62. Salem
SALEM
“ B owling?” I guess.
My back presses against the seat as he steps on the gas and switches lanes. “Nope.”
“A Broadway musical?”
“You’re never gonna guess.”
“Wow.” I slow nod. “Someone’s smug about planning date night.”
He leans forward, his arm slung over the steering wheel as he checks the side window. “How much you wanna bet I’m about to make you lose your shit?”
I snicker. “All this hype for a date that requires”—I stare down at the plastic bag he popped into the supermarket for before we got on the bridge to Manhattan—“a bag of fruit.”
“Aight.” He turns down Prince Street, and three blocks later, the GPS tells us we’ve arrived.
“Our date’s in SoHo?” I ask as he grabs a rare free spot and parks.
“Yeah.” He turns and clasps my cardigan, pulling me closer. “Remember this moment of doubt, fucker.”
When I lean in for a kiss, he pulls back.
“Come on,” he says, plucking up his coat and the grocery bag from the back before reaching for the car handle.
I look around after we climb out as I button my peacoat. “Besides two town houses, most of the street is filled with industrial lofts.”
“Look all you want. You’re never gonna guess,” he says, locking the car.
Looking both ways, he crosses the street heading toward one of the town houses.
“Blue, hold up,” I call out following him.
He keeps walking, throwing a—“Move it, Jones”—over his shoulder.
“Wait, can we just?—”
“You get one guess,” he says, spinning around, “and two hints. In one minute, I am going to ring that bell.” He points to the upscale-looking town house. “That’s hint number one. Hint number two is this.” He opens the bag and sticks it out for me to see.
“Huh?” I stare at the fruit again and then over at the wide red-brick town house with its high stoop and slender columns framing the door. “I’m so confused.”
He grins. “Good.”
I glance down at the cobblestone street as he climbs the stairs and rings the bell.
He twists around. “Get up here.”
I shake my head but start moving.
The door opens, and I freeze mid-step as I stare up and gasp. Not a quiet, gentle gasp but a full-throated, belly-expanding, audible-from-five-houses-down gasp.
She laughs at my reaction.
Kim Vien, the award-winning pastry chef and owner of the most innovative and renowned bakeries in the world, specifically right here in Manhattan.
“Welcome! Please come in.”
I don’t move. Well, my legs don’t, but my eyes widen.
“Hi Kim, thanks for having us,” Blue says, offering his hand.
“It’s my pleasure,” she says, shaking it.
Her eyes are bright, like she’s genuinely excited to meet us.
The bun, the freckles, and the thick glasses are all a match to her picture in the back of her famous pastry book that I’ve been working my way through at home.
“I’m guessing from his reaction that you won date night,” she says to him while smiling at me.
Blue holds out his fist, and she bumps it.
“You needed help with the tart thing you’ve been stuck on,” Blue starts explaining, maybe to help me out of my stupor.
“So, I grabbed Kim’s name from the cookbook and asked Cat to connect us.
Her people called Kim’s people. Kim called me, and I explained that you’ve been up late every free night for the last two weeks, muttering around the kitchen, covered in flour and going mad. ”
“Been there,” Kim jokes.
I scoff. “You called an acclaimed winner of not one but two James Beard Awards to help me with my monthly challenge?”
Not to mention the first Vietnamese-American woman ever to win twice.
“Yeah,” he says. “You needed help. I know how important it is for you to beat Eli. That’s his dad,” he says to Kim. “And it was my turn for date night.”
“I took you skating,” I blurt out.
“It was so fun,” he says to Kim. “I fell…well, we fell like, five times.”
He’s ridiculous!
He’s actually standing next to one of the most highly-regarded pastry chefs in the world, telling her about our skating wipeouts. This must be what it’s like to be raised around famous people. He’s completely unfazed.
“We’re letting all of Kim’s heat out. Come on.”
“Sorry.” I jog up the steps.
“Pleasure to meet you, Salem.” Kim holds out her hand as I approach. “My husband and I are fans. No offense,” she says to Blue. “My husband’s from Brooklyn.”
“All good,” he says as I shake her hand.
“Arnaz told me you’ve been having trouble with the tarte Tartin and gelée recipe in my book,” she says, leading us inside.
“Y-yes,” I reply, copying Blue, who peels off his shoes.
“We’ll get you sorted. I’ve prepped some things to help us along. This way.”
Blue strings his arms around my waist and tugs me along.
We enter her kitchen, and answers to questions that I’ve wondered about filter in all at once.
“You have a Miele!” I exclaim, crossing the room to her oven. “I read that the steam injection is excellent for laminated dough.”
“That’s why it’s my favorite,” she says. “What do you have?”
“A Wolf. Is that a Brod & Taylor?” I bend down to peer inside.
Blue chuckles, and it hits me that my head is stuffed inside of the proofer. “Sorry,” I mutter, backing out.
“Please,” she chuckles. “I get to tell all of my friends that The Silencer played with my toys.”
Blue and I laugh. “Wow,” I say, recognizing the ingredients for the recipe on the counter. “You did prep.”
“Yep. Before we hop on, please help yourselves to the canapés.” She gestures to the tray.
“Thanks,” Blue and I reply.
“May I offer you champagne, Chenin, or Lambrusco?”
“Chenin,” I answer.
Blue thinks it over.
“I have IPA too,” she offers.
“Perfect. Driving .”
“I can drive us home and skip drinking,” I offer.
“All good,” he says. “Have fun.” He turns to Kim. “Restroom?”
“Sure. There’s one in the hall on the left,” Kim answers as she retrieves the drinks.
I use the restroom after him. When I return, he’s in an apron, sitting on one of the island stools, and eating a mushroom canapé.
“That one’s yours.” His elbow points to a crisp apron sitting on the chair.
“Thanks,” I reply to Kim, who’s taking a sip from a champagne flute.
As I raise the neck loop over my head, I feel a tickle in the middle of my chest and take a deep breath.
“He’s nervous,” Blue whispers, rubbing my back.
“I still get jitters when I attempt a new recipe,” Kim shares. “Let’s start from the beginning. Which brand of puff pastry did you use?”
“I made it from scratch.” I roughly recite the recipe.
“Wonderful. I have one chilling in the fridge that I made a few hours ago. I presume you made adjustments for an in-season fruit?”
“Yes, quinces.”
Blue reaches for the grocery bag and brings it over.
Ohh.
He winks at me. “Figured you’d need it to replicate your version.”
He unloads the fruit and places it on an empty spot on the counter.
“Excellent choice,” Kim murmurs, picking one up. “Why quinces?”
“I considered cranberries and pears at first. Each would work with the Banyuls glaze, but they felt kinda blah.”
She nods. “Go on.”
“Quinces are sort of old-world romantic. They’re older than apples and peaches by thousands of years. When I thought about adapting the recipe for winter—I wanted to infuse some of the elements of winter so?—”
“People could taste winter itself,” she finishes.
“Yes! It’s inedible raw, but it blooms with heat and time. I like things that demand patience.”
I steal a glance at Blue, whose eyes darken just enough for me to notice.
“Like winter,” she adds.
I nod. “Like winter. It forces us to slow down.”
She stares at the fruit. A soft hush that’s easy to let breathe passes between us. “It’s an aristocratic fruit,” she says before she places it down. “Excellent choice.”
“What would you have chosen?” I ask.
“I went with—what was your word choice— blah .” She uncovers a bowl and shows us cranberries.
Blue snorts, making us laugh.
“I am thrilled to try your adaptation, though,” she says. “One more question. Why did you choose this one? I’ve included winter recipes in the book.”
“This is the only one that lets us experience the same fruit in three unique ways that vary in temperature, texture, and flavor. It’s the kind of contrast?—”
“That achieves perfect balance,” she finishes.
“How so?” Blue asks.
She nods for me to answer.
“So, picture three experiences, one dessert,” I explain, turning to him. “There’s a cold and sweet sorbet, a warm, crispy, buttery tart drizzled with an aromatic Banyuls glaze, and then a chilled, subtly flavored gelée that has a jelly-like texture.”
“Sounds like a mouth party,” Blue says. “What’s a Banyuls?”
“It’s a French fortified wine,” Kim answers.
“They essentially take a high-proof alcohol distilled from grapes until most of its flavor is removed and toss it in with wine grapes during fermentation to stun the yeast and preserve some of the grape’s sugars before it turns into alcohol.
You end up with a sweeter wine that has a higher alcohol content because of the high-proof alcohol added. ”
“And you bake with it?” Blue asks.
“Yep,” she answers. “The natural grape sugars that are preserved caramelize like a dream once it’s reduced.”
“I get why you were stuck.” He blows out a breath. “Sounds like a lot.”
“Nothing the three of us can’t handle,” Kim says, rolling up her sleeves.
“Okay, let’s jump in. We’ll start the gelée first, since it’ll need a few hours to set, then tackle the sorbet, which will also need time in the freezer, and then we’ll move on to the tarte Tatin, ending with the glaze. How does that sound?”
“Yes, Coach,” Blue says, making us laugh.