Chapter 15 #2
“What do you have for the menu?”
“I haven’t finalized it yet, but one of the ideas I had was to make croissants with a baklava filling. You know, honey, nuts, maybe pieces of dried fruit.”
I was actually extremely excited about this idea. It seemed like the perfect combination of two iconic recipes.
But Sabine was shaking her head. “I don’t think so,” she said, lips pursed. “It’s too obvious.”
“Too obvious?”
What was this, a magic show? Was there supposed to be some sort of surprise reveal?
“Yes.” Sabine nodded. “Much too basic. If you were a professional, you’d understand what I meant.”
It was like she knew just how much I was struggling to feel confident. The one idea I was really happy with, she went and poked a hole in.
Internally, I was a mess of anxiety, but I chose to only shrug and smile, knowing it’d rankle her.
“I’ve served a lot of people, and what I’ve found is people generally love to see a dish they’re expecting.
It’s comforting, and it makes them feel smart for having predicted it’d be there.
In any case, we can ask Fatima what she thinks. ”
Sabine was looking more irritated than ever. I’d have to tell Laurent that he was no longer the resident crank. This woman had run off with the prize.
“What else have you come up with?” she asked, a disdainful eyebrow raised.
I hesitated to make sure my voice wouldn’t come out shaky.
I certainly wasn’t going to let this woman see she had me flustered.
“I have an idea to make mille feuilles with a Middle Eastern filling—there are a lot of options there. Also, my mother had her own recipe for palmiers. Every time she baked them, people loved—”
“No.”
Sabine spoke quietly, but the distaste in her voice was so strong I took an involuntary step back and bumped into the countertop.
“Sorry?”
“No, you’re not baking palmiers for my gala,” Sabine said, irritation clear in her voice now.
“This is a high-level, professional event, not your family Christmas party. Find something more sophisticated. I’m not sure why Fatima ever pushed for you to take this role. You’re clearly out of your depth.”
The level of her anger disturbed me. This could not just be about the dessert menu for a charity event.
“It’s weeks before we need to have the menus set,” I said, carefully keeping my voice steady.
“If you don’t like any of the ideas I have, that’s fine, but it’s far too early to be calling me a bad choice. ”
Sabine seemed about to say something more, but, at that moment, Fatima and Laurent came back into the room, animatedly discussing refrigeration techniques. With a final glance at me, Sabine turned on her heel and stalked out of the room.
Laurent hurried over, frowning. “Is everything alright?”
I considered telling him about the interaction, but decided it wasn’t worth it. Sabine’s doubts in my abilities were too close to my own, and voicing them would only make me feel worse. Instead, I smiled. “Absolutely. Are you ready to leave? I’m starving.”
After a week of steady rain, the sun had returned in full force. Laurent and I had just enough time for a picnic lunch before I headed off to work the dinner shift.
We walked to Parc Monceau, with its soaring archways and worn, regal grandeur. Once there, Laurent spent roughly five thousand hours walking up and down the grass until he found the right spot to have our picnic.
We settled onto the large blanket Laurent spread out, our shoulders touching and our heads tipped back so that the sun shone on our faces.
Laurent had several of his shirt buttons opened, and I spied a peek of blond chest hair. It seemed like such an intimate part of his body that I almost felt as though I was seeing him in his underwear.
That’ll be next, I hoped.
“These cookies you made are sublime,” Laurent said, taking a bite of one.
“I can taste the orange water. They remind me of the final course I had at a Moroccan restaurant in London. It was one of the best meals I’d ever had.
” He lay back in the grass and closed his eyes.
The sun highlighted the gold strands in his hair.
“You’ve been everywhere; what’s your favorite meal you’ve eaten? ”
I laughed. “Do you want the real answer, or the answer I give to keep people happy?”
Laurent opened his eyes and smiled lazily. “The real answer, always, but now you’ve made me curious so I want the fake answer, too.”
“Well, the fake answer is the best meal I’ve ever eaten was at La Perle d'Ivoire in Lyon.
“Oh yes,” Laurent said, sitting up in his excitement. “An excellent choice. I ate there a few years back. The quenelles were on another level. A top five lifetime meal for me, for sure.”
I nodded. “Yes, the meal was perfect. But, for me, the best meal I’ve ever had means the meal I enjoyed the most, and that depends on more than just the food, you know? The circumstances matter, too.”
“I agree,” Laurent said slowly. “But you’ve suddenly terrified me.” He laughed. “Let’s hear it. I can take it.”
“Well…” The memory still made me smile. “I was seventeen or so. It was summer, and I was visiting a friend in Marseille. It was burning hot, and we’d spent all day at the beach.
We lost track of time, and by the time we got back to town, we were half-starved and dying of thirst. We stopped at the first place that seemed like it could remotely have food. ”
I paused, unsure of how much this would pain Laurent. “It was a petrol station.”
His eyes went wide. “Margot Delcour, do not tell me—”
“It was,” I said, plowing through. “I bought a bag of vinegar chips and an orange Fanta, and nothing in my life has ever tasted as wonderful as that meal.”
I was half-laughing, but I hadn’t looked away from Laurent. The French do not mess around with their fine dining. I’ve had dates walk out of the restaurant after I’d told that story.
Laurent had dropped his head into his hands.
His shoulders shook, and I was worried that I’d hurt this man so much with my love of crappy food that I’d actually brought him to tears.
But then a giggle escaped him, and when he raised his head, I saw that he was laughing so hard he could barely breathe.
“Oh, that’s perfect,” Laurent said, gasping for breath. “I love it. And it makes me want an orange Fanta. Have you told La Croix that story?”
“Of course not. I’m still alive, aren’t I? It’s my life’s goal that my boss never find out about my love of fast food.”
“What’s your favorite fast food meal?”
“A quesarito from Taco Bell with extra nacho cheese sauce.”
Laurent’s brow furrowed. “The most troubling part about that statement is that you did not need a single second to come up with that answer.”
I shrugged. “I know what I like.”
“Yes, and apparently that’s seven times the daily recommended sodium intake and a healthy risk of salmonella.” He grinned. “You’re absolutely right. You should take that information to the grave.”
Still laughing, Laurent uncorked the wine, and I began spreading out our food.
“How’s your menu for the gala coming along?” I asked.
Laurent pulled out his notebook and flipped it to a page that was uncharacteristically messy. It was full of cramped margin notes and penciled-out lines.
“I think I’m finally making some progress. Now that I have all my cooking equipment unpacked, I can actually start trying out some of my ideas. I’ve been writing up a recipe for coq au vin marinated in harissa that I’m going to have you try once I do an initial test run.”
“That sounds delicious,” I said, looking at his notes for recipes like kebbeh stuffed with a paté filling and shakshuka ratatouille.
I hesitated, then decided to plow forward with my question. “Do you think if I made croissants with a baklava filling, that’d be too obvious?”
“Too obvious?” Laurent said blankly. “What does that even mean?”
“I don’t know,” I said, tugging at a hangnail. “I thought it was a good idea, but then it seemed like maybe it was too basic, and I know I don’t have professional knowledge to fall back on—”
“Hey.” Laurent spoke softly, but his eyes were locked on mine. “I don’t want to hear you doubting yourself. You’re an outstanding baker, and you don’t need any certificate to prove it.”
His confidence made me blush. Maybe I could actually pull this off. In any case, I should be focusing more on Laurent’s opinion than Sabine’s. I tucked my head against his shoulder, and he pulled me close.
“I’m nervous about the gala myself,” Laurent admitted. “I haven’t cooked in any sort of professional capacity for well over a year. This is my opportunity to see if I still have what it takes.” He smiled at me. “We’ll survive it together.”
I leaned back on the grass so that I had a clear view of the sky. “Does your family cook a lot?”
Laurent arranged himself next to me. “My mother’s parents managed a brasserie for decades, until they retired. My mother and her siblings worked there when she was young. They all made sure I caught the cooking bug.”
I smiled. “That’s lovely. I was always envious of people with close families.”
“You say that, but you’ve never experienced Christmas dinner with my family. It’s absolute mayhem,” Laurent said, but he was grinning. “Now, tell me what you’re thinking of for your gala menu, and I’ll tell you how brilliant it is.”
I looked at Laurent sprawled out on the blanket, long strands of grass caught up in his hair.
We’d been sharing a bottle of Pinot Noir, and the wine had turned his lips a dark red, so that they looked even more sensual than usual.
He must have gotten some sun recently as well, because his nose was slightly burnt.
Yasmine’s warning was in the back of my mind, but I barely paid it attention. Whenever I spent time with this grouchy, cat-loving, neatness-obsessed chef I always came away happier. We barely knew each other, but I already could feel myself on the brink of falling for him.
I grinned, and Laurent pulled me in for a kiss. (That was one of the many wonderful things about Paris. No one cared if you were affectionate in public. Hell, chances are they’re probably making out themselves.)
As Laurent cupped my face and our breaths intermingled, I felt such a surge of happiness and confidence that I was certain I could conquer any problem set before me.
I should learn how to bottle that feeling. I knew I’d be needing it again, sooner or later.