2
Henrik Eklund made his way toward the sign protruding between the wooden buildings. N YMANS , it said in ornate bright-red writing above the usual patisserie pretzel. He couldn’t stop thinking about the email from his father that he had just read. Every year they recorded Christmas with the Eklunds a week after the recording of the Let’s Get Baking Christmas special was finished. However, for some reason his father had persuaded the production company to bring the family show forward, and now it clashed with the special. Hasse was well aware of the schedule for Let’s Get Baking , but he was apparently working on some other project that couldn’t be moved.
Presumably someone new at the production company had approved the change of plan without realizing that there was an issue. Maybe the situation could be resolved, but the TV company wouldn’t be happy. Don, the young new executive producer for TV4 and the show, had produced a much-hyped docusoap for a sister channel, in which sporty singles traveled to a sunny Caribbean island to take part in a series of challenges during the day and date one another in the evenings. He had mentioned over lunch a couple of months ago that he was already stressed by the tight schedule. He had also underlined the importance of the Christmas special’s viewing figures, and suggested that they needed to work on bringing more “reality” into the show. Which meant they needed all the recording time they could get. Genuine emotions. Their previous executive producer had always insisted that Let’s Get Baking wasn’t a reality show, but Don had complained that too little happened. As far as Henrik knew, the viewing figures had been solid that fall, but the competition was getting fierce because of all the streaming services, and according to the rumors TV4 had had a tough year.
Hopefully this would be a straightforward project. Maybe they could find a way to work more efficiently, which would give him time to fit in Christmas with the Eklunds .
He walked into the café and was met by the usual aromas of a Swedish patisserie: cinnamon buns, coffee, and freshly baked bread.
V?stervik’s oldest patisserie was exactly what he had expected, with its terra-cotta-color tile floor, dirty-yellow walls, and tall glass displays overfilled with an assortment of classic cinnamon buns, Danish pastries, macarons, and other small cakes and cookies. There were simple cheese rolls with thinly sliced cucumber, a few cheese and ham baguettes, and plastic boxes of pasta salad. It was clear that everything had been made with care, and in spite of the faded decor, he could sense that the place had once been something special. Let’s Get Baking worked only with bakeries that had potential, and Nymans definitely fit the criteria: things didn’t appear to be going too well now, but it had an impressive history. The fact that it was in V?stervik was a bonus too; he knew that the production company was planning to include snippets of the local setting throughout the show. Though there wouldn’t be much snow, the deep-blue winter sea, rugged rocks, and fishing boats bobbing up and down beside isolated jetties would be perfect. Plus there was a very good hotel in town. Henrik had stayed in plenty of mediocre hotels in various small towns up and down the country, and he liked the prospect of more comfortable accommodations.
Elnaz, the show’s features producer over the last few seasons, was sitting at one of the tables opposite a woman who was presumably the patisserie’s owner. She didn’t smile or give any indication that she recognized him—definitely not the reaction he’d expected. The participants were usually very pleasant, even starstruck, but this woman was distinctly unwelcoming. The assistant behind the counter, a young guy with dark hair hanging over his forehead and lively brown eyes, nodded and greeted him cheerfully. Henrik returned the greeting, then walked over to Elnaz and her glum companion.
As he approached the table, she glanced up at him. She didn’t exactly make a sparkling first impression. She might need to work on that. On the other hand, a moody owner, a woman in her thirties, would make good TV. Something different from the sweet, obliging small-town girl people would expect. No doubt this suited the production team very well. Henrik knew from that initial exchange of glances that he and the patisserie owner were on a collision course. TV4 would love it.
At first Henrik had refused to adopt the belligerent style that other chefs and TV personalities went for. Being angry only suited men who were dealing with meat, saws, and axes. When you were explaining to someone how an Italian meringue should be piped on top of a lemon mousse, rage was inappropriate. Worse even than trying to make buttercream with ice-cold egg yolks and the butter at room temperature. But somehow he had slipped into this more callous persona, and the viewers seemed to like the contrast between that and the sweet, creamy fluffiness of baking. He tried to be honest and direct rather than outright unpleasant. Honest even though no one had asked him to be, his sister had once said. And it was true that he could be pretty ... harsh.
His father thought it was all ridiculous. He believed that the most important thing was to be pleasant on camera so that the audience would love you. And it had worked for Hasse. The entire population of Sweden adored Hasse Eklund, the lovable twinkly-eyed baker who created the most fantastic bread and cakes. He had captured the public’s imagination as the poster boy for the family business in the seventies, and shortly after that he had been given his own TV show where he baked classic Swedish bread and pastries. He’d gone on to become a real star.
“Hi,” Henrik said. The owner gave him a brief nod, while Elnaz broke into a big smile and got to her feet. Only then did the owner stand up. She was wearing loose-fitting blue jeans, a stained apron over a gray T-shirt, and a pair of worn Nike sneakers. Her pale-blonde hair was tied back in a high ponytail.
“Perfect timing—we’re just about done here,” Elnaz said.
Henrik held out his hand. “Henrik Eklund.”
She forced a smile, then shook his hand firmly. “Nora Jansson.”
Elnaz looked from one to the other. “I have to go—we’re checking out suitable locations in the area, but it’s probably best if the two of you get acquainted on your own.” She turned to Nora. “I’ll be in touch.” She pulled on a quilted jacket and headed for the door in her sturdy Doc Martens.
“There’s coffee over there, if you want some,” Nora said, looking over at the coffeepot. After a few seconds he realized the comment was aimed at him.
“Are you talking to me?”
“Yes.” She rolled her eyes. “Do you want something to eat?”
“A cinnamon bun would be good.” He always chose the same thing when he visited a patisserie. It was a classic and told him a great deal about the soul of the establishment. For one thing, the cinnamon bun was the pride and joy of his own family business. Originally made by Henrik’s paternal grandfather, it was the product that had made the company’s name. For another, it was something that every patisserie made. Even if they were in financial trouble, they could always bake a decent cinnamon bun.
Nora nodded. “Hassan, could you please bring our guest a cinnamon bun?”
“No problem!” The guy behind the counter smiled cheerfully and picked up a pair of silver tongs. Pearl sugar rained down on the glass shelf with a pattering sound as he selected a bun.
“What kind of coffee do you have?” Henrik asked.
“Filter and latte,” Nora replied. “We can do a cappuccino too.”
“I mean, what kind of beans do you go for?”
“We use Gevalia medium roast, but Espresso House across the street has different kinds, Golden Estate Fantastic and Very Good Arabica and Limited Edition Extended Wholesome Dark Brew, maybe Royal Luxury Brilliant Brazilian Chestnut Deluxe, too, if you’re in luck, so feel free to head over there if you want more choices.”
Henrik gazed at her in silence, suppressing the urge to ask if she thought she was being funny, and then he gave a small sigh and went over to get himself a cup of coffee. He chose the fullest pot and filled a blue earthenware cup to the brim. He returned to the table as Hassan brought over a golden-brown cinnamon bun with plenty of pearl sugar left on it. Henrik sat down, blew gently on the coffee, then tasted it. The cup felt rough against his lips. He was expecting the familiar taste of tannin, but the flavor was smooth, rounded.
“Good coffee.” He met Nora’s gaze.
“You sound surprised. Medium roast is seriously underappreciated.”
“Bad coffee is unfortunately the norm.” He took a bite of the bun, which was—delicious. It had a buttery filling, crisp bottom, and soft, moist dough that wasn’t too chewy. Cinnamon buns could sometimes be too much; you didn’t want to feel you’d eaten a greasy sandwich overflowing with filling. This one was kind of on the big side, though.
“Nice bun. But cut down on the size.”
She stared at him, clearly offended. Then she fixed her eyes on a point somewhere above his head, before looking around the café.
He raised his eyebrows.
“I’m just wondering where the TV crew is. I didn’t realize the recording had started.”
He said nothing, unmoved by her sarcasm.
“You’ve just launched straight into it with comments and advice I haven’t asked for, so I assume the show is underway.”
“I don’t know if Elnaz told you how it works, but tomorrow some of our team will be here to carry out research and eat their way through your breads and cakes, looking for things I can focus on. That’s how the show works—I come up with suggestions for things you could change, so you’d better get used to having your bakes reviewed by me.”
“ Mmm ... The thing is, my customers want large cinnamon buns.”
“Smaller cakes are on trend right now, people are tired of buns and muffins as big as saucers. They’re just vulgar. My family company cut down on the size of the buns we sell in our shop, because customers were complaining that they were too big.”
“I assume you haven’t cut down on the price?”
This show is going to be anything but straightforward, Henrik thought.
“Anyway, that’s not how I work.” Nora folded her arms.
“Okay, so how do you work? As I understand it, this place isn’t doing too well, so maybe you haven’t got it all figured out.”
“The last few years have been a bit slow, but business will pick up. I don’t need your help.”
He put down the bun and met her gaze. “So why did you apply to be on the show if you’re getting along fine on your own?”
She glanced out the window, then back at him. “I won’t stand for you making me look stupid. It might work with other participants, but I’m not having it.”
He looked searchingly at her. “Can I ask a question? Do you even want to be on the show?”
Her expression was one of irritation, even hostility, but then she softened. Sighed. “To be honest, no, I don’t. Who really wants to take part in your show?”
“Lots of people, actually—we receive hundreds of applications, and the Christmas special is even more popular.”
After a brief silence, she said, “I just don’t want to be portrayed as an idiot on national TV.” She took a deep breath. “It was my friend who applied on my behalf, but ...” Another sigh. “I accept that the publicity will give me the chance to fix a few things.”
He nodded. “I appreciate your honesty, but if you don’t want to do it, there are plenty of others who would be only too happy to step in.” He took another sip of his coffee. “Unfortunately I don’t have time to sit here trying to convince a baker who’s down on their luck to take part in my show. All we have to do is call the next person in line.” He slammed down his cup.
Nora stared at him, then closed her mouth.
“Get in touch with the producer when you’ve made your decision, and then we can save everyone a lot of time and trouble.” He wrapped the remains of his cinnamon bun in a clean napkin and walked out.