Bon Appetit (24 page)

“This is a beautiful pleasure,” I said quietly. “Thank you for bringing me”.

“My pleasure,” he said, grinning.

We talked casually through the early courses. Each plate was flawlessly presented, impeccably cooked, and perfectly enjoyable. I couldn’t imagine a better date.

But did I mean the event or the man?

“Have you learned anything new about yourself or baking while you’ve been here?” Dan asked.

I nodded. “I learned I like creating beautiful things, that I enjoy cake and chocolate, that I don’t work fast but I like detail work. My friend Anne, on the other hand, likes to make everything. She keeps things humming. She can do pretty things, but she doesn’t have to. She can do the backbone baking, which kind of bores me”.

“Sounds like you make a good team,” Dan said. I was surprised by the thought.

“True,” I said. “But I’ll learn to enjoy the backbone baking too. My job will require it”.

“My job’s gotten a bit easier,” Dan said. His tone changed, and I had the feeling the conversation wasn’t casual anymore. “I’ve put in my grunt time, and now I’m getting projects that don’t take so many billable hours. I’m doing some literary copyrights too. No more John Hong and the Ding Dong rap cases like I had as a grunt”.

We laughed.

“I feel like I can settle down now,” he said. “Seeing my little sister married before me, well, it reminded me that life goes by quickly. It’s made me reevaluate my priorities”.

I sipped my wine and nodded, not ready to ask him to elaborate because of what he might say. We talked and laughed through dinner, and then walked back to his hotel through a light rain which moistened my face enough to make it glisten but not enough to ruin my makeup. It felt delicious on my skin.

“I’ll get your bag,” he said, and went up to his room. I sat in a chair in a private corner of the lobby and waited. When he came down, he had a soft hand towel as well. “I noticed your face got a little wet in the rain. I know mine did,” he said.

He wrapped the towel loosely around his hand and gently stroked my cheekbones, my eyebrows, my eyelids.

It was gentle, and sweet, and sensual all at the same time. I’d never felt like that before. I didn’t want him to stop. He looked me in the eyes, and I allowed myself to fall into the intimacy of the moment and stay there, meeting his purposeful gaze and not wavering for ten long seconds.

Dan broke the spell, handing me my bag. “Thank you for everything, Lexi. I could think of no one I’d rather be with in Paris”.

“You’re welcome,” I said. “I had a great time”.
I’ve missed you
, I thought, but didn’t say it, not yet knowing what my future held.

“Keep in touch. I’ll pray for your exhibition. Let me know what you decide to do after that, career-wise. It’s the point of no return for you, isn’t it?” He spoke softly, and the rest of the room disappeared.

“Yes,” I said.

He kissed each of my cheeks, French style. Then he lightly kissed my lips before pulling away.

“À bientôt
, Lexi,” he said. “I hope”.

F
or two weeks after Dan left, I was incredibly busy preparing for my final exam and the exhibition. Still, I noticed that Philippe seemed a little … cool. We didn’t run into each other at the bakery too much, because he worked in the mornings while I was at school. One week he missed church because he was in Provence with his
father and Céline, and the other week he was friendly, but we didn’t make plans to do anything together.

The triumphant look in Gabby’s eyes irritated me.

I knew I was prone to imagine things where romance was concerned, but I didn’t believe I was imagining this. Had someone told Philippe about Dan? And even if they had, while Philippe and I definitely enjoyed each other’s company, we weren’t exclusive yet.

“The girl always thinks it’s about her,” my brother Nate had told me the year before. He was probably right.

Probably.

The last week of December, Chef Desfreres posted the topics for the written examination. Most of them were things we’d already been quizzed on, but this time we’d be expected to know everything from definitions to techniques to tastes and textures on dishes we may not have prepared for months.

During our English lessons, Anne and I studied together, mostly at the café, though we sat inside now that it was cold. The café had been strung with pretty white lights, and we ate
gougères
, hot cheese puffs, and drank
vin chaud
, warmed wine, while we studied.

“I want to know the names and terms in English too,” Anne said. “I’ve sent a few inquiries to England and Germany, just in case the bakery in Paris doesn’t work out”.

“Still working for the Christmas season?” I asked.

“Oui,”
she said. “And hopefully beyond. I plan to pump out plenty of Christmas breads and
Bûche de Noël
. I start next week after the examinations”.

“Oh, I hope to make a Bûche de Noël too,” I said. But I didn’t know who I’d make it for. The traditional Christmas cake was a filled chocolate layer cake rolled in the shape of a log. “I could decorate it with little mice and meringue mushrooms,” I said.

Anne laughed. “Back to work!” She tapped her notes. “The examinations begin next week”.

The next Monday I arrived at school to find the classroom both eerily quiet and buzzing with tension.

Désirée looked like her face had been made up with lead powder, the whiteness of her skin more dramatic against the darkness of her hair. Although Jean-Yves and Juju still kept clear of her, I tried to be more sympathetic now that I knew what was riding on her examination.

I still watched my back, though.

The first day of exams was the hardest, as I had to recall how much sugar and butter to remove if you substituted white chocolate, how much butter would be required for a certain sugar, how much
flour to replace with cocoa in order to make a recipe chocolate. The chemistry was difficult, but Anne and I had studied hard, and I felt confident I passed.

Each day after the written examination, Chef Desfreres or one of his colleagues handed us a piece of paper with the name of a dish or dessert on it, and we had to create that dish under their watchful eye. After baking, chilling, or decorating, they would sniff, pinch, pull, break, look at our product from all angles, and finally taste it. No smiles, no affirmation, simply notes in the book next to my number.

I breathed a sigh of relief when I was assigned brioche. I’d have to thank Philippe for training me so well.

I pulled mille-feuille as my pastry assignment and I asked, a bit boldly, I thought, if I needed to make traditional mille-feuille or if I could do a variant. One of the younger chefs was grading me that day, and he agreed to let me make a raspberry mille-feuille. I reduced some sweet ice wine down to syrup and drizzled it across the top. Chef Desfreres may not have approved, but this chef did. He ate more than half of it—much more than the one bite required for judgment.

I also made croissants, and I thought I did them competently, though mine didn’t shine like Anne’s did. Anne’s croissant had more layers than you could count; they tasted like soft sheets of butter. They were perfect. Even the formidable Chef Desfreres ate the entire croissant when she was tested.

Désirée was always a good baker, so I assumed she’d struggled with the math and food history before. This time, she seemed to do
well on her written exam—she finished as soon as or sooner than most of us. Of course, she’d taken the exam before, and I am sure her father made certain the answers were drilled into her this time. Chef seemed to go a little easier on her. I wasn’t sure if it was because her family funneled students his way or if he simply felt sorry for the fragile woman. She made her gâteau au fromage blanc, and it was not runny at all. She made a lovely butter cake and, when compared to Anne, serviceable breads. Unless her exhibition was a disaster, she would earn her
diplôme.

Which reminded me I needed to ask Patricia for a couple afternoons off to assemble my props for the exhibition. I’d work late other days doing prep work to make up for it, if I had to. I knew the bakeries would be busy now, preparing for Christmas. Patricia had already asked if Anne could work part-time during the holiday season. With relief, I’d told her no. Anne had a job in Paris.

She’d looked disappointed. Who wouldn’t? Anne was very good.

I worked in the village that day. After learning the reason behind Désirée’s behavior, I looked in vain for some explanation for Odious. Did she have a pushy dad in the background? Not that I could see. He visited the bakery on occasion, and she seemed as rude to him as she was to me. I guess some people were just rude—no reason required.

After work I walked home slowly, savoring the village dressed in its Christmas best. Swags of greenery hung over each storefront, and I peeked in several. The
boucherie
had its finest wares for the season out—large hunks of beef and skinned rabbits hanging by their not so lucky rabbits’ feet in the coolers, prime for the season.

The
charcuterie
had bean salads and prepared potato dishes on display under bright lights. Cheery children eagerly anticipated Father Christmas.

The church, however, stood empty.

I walked past the hotel in its pink stucco splendor, hung with lights and bulbs. I saw the chef through the window and stopped to watch him practice his art. He saw me and waved. I blushed, caught admiring his skill, and waved back.

When I arrived home, I kicked off my shoes and noticed the light blinking on my answering machine. I listened to the message.

“Hey Lex, it’s me”.

Tanya.

“I have something exciting to tell you. Call me back right away. Don’t worry about the time”.

I looked at my watch. Six o’clock here, eight in the morning for Tanya. She must have called before she’d gone to bed last night, while I was at school this morning.

I dialed her number and she picked up right away.

“Good morning,” I greeted her.

“You don’t sound like a good morning,” she said. “You sound dead tired”.

“I am,” I said, remembering Chef’s admonition that the most important skill a chef required was the ability to be on her feet all day. “I had exams today, and then I worked. I’ll do both again the next few days, and then Saturday I have the day off. I’m going to go Christmas shopping in Paris. But enough about me. What’s the great news?”

I knew what it was before I asked.

“Steve and I went ring shopping this week. He didn’t officially ask me. Or my dad. But we did go and pick out what I liked. I’m expecting he’ll formally ask me for Christmas. If you were here, I’d want you to know all the details. Actually, you’re not here, and I
still
want you to know all the details”.