Bon Appetit (22 page)

Patricia cocked her head. She nodded, not pleased, really, but not angry.
Bless Xavier
, I thought.

“Would your friend Anne be able to come in?” she asked. “I hear she did really well last weekend, and that would keep us from being in a pinch”.

I’d anticipated this. “She offered to do so,” I said, feeling a little deflated.

“Bon!”
Patricia said. “Have a good time with your friend. I will let Maman know that I have arranged this”.

“Thank you,” I said.

Patricia had met Dan in Seattle. He’d been in the bakery a couple of times, and I think she realized we’d dated. I wondered if she’d have been as eager to help if she knew who was coming.

Wednesday at school we intently worked on chocolates. We had little tempering pots and molds to make our fillings. I based mine on my new Mediterranean fillings. I chopped and molded figs, placed them on a little square of shortbread, then dipped the whole thing in the darkest chocolate we had. An upscale Fig Newton, if you will.

I poured little squares of chocolate and set a small curl of candied orange peel and a salty, roasted pistachio on each one. I made fillings of creamed lavender honey and drizzled them with milk chocolate.

Chef Desfreres came by and noted his approval. He tasted one and nodded. “Trying to impress someone from Provence, Mademoiselle?” he asked in his cool, professional voice. But I noted a softening in his gaze.

Juju made chocolates from the island, absolutely divine, with bananas and coconut and lemon grass.

“Making chicken-flavored chocolate?” I teased Jean-Yves.

“Cluck cluck,” he said, and laughed.

I had to ask Chef Desfreres for some saffron, as it was so expensive, and went to find him in his office. At the door, I overheard his voice and another man’s. Since Chef often had students in his office, I stood outside, listening to see if the conversation was casual and I could enter or if it was private and I should leave.

“I appreciate your giving her another chance”. It was a hardened man’s voice I did not recognize. “Her sister and brothers had no problem at all the first time around. I don’t know why it’s so different for her. Her mother has indulged her, I think”.

Chef Desfreres answered in a reassuring, calm voice. Almost like a subordinate to a superior, I thought. I wondered if the other man was one of the school’s owners. “Give her time,” he said. “She’s still very young”.

“I have standards, and with everything she’s been given, she should stand above the crowd,” the man said. “I’m losing patience. If she doesn’t do well this time, then as far as I am concerned, she can make crêpes at a stand outside Nôtre Dame”. His voice had the edge of a man used to getting his way. There was no love, only insistence that she meet his expectations.

I scurried back to the classroom and found Désirée at my table. She was looking my chocolates over. I scanned them for signs of arsenic or damage, but saw nothing.

She looked up at me. “I’ve finished early. Do you need help?”

“No thanks,” I said. “I’m almost done”.

“Bon,”
she said. “I won’t be eating lunch with you guys today, so please let me know how my
caramel au chocolat
goes over with everyone else. My papa is here today, visiting with Chef. I’ll be eating with them”.

I felt a rush of pity toward her, almost like I felt with Céline. Her papa was here to do some finish-line damage control, I guessed.

“I’ll let you know how they go over,” I said softly.

She nodded and left.

At lunch, I sat with Anne. I pointed to Désirée and the two men at a distant table. “See who she’s eating lunch with?” I asked.

Anne nodded.
“Oui
, there’s a lot of gossip about favoritism. I believe that is her papa, the famous Monsieur LeBon, who owns three famous
pâtisseries
. Sitting apart won’t make her any friends”.

I leaned close to Anne and whispered what I’d overheard. “I still don’t trust her, perhaps more than ever. But I understand now”.

“Me too,” Anne said. “I have an awful father as well”.

For the first time since my dad had gone home, I felt heartsick for my family. Dad was so normal and nice, and my mom was usually supportive. Neither would ever talk about me behind my back, or gossip, or use words or anything else to abuse me.

Seattle seemed a long way away.

Because I had the afternoon off, Anne and I made plans to go to Paris after school. “Come shopping with me. I want your opinion,” I told her, and she happily agreed.

“I’d like to stop in a few bakeries in Paris too,” she told me. She hoped to find a job in Paris when we graduated in four weeks.

We hopped on the train and went to the secondhand boutique first.

“Ah, Mademoiselle!” the chic shop lady greeted me at the door. How many customers did she greet each week—each month, each year? And yet I’d only been here twice, and she remembered me. “The wedding, it is back on?”

Anne looked at me wonderingly, and I told her I’d explain later.

“Non
, but I have a special dinner on Saturday night. Nothing too fancy, but I want a dress that will be remembered,” I said.

She efficiently bustled about the shop and finally came back with two outfits. One was a camel-colored, light wool dress, and the other was a red dress, with elbow length sleeves and a fitted bodice, that hit just above the knee.

“La Véronique,” the shop lady said, mentioning the designer. “Are you feeling subdued or bold?”

Anne and I looked at each other and both said at once, “Bold!”

Madame smiled.
“Bon
. You try this one, and I will find some accessories”.

The dress fit perfectly, close enough to flatter, but not too tight to move freely. Madame came back with some black pumps and a gold necklace with a black onyx drop in the middle.

“Lexi!” Anne said. “You look perfect!”

I looked in the mirror, turning this way and that. It looked good. Even better than the navy blue polka dot one I’d had to bring back a few months ago.

“And you, Mademoiselle?” Madame turned her formidable talents toward Anne.

“Oh, no, not me,” Anne said.

“Why not?”

Madame went back to her racks and brought back two outfits. One was a professional but completely fabulous navy blue suit. When Anne changed from her jeans and sweater into the suit, she looked
fantastique
.

“And now, this”. Madame handed over a soft, midcalf-length
dress in a Moroccan print. The deep blue perfectly set off Anne’s blond hair.

“Go on,” I said. “They both look gorgeous”.

“Well,” she wavered, “I do have a date this weekend”.

“You
do
?” I said. “You didn’t tell me”.

“With the security guard,” she admitted sheepishly. She looked at herself in the mirror again. “I do think my
grand-mère
would have wanted me to have some fun with her money”.

“Absolutely!” I agreed.

“May I wear the suit out?” she asked the saleswoman.

“Of course”.

We paid and walked toward the first of three bakeries Anne planned to visit.

At the first one, the woman at the counter took Anne’s name and number and promised to have Madame call her.

“But,” Anne said dejectedly, “I turned around to get the name of the woman who would call, and as I did, I saw her throw my name and number into the
poubelle
, the wastebasket”.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “But,
bon courage
. Let’s go to bakery number two!”

The second bakery was more promising, as Anne got to talk with the proprietor. He said he’d keep her in mind, and folded her name and phone number in half before putting it into his wallet.

“Final bakery, and then dinner and the train,” she said, a little buoyed.

The last bakery was rather small but cute. I waited outside while Anne went inside. She stayed for a long time. I didn’t want to peek, so I walked up and down the street and window shopped.

Finally, Anne came out, looking triumphant. “He’s interested! He said to come back just before Christmas, when they need extra help. I can work a few hours, and we’ll see how things work out”.

“Extra!”
I said, using my new favorite French word.

“But they’re so small,” she said. “I don’t know how they’d be able to keep someone new after Christmas”.

“Don’t worry,” I told her. “It’s a step. Have faith”.

“I don’t need faith, I am not applying to be a
religieuse
, a nun,” she teased. But she seemed chipper. She’d told me she’d gone to the English-speaking practice group at the church the week before.

“We both have something
super-bon
to wear on Saturday night,” Anne said as she prepared to get off the train at Rambouillet. “Now may we both have a
super-bon
weekend”.

Indeed.

I
had said I’d meet Dan in the lobby of his hotel.

It was a quick train ride from Rambouillet and then only a few minutes on the Métro. The hotel was midsized but luxurious, a Sofitel in the Sixteenth Arrondissement. It seemed like a good place to meet. The plan was to have dinner, and then I’d go home on the train before it was too late.

I asked the front desk to call him, then sat in the small, perfectly appointed lobby. I wore a slim jean skirt, a black sweater with three-quarter sleeves pushed back, a thin, long jean coat, and some silver bangle bracelets and earrings. I’d brought my feminine but not too frou-frou parasol, as it was a little drizzly out.

I tried to look casual, but as Dan turned the corner from the elevator to the lobby, I couldn’t stop the rush of feelings. It was a huge
bouillabaisse
of
homesick—I still like you—this is an adventure—you look good—we’ve moved on—what’s going on?

He complicated my dreams and my plans.

“Hi, Lexi,” he said, coming forward to hug me as I stood to greet him.

“Bonjour
, Dan,” I said more softly than I’d meant to. “Oh! I’m still speaking French. I’m sorry”.

“It’s pretty,” he said, adding softly, “Like you”. With him, it sounded earnest, honest, almost a bit embarrassed. Not like the typical French come-on. I got the feeling he wasn’t expecting to still feel as strongly about me as he did, either.

“In any case, it’s good to have a French-speaking tour guide”. He grinned. “Should we go?” He offered me his arm, and we walked out onto the street. “What’s the plan? You’re in charge!”

We talked as we walked the streets, getting reacquainted and catching up, but it seemed as though we were instantly comfortable with each other again. I was thankful and, truthfully, blissful we experienced no awkwardness.