Chapter 15
“Well, I’m glad you at least kissed,” Yasmine said as she struggled with her dough. “I wish you two had been able to seal the deal, though.”
I stood in Yasmine’s kitchen, trying to follow the recipe her mother had written out for Makroud el Louse cookies. There was another gala meeting in a few hours, and I was trying my hand at some North African desserts as I refined menu ideas.
“I’m so happy for you, Margot,” Yasmine’s mother said, coming in to appraise our progress. “Maybe this will be the relationship that sticks.”
“Mom, oh my god,” Yasmine said, switching briefly to English. “You don’t need to remind her of all the losers she’s dated.”
I reached for the orange blossom water. “Don’t worry, Madame Saidi. I understood what you meant.” And there was certainly a part of me that hoped, too, that this relationship with Laurent would be more than a fling.
“Don’t mind her,” Yasmine said to me. “She’s just thrilled that somebody she knows is in a relationship.”
“It certainly isn’t you,” Madame Saidi said pointedly to her daughter.
“I tried that once, and it went disastrously, remember?” Yasmine said, meeting her mother’s gaze without blinking.
I busied myself with rolling out my dough. Yasmine had gotten married—and divorced—before I’d met her. As she’d described it, she’d been young, caught up in a new relationship, and heavily pressured by her parents—especially her father—to get married quickly.
“It was a nightmare from start to finish,” Yasmine had said the first time she’d recounted her marriage.
“I can’t even describe what it feels like, Margot, to dread going home because the person you share that home with is hellbent on making your life miserable.
I started feeling nauseous every time I walked through the front door. I never want that for you.”
Yasmine’s father had vehemently opposed his daughter getting a divorce, but Madame Saidi had gone to bat for her daughter, and Yasmine and her mother make a formidable pair. Eventually, the divorce went through, and, by the time I met her, Yasmine had sworn off any sort of serious dating.
Right now she was grinning at her mother. “Why should I get into a relationship when I do so well on Tinder? Margot, did I tell you about the guy I hooked up with on Sunday? An Athenian descended directly from the Greek gods themselves, I swear. And the body oil he had…”
Yasmine winked. “Well, let’s just say he had a dozen scents and we gave them each a test drive.”
I laughed. Yasmine was goading her mother, but I knew Yasmine’s dating habits still caused tension between her and her parents.
Madame Saidi just wanted to see her daughter happy, but Yasmine’s father was much more traditional.
He made it clear he detested Yasmine’s proclivity for casual dating and thought it lessened any chance she had for another marriage.
(“That’s just an added bonus,” Yasmine always said.)
“Why do yours look so much better?” Yasmine complained, looking between our cookies. While my dough was smooth and shiny, hers was lumpy, and there were streaks of sugar where it hadn’t been mixed completely.
“Because you never cook,” her mother said. “I tried and tried, but you only wanted to go dancing or waste your life lounging in cafés.” Yasmine rolled her eyes, then mother and daughter smiled fondly at each other.
My chest tightened, and I turned my attention back to the cookies.
When they came out of the oven, Madame Saidi tasted one of mine and declared it excellent. “You’re so talented, Margot. The gala is lucky to have your skills.” She took the four best cookies and wrapped them in a checkered cloth. “Now go bring these to your boyfriend.”
I blushed to hear Laurent referred to as my boyfriend, although it was true.
I’d dated a few American men and seen plenty of American movies, and dating there always seemed so fraught.
Just endless discussions of when to become exclusive, what officially counted as “dating,” when to give each other labels…
In France, it was much simpler. If you went on a date, kissed, and wanted to keep seeing each other, then you were in a relationship. Easy as that. So I would go bring these cookies to my boyfriend.
“Margot,” Yasmine said as soon as we’d stepped out of her apartment. “Don’t listen to my mom when it comes to relationships. Seriously, listen to her advice on literally anything else, but not relationships.”
I frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Just that she wants everyone to be in a relationship. She wants everyone to get married. And I’m not opposed to that,” Yasmine said, her eyes wide and animated.
“It’s just…It’s just that I know how much you sometimes idolize marriages.
But they’re not always wonderful. They don’t always make a relationship wonderful. ”
I rolled my eyes. “Of course they don’t always. But sometimes they do. My mother always said her own parents never really treated each other well until they got married when she was young.”
I glanced at Yasmine. She looked worried and unhappy. “I know your mother said that,” she said finally. “You’ve told me that a lot.”
Color rose in my cheeks. So what if I did?
People retold family stories all the time.
But I knew what Yasmine was carefully not saying: that I’d also told her many times about my mother’s bitterness over my father never marrying her.
My mother had been convinced that if they’d been married when she’d gotten pregnant, my father would have devoted himself to his wife and child, instead of walking out of our lives without a glance back.
“If he had chosen me, Margot, things would have been different,” my mother had said over and over again.
Yasmine was still frowning at me. “Margot, every time there’s another proposal at the restaurant, I see you going starry-eyed. I don’t want you to get carried away with Laurent.”
I rolled my eyes, trying to lighten the mood. “Yasmine, I’ve been on like two dates with Laurent. I’ve barely even started sewing my wedding trousseau. You can like someone without getting carried away.”
“I know,” Yasmine said, her face softening. “Just don’t try to force a relationship because you have some end goal. I learned that the hard way.”
I was annoyed at Yasmine’s implication that I was losing my head over Laurent, but when I looked at my friend, I saw her face pinched with concern. I knew she only wanted to save me from the unhappiness she’d experienced.
I smiled. “I know I can trust you to always keep my head on straight. Now let’s get to the meeting. You know how it kills me to be late.”
This gala meeting was to show us the kitchens we’d be using for the event. When I arrived, Laurent was already there. Naturally, he was scrubbing down the tables.
I walked up and watched as he obliterated whatever miniscule smudge had caught his ire.
“I’m glad you’re spending time doing what you love.”
Laurent kept his eyes on the table, but I saw him smirk. “We curmudgeons need to find happiness where we can. This is a nice break from shouting at people on scooters and complaining about tourists.” He turned to me. “And I can see you’ve ramped the sunshine up to eleven. As usual.”
I grinned even wider. “I made you Algerian cookies.”
Laurent took the little bundle in his hands, placed it on the shining countertop, then kissed me thoroughly. When we broke apart, I noticed several people had filed into the room.
Laurent blushed, but I had no regrets. Yasmine hadn’t said anything against indulging in too much kissing.
“Good afternoon!” Fatima sang out as she came into the room, several sous chefs and an irritated-looking Sabine trailing in her wake.
“Welcome to the kitchens you’ll be using for the gala.
I want you all to get acquainted with them early on so that you can develop your menus with their equipment and limitations in mind.
Let me walk you through the highlights, then I’ll let you explore on your own. ”
The kitchens, like the building itself, were worn but functional. They didn’t have Le Jules Verne’s gleaming row of stovetops or massive walk-in refrigerators, but they were certainly a step up from my tiny, rusted kitchen.
“Margot, there’s the area that’ll be yours,” Fatima said, pointing me to one end of the room. I walked over and appraised the two ovens, a range with four burners, and ample counterspace. Pulling open the cabinets, I saw they were full of equipment like stand mixers and baking sheets.
“What do you think?” Laurent asked, sidling up alongside me.
“It has everything I need.”
Laurent rolled his eyes teasingly. “Of course it does.”
“And what does the resident grouch think of the kitchens?”
Laurent grinned. “I’ll make it work.”
“See, there’s a tiny optimist inside you begging to be let out. One day, you’re going to catch yourself humming your favorite song while you cook, and eventually you’ll move up to greeting strangers on the street.”
Laurent shuddered.
“Monsieur Roche, how is everything?” Fatima asked, appearing beside us.
“It fits my needs,” Laurent said diplomatically, “But I was wondering where the freezers were.”
“Right next door. I’ll show you,” Fatima said.
As she and Laurent left, I turned back to the cabinets to take a thorough inventory of what they contained. Maybe some random piece of equipment would provide the inspiration to help me finalize my menu. I was pulling out baking sheets when someone spoke behind me.
“How is everything coming along?”
I turned to see Sabine watching me.
“Oh. Very well, thank you. It’s actually better than I was expecting.”
She was standing so close we were nearly nose-to-nose. I could smell her Coco Mademoiselle perfume. She still looked irritated at whatever had been bothering her when she walked in.
“It must be overwhelming for you to try to manage all the baking on your own,” she said.
I shrugged, choosing to ignore whatever passive aggressive message she was hoping to relay. “I’m looking at it as a challenge.”