Bon Appetit (6 page)

As I turned the corner I saw the bakery. It was bigger than the one in the village, with gold and black striped awnings pulled up from the large front windows like painted eyelids. I pulled open the door. Only one customer stood inside, since this was the dead spot of the afternoon when breakfast was over and the rush to buy things for dinner had not yet started. While there were no tables to eat at, like there’d be in Seattle, there were many cases for pastry and a dozen kinds of bread.

I waited politely for the customer to finish ordering and then introduced myself to the woman at the counter.

“Bonjour
, I am Lexi, here to begin work”.

She smiled politely.
“Bonjour
, Lexi!” Her name, Simone, was embroidered on her Boulangerie Delacroix uniform. “We have been anticipating you. And you’re early! How nice. Let me take you to Patricia in the back”. Already, Simone seemed a vast improvement over Odette.

I saw Patricia before she saw me, and my heart swelled with affection for the sassy pirate. She saw me and smiled too before she caught herself and reaffixed the stern look to her face.

“Ah,
bon
, it’s Lexi,” she said. “Not a minute too soon”. She kissed me on each cheek, a gesture of friendship I wasn’t anticipating.

“How goes the school? You started this week,
n’est-ce pas
?
”

“Oui,”
I said. “It’s going”.

“Bon
. Because the bakeries are paying for the tuition, I am sure Monsieur Desfreres will send a report now and again. My papa is looking forward to meeting you”.

Ah, yes. The family patriarch, Monsieur Delacroix. I swallowed. “When will he send a report?”

Patricia waved her hand, as if that didn’t matter. “In a few weeks, probably. Come, let’s get to work”.

She showed me to a station where she’d already made some lemon tartes. “You remember how to candy the lemon slices to go on top, non?” she asked with a sly grin. I grinned back. In Seattle, it had been my pointing out the lack of candied lemon slices on her tartes that led her to agree to my working for her in the pastry kitchen.

“Oui
, I remember,” I said.

“Bon
. You will candy the slices and make the dipped chocolate coffee beans for the
mousse au chocolat
. Also, today, I will have you make something very special for Céline.
Les chouquettes
, for her
goûter
. I have a wedding cake order and cannot get to the chouquettes”.

I hid my smile, knowing that to smile too often in France is to not be taken seriously. But the fact that she was allowing me to make the
goûter
, which means “to taste,” for Céline’s afterschool snack was an honor.

I put an apron over my plain uniform and began candying a hundred or more quartered lemon slices. An hour later, I cleaned up and found the recipe for the chouquettes from the big book in the prep room. I mixed the ingredients together, dipped them in large-grain sugar, and put the pan into the oven. If I ever wanted a recipe to turn out, it was this one. For Céline. And for me.

While the chouquettes were in the oven, I went to the front of the bakery to look at the case and see if the coffee beans were completely dipped or half-dipped. I scooted behind Simone, who finished helping a customer and turned to me with a motherly smile.

“The pastries are different here from in America, eh?” she said with obvious Gallic pride.

“Oh, yes,” I said. “In every way. The selection,” I waved my hand over the dozen or so offerings, “the beauty, the craftsmanship. The taste. Pastries in the United States are often made with …” I struggled for the word.
“Préservatifs”.

A look of horror crossed her face.
“Les préservatifs?”

I nodded. “Yes”.

Her face drained of color. I smiled weakly and went to the back to check on my chouquettes.

How strange. Of course, I didn’t agree with putting preservatives in baked goods either, but it wasn’t as horrifying as she seemed to think. Sometimes the French took this food thing a little far.

I opened the oven and reached in with my well-protected arm to pull out the pan of chouquettes. I knew the bread bakers would soon need the oven to bake the evening batch of breads so they would be available when people stopped by on their way home from work.

Holding my breath, I banished thoughts of my greasy pound cake and pulled the pan out of the oven, setting it on the counter. I put the chouquettes on a cooling rack and, a few minutes later, popped one into my mouth.

Perfect! I smiled, put two on a plate, and walked into one of the cool rooms where Patricia was icing and assembling the wedding cake.

“Voilà,”
I said, passing her the plate.

She ate one, then the other. “A little eggy,” she said, “and they could use more sugar on top. But good enough for a child’s
goûter.”

“Merci,”

I said, backing out of the room. I knew from working with Patricia that was high praise.

I piled the chouquettes on a plate to wait for Céline. Then I busied myself dipping coffee beans into slick, inky chocolate.

“Lexi!” A young voice ran through the front of the shop and back to the bakery.

“Hey, Céline!” I said. “I have something special for you”. I held out the plate of chouquettes.

“Merci,”
she said, popping one into her mouth. “Mmm, very good. My favorite”. She took another one and set her school bag on the floor. Then she ran back to see her
tante
Patricia.

A few seconds later Philippe walked in and smiled at me. He let his kindness shine.

“Bonjour!”
he said. “How is the new chef doing?”

I grinned. We all knew I was not yet a chef. “Good days and bad,” I said. “Mostly good”.

“What did you do for your weeks off?” he asked. “Conquer Paris?”

If only he knew!

“I did visit Paris, but only for a few days”.

“Did you visit any museums?” he asked. “The Musée d’Orsay?”

“No, not yet”. I hesitated. “The Musée d’Orsay is at the top of my list. I love impressionist art”.

Philippe walked over to the peg board where the evening’s orders were posted and took off some slips and a few phone messages. As Monsieur Delacroix was not in residence, Philippe was in charge, and
he walked like a man confident in his domain. I found it appealing.

He walked back toward me. “Then why haven’t you visited the musée yet?” He looked at me, so genuinely interested, not just making small talk. I felt I should tell him the truth.

“When I went to Versailles, it fulfilled a lifelong dream. I loved it. But there was no one to talk with about it, and it cut into my happiness. I’ll have a friend at school—I already have one woman in mind—and then go places with her and share the experience”.

“Ah,” he said. “That makes perfect sense. Happiness shared is doubled and sadness shared is halved, we say”. He smiled again and as he did, he looked younger and sweeter.

“Yes,” I agreed. “That’s exactly what I mean”.

Céline came running back into the room, pulling Patricia along with her.

“Taste the chouquettes, Papa,” she said. “They are
délicieux”.

Philippe bit into one. “Very good,” he said, “if a bit eggy”. He looked at Patricia. “You’ve been out of practice in the United States”.

Patricia, to her credit, said nothing. Céline was too busy stuffing her mouth to correct her father. I looked down and promised myself I’d practice more and feel okay that I was, as of now, imperfect.

Patricia took Céline into the office so she could work on her homework until Philippe was ready to take her home. Philippe went into the bread-baking room and got the crew ready for the final push of the day, after which, I was sure, he’d join Céline in the office and answer his phone messages. I got back to dipping coffee beans.

About an hour later Simone slid by me. She smiled nervously in my direction, not making eye contact, and went to the cool room, where Patricia had returned to the cake.

A few minutes later I heard a roar of laughter. It was Patricia! Simone glided by and glanced at me again, looking very relieved. She gave me a genuine smile. I didn’t know what had happened, but I was glad to see her relaxed toward me again. I had enough stress and few friends here.

After placing the beans into a lidded bin, I cleaned up the area and prepped the butter for the next day’s baking. I measured carefully. Extremely carefully.

What went wrong today?
I allowed myself to think about it for the first time all day. I was so exact. Could I have used the wrong butter? But I didn’t see any American butter in the cooler, and even if I had, it would have been drier, not greasier, as American butter has a lower fat content.

My failure was especially painful because cakes were my specialty. I liked baking them best and prided myself on their success.

I took the garbage to the commercial waste bin in the back, and as I did, I noticed a chalkboard on top of the bin contents. It looked like the ones I’d seen in every café and even here in the bakery. Two hooks at the top held a black plate that listed the day. There was a plaque for each day,
dimanche
for Sunday,
lundi
for Monday, and so on. I pulled it out and set it aside. It looked used, but in very good condition.

I went back into the bakery and saw there was a new chalkboard up front with today’s specials written across it. The one by the waste bin must have been an old one. I’d ask Patricia if I could keep it.

I glanced at the clock. It was nearly time for me to take the train back to the village. Tomorrow I’d be in Rambouillet for school, and then I’d work at the village bakery for the rest of the week.

I untied my apron and went back to the cool room. Patricia was grinning.

“I’m leaving soon,” I said.

“Bon,”
she agreed. “Working at the bakery in the village this week, then here all next week, right? We have special orders next week and can use the extra help. The village bakery is a bit slower”.

I’d noticed. I preferred working here anyway.

“I found a chalkboard in the garbage bin. May I keep it?”

She shrugged. “Sure. Maybe you can use it to write down French words”.

I cocked my head, not understanding. “Have I made a mistake?”

She grinned again. “Do you know what
faux amis
are?” she asked.

“Oh, yes”. I’d learned about them in French class long ago and tried to keep up with an ever-growing list. “They’re false friends. Words that sound similar in French and English but have a very different meaning”.

“Bon,”
Patricia said. “I think there is one false friend that you are not aware of”. She handed me a piece of paper.

My face went cold. “Oh no! I told Simone we used
préseratifs
in our pastries at home. No wonder she was horrified!” And no wonder I had heard that burst of laughter from Patricia.

“Oui,”
Patricia said. “I explained
faux amis
to her, and she was very relieved to hear your baking practices were not as barbaric as she feared”.

“Should I talk to her about it?” I asked.

“Non
, she’s very old-fashioned. I think to bring it up again would be embarrassing. But, Lexi,” she said to me, “thank you. I have not had a laugh since I got back from Provence last month”.

If we’d been friends, I’d have asked her what was wrong. But we weren’t really friends, and I knew better, now, than to get too close too soon. However, I had never seen that vulnerable of a look on her face. She ducked away and went back to work.

“I will see you next week, Lexi,” she said softly, a kind but definite dismissal.

On my way out, I passed the office and looked at Céline bent over her book. Philippe sat with one hand on her head and one on the phone, speaking vigorously and with emotion, like most Frenchmen.

I hoped he hadn’t found out about my
faux amis
mistake.

On the way to the train, I thought about the mistakes of the day and about false friends. Something bugged me. It wasn’t the mistake, it was the phrase.