager for the sacrament.

It looks good now because you’re hungry
, I thought. I’d had to be empty and alone before I realized my hunger for Him. I had to stop stuffing myself with distractions in order to feel my need. It took me leaving home to realize how hungry I was for God.

As I received the bread, I heard a still, small voice gently say,
Bon appétit. Enjoy the meal for your soul. Food is life
.

I took the bread, remembered, and drank the wine, still a little surprised at the taste of it. I’d never been in a church that served wine rather than grape juice. But it felt and tasted right, rich and deep and bittersweet, like that which it represented.

“Merci, Seigneur,”
I answered the Lord.

Back in my seat, I looked at my program for the day and read again John 6:53–58, the passage the pastor had preached on.

I smiled, remembering the pastor had told me Jean was a great book for chefs. I understood more deeply than I had before. Food is life.

M
onday afternoon I went to the village bakery. Odious was polite to me, so I instantly knew something was up.

“Lexi, would you like to make the chocolate nubs for this week’s
pain au chocolat
?” Maman asked. She too seemed rather chipper. Maybe it was just that I’d been at Rambouillet the last week. “I understand you’re working with chocolate at school”.

“I am,” I said. I went to the back of the prep kitchen and took down the thick bars of chocolate. I would have to temper the chocolate and form it into the long sticks we rolled croissant dough around.

“It’s fun, isn’t it? And I’m sure you do well”. Maman bustled back to the dough she’d been stirring in the back.

I watched her walk away and shook my head to clear it. I wouldn’t have to wait long to find out what was going on, though.

“How was Rambouillet?” Odious came back a few minutes later to ask.

“Very nice,” I answered. “It was fun to be in charge of the
laboratoire
for a few days,” I threw in, just in case she didn’t know. She registered no surprise, so I gathered she did.

“I hear Philippe was kind enough to show you some of the famous pastry houses of Paris,” she continued. “I’m sure you have nothing like that in America”.

“Not that I know of,” I cheerfully admitted. It’s not like that was any great secret, and I wasn’t going to let her get under my skin. I think she was more mad about my date than anything else.

She turned to go. “Dominique is coming back soon. That’s why Maman is so happy. She misses her daughter, and I miss my friend. It will be nice to work with her again”.

I felt like telling her that from what I heard, the two of them deserved each other. Instead, I kept my cool so the chocolate wouldn’t seize.

Apparently it wasn’t true there were no secrets in a family business. It’s just that I wasn’t in on them. I should have figured Maman would be happy about that. I wondered when they’d tell me officially.

Tuesday after school I went to Rambouillet to work for the rest of the week. I wondered why I was being scheduled to work at Rambouillet so much more often than the village. Not that I minded. It was bigger and busier, so that was probably why. I think Patricia did most of the scheduling.

After putting my apron on, I worked on the chocolate Patricia had left for me to temper. After cakes, I liked working with chocolate
best. It allowed me to be creative. It wasn’t quite as—dare I admit it—pedestrian as bread and typical pastries.

Plus, they were both made in the same cool room to keep the chocolate or icings from getting too warm. The room was painted a soft green, and I had turned the radio to classical music to keep my mind soothed and freed while I created truffles, bonbons, dipped delicacies of every kind. My new favorites were softly dried cherries with dark chocolate drizzles.

A little after three o’clock, Céline raced into the cool room, pigtails flying behind her.

“Lexi!” she said, her joy in seeing me obvious.

I broke out in a big grin. “Céline,
ma jeune fille,”
I said. “How are you? I’ve missed you!”

“I’m fine,
très bien,”
she said. “But I’ve brought someone to meet you. Come on!” She tugged on my apron.

I washed my hands and followed her to the front. There, chatting with Simone, was a middle-aged woman with a neat chignon.

“Madame, this is Lexi,” Céline introduced us, sounding much older than her young years. I suppose not having a mother made her grow up faster than she should have had to. “Lexi, this is my teacher, Madame Poitevan”.

“Enchantée
, Mademoiselle”. Madame Poitevan extended a thin, well-manicured hand toward me, and I shook it. I hoped I’d gotten all the ganache off. “I wanted to come by and thank you personally for the stunning cake you made for my husband’s birthday on Sunday. It really was fantastic; we were most impressed. When I found out it wasn’t Patricia who made it, why that made it even more remarkable”.

“She told Papa it was the best cake they’d ever eaten,” Céline said. She quickly lowered her voice. “But don’t tell
Tante
Patricia”.

From out of nowhere, Patricia materialized. “Don’t tell
Tante
Patricia what,
ma puce?”

“De rien,”
Céline answered, holding back a smile. “Nothing at all”.

I turned back to Madame Poitevan. “Thank you very much. It makes me truly happy that I was able to assist your celebration in any way”.

“I will ask for you again,” Madame Poitevan reassured before turning to chat with Patricia for a moment, and then leaving with a bag of fresh chouquettes.

Céline chose some chouquettes for herself and Patricia led her back to the office to begin some homework. That left Simone and I alone in the front.

“How did she know I made the cake?” I asked Simone.

“After you went to church, Madame Poitevan came by to pick up her cake. I was busy, and your friend Anne helped carry the boxes to her car, to assemble at home. I heard Madame exclaim how lovely it was and try to thank Anne, but Anne would have none of it. She made sure Madame knew it was you who had dreamed it up”.

I smiled. Dear Anne.

Simone saw me. “You have discovered a few
faux amis,”
she said. “I think you have also found some wonderful
vrais amies
, true friends, in France too”.

“You among them!” I said, giving her a quick hug, which seemed to both surprise and delight her. Then I went to the back.

I stopped in first to see what Céline was doing. “Homework?” I asked.

“Oui,”
she said. “Just a little, until my papa comes to get me. He’s with my papi this afternoon in Versailles”. She sipped her hot chocolate, a perfect drink on a chilly day when the sun was setting early.

“Did you have a good time in Provence?” I asked softly. I didn’t know if I should approach the topic of her mother.

“Oui,”
she said. She lowered her voice. “Don’t tell my papa this, because it would hurt him, but I don’t remember my maman much. I was very little. I just have her picture”.

I squatted down near her. “I understand,” I said. “That’s not bad. You can still love someone who’s hard to remember”.

She nodded, relieved at having admitted that to someone, anyone.

“I think next time I lose a tooth, I am going to ask for a maman”. She stared at me intently.

“You can’t simply wish for a maman”. I rumpled her hair. “But you can talk with God about it. He listens and hears you. He says the angels of His children are very near to Him”.

“I have an angel?” Céline nearly stood up out of her chair.

“The Bible says you do,” I reassured her.

“You know the best things,” Céline said.

I didn’t know what else to say. Life was simple for her. For me, it was complex and getting more complicated every day.

I went back to the cool room, where Patricia was collecting ingredients. “Chocolate in school this week,
n’est-ce pas?”
she asked.

“Oui …”
I had two questions I wanted to ask her.

“I heard that Madame Poitevan was especially happy with her cake. The petits fours were a big hit too. You must have a good boss teaching you all of these things”. She beamed with something like maternal pride.

“Absolutely!” I grinned back. “Thank you so much”. Now seemed like a good time to ask. “I wondered—would it be okay if I experimented a little with the chocolates this week? I’ve been thinking about the family being from Provence, and thought I might make some Mediterranean chocolates. With figs, maybe. Lavender, of course. Some orange peel, pistachio”.

Patricia smiled.
“Bon!
I used to do some of that myself before I got too busy with the day-to-day things I need to do in the
laboratoire
. Yes, you may do that. I think our customers would be glad to see that. Philippe and Papa too,” she said cheerfully.

I guessed by her demeanor that things had gone
fantastique
with Xavier last week.

And now, for the second question. “I have a friend coming from Seattle this weekend,” I said. She didn’t need to know my friend was male. “I’d like to do some sightseeing. Would it be okay if I took a little time off?”