Chapter 19
Weeks passed, and Paris slipped further into autumn.
The tourist crowds thinned out, and Parisians returned from their summer holidays.
Street stalls selling roasted chestnuts began popping up along the Seine, and although diners still crowded the outdoor cafes, they did so with checkered blankets spread across their laps, shawls around their shoulders, and clusters of burnished leaves at their feet.
I used the bounty of apples that now crowded the markets to make batches of desserts: apple cakes, apple galettes with vanilla ice cream, delicate crêpes with caramelized spiced apples, apple jams and jellies, thick apple pies with cheddar cheese mixed into the crust…
Mixed into all of that, into each of my days, was Laurent.
He’d stop by my apartment in the mornings, and we’d share coffee and croissants.
We both worked late, but in the evenings we’d cook together in his apartment.
The windows would fog up with steam from the oven as we sipped wine and prepared our meal.
We’d fall asleep in his bed, smelling like the ingredients we’d worked with that day: butter and sugar for me, rosemary and black pepper for him.
I don’t know when it happened exactly, but one day, in the middle of a dinner shift, I realized that I was no longer wistfully watching happy couples. I’d become part of a happy couple. I had someone who had chosen me.
Still, underneath it all, a current of anxiety pulsed through me.
The gala loomed closer each day. I ricocheted between being confident in my skills and feeling that I was out of my depth.
What if no one liked what I baked? What if I baked something too long or seasoned it wrong or forgot an ingredient?
It’s not like Paris was a city forgiving of mediocrity in food.
Laurent tried to shore up my self-esteem, but, some nights, after he’d fallen asleep beside me, I lay awake replaying recipes in my head, calculating sugar ratios, obsessing over garnishes.
Baking for the gala had awakened something in me that had long lay dormant.
I’d always loved baking, but I’d gotten safe with it.
Now, I was drawing on all my skills, and I could only hope they’d be enough.
One evening, I sat in Laurent’s kitchen as he plated dinner. He’d gone all out tonight. On the wooden cutting board he set before me was a series of miniature tarts, each a different flavor.
They made a row of crisp, golden crusts and bubbling fillings.
There was an heirloom tomato and caramelized onion tart with brown butter dripping off its edges, a blueberry and lavender tart with a mini pitcher of sweet cream beside it, a wild ramp and morel mushroom tart bubbling with Gruyère, and, finally, a salted pork and leek tart, the velvety pieces of pork looking like they would melt like cream in my mouth.
Laurent watched me anxiously as I took a bite of the tomato and onion tart.
“How’s the puff pastry?” he asked, his face so wracked with concern I nearly laughed. “I made seven different versions, and this was my favorite, but I still think it’s too heavy.”
“It’s really good,” I assured him, licking a speck of onion from my finger. “The flavors are perfect. You just need to work on making the pastry a little flakier.”
Laurent sighed. “That’s always my problem. I’ll need to watch you make it again.”
“Don’t go morose on me,” I said smiling. “Here, come sit down and enjoy this feast you made.”
While Laurent tidied up (he always insisted on doing the dishes), I pulled out my phone and checked my email. There was a new message with the subject line “GALA EXPECTATIONS.”
It was from Sabine.
Probably just the dress code and such, I told myself as I clicked it open.
Margot,
I’ve reviewed the sample dessert menu that you sent Fatima.
Frankly, I’m not convinced your ideas align with the level of sophistication we’re looking for.
Many of your recipe suggestions felt amateur, and your execution photos don’t inspire much confidence.
I strongly suggest stepping back and allowing an experienced pastry chef to take over.
This is one of the foundation’s most high-profile evenings, and we simply cannot afford mediocrity.
Regards,
Sabine Berlioz
The email blurred. I blinked and read it again. And again.
Laurent was talking about something as he soaped up the dishes, but I couldn’t hear him.
My greatest fear had been found out and put into writing by this woman: I wasn’t good enough.
How could I have forgotten? I should never have let Yasmine convince me to volunteer for the gala, never have let any competitive streak with Laurent make me lose my head. Sabine was right; I wasn’t cut out for this.
Unbidden, a memory floated to the surface: My mother sitting beside my ten-year-old self in front of the oven as we watched my very first batch of macarons bake.
Macarons were a serious undertaking, my mother had told me gravely.
I remember wanting to make her proud so badly I’d given myself a stomachache.
When my mother judged it to be the right time, we’d pulled the macarons from the oven, and appraised their glossy shells.
“They look very good,” my mother had said. “But how do they taste?”
She’d lifted two from the silicone mat and passed one to me. I’d let it dangle in my hand, my attention wholly on her. My mother flipped the macaron shell over, split it in half, inhaled its scent, then popped the entire thing in her mouth.
I remember how it felt like the world had gone still.
I remember every detail: the smudge of almond flour on my mother’s cheek, a few stray curls falling out of her chignon, how just the corner of her mouth had quirked up to give me that first rush of hope, her mouth splitting open, and finally, her laughing in pure delight as she opened her arms and I ran into them.
“Margot, they’re wonderful,” she said as I held her tightly, enveloped in her scent of vanilla and spices. “Absolutely outstanding, mon amour. And just think, if your first batch of macarons is this good, you’ll be doing laps around me soon enough.”
But she was wrong.
Laurent noticed I wasn’t responding. He came around and put a hand on my shoulder.
“Everything alright?”
I responded by bursting into tears.
Laurent’s arms came around me. “What happened?” he asked urgently. “Margot, what’s wrong?”
I couldn’t speak, so I just passed over my phone with Sabine’s email still glowing on the screen.
Beside me, Laurent went tense. He held me and stroked my hair, murmuring soft things, as I cried myself out.
When I petered out to just a few sniffles, he offered me a tissue and directed me to his couch. Then he dragged over a chair and sat on it so that we faced each other, knees touching.
“Margot, forget about that email,” he said firmly. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Doesn’t matter?” I cried. “Sabine basically fired me!”
As a new rush of tears came, something soft gently pushed against my knee.
I opened my eyes and saw Minerva staring at me, her own yellow eyes unblinking.
Insistently, she pushed against my knee again.
When I reached a trembling hand out to pet her, she jumped into my lap and curled herself into a donut.
I took a gulp of air. “She doesn’t think I’m good enough. She and Fatima thought my ideas were amateur,” I said, and the final word was half a sob.
I glanced at Laurent. He looked just as he did the night I’d met him, full of glowering anger.
“Margot, you are an outstanding baker. Truly you are. Fatima knows how lucky she is to have you. As for Sabine…That might be slightly my fault.”
His words were so unexpected that I paused in wiping snot from my face (I’ve always been a messy crier) to stare at him.
Laurent looked distinctly uncomfortable. “Sabine and I know each other. For most of our lives, in fact. We went to school together, and Sabine is the sister of my former girlfriend. She’s hated me ever since her sister and I broke up.”
I shook my head, as though to help this startling piece of information sink in. “You know Sabine? You dated her sister? Is that how you got the gala position?”
“No! A mutual friend suggested me to Fatima because he knew I wanted to get back into cooking. I thought Sabine and I would hardly see each other.”
I frowned. “But I thought your girlfriend cheated on you with a coworker?” I clapped my hand over my mouth as soon as the words were out.
Laurent flushed scarlet. “How do you know that?”
Now I was blushing, too. “Some women were gossiping about it at the first gala meeting.”
Laurent dropped his head. “Yes. They’re correct.”
“But why would Sabine hate you when her sister cheated on you?”
Laurent sighed. “I’ll explain, but let me warn you that this period was me at my absolute lowest. I don’t expect you to be impressed.”
I stayed silent as he gathered himself.
“You know how hard it can be to run a restaurant?” Laurent finally said. “When I was running Les Champs D’Or, I couldn’t handle the thought of it failing. Whenever anything went wrong, I’d throw all my energy into fixing it so I wouldn’t lose this dream I’d fought so hard for.”
Laurent’s mouth twisted. “It meant giving up a lot of things. I stopped seeing friends. I couldn’t be bothered to have Sunday dinner with my parents.
My girlfriend and I had recently moved in together, but we barely saw each other.
She begged me to spend time with her, but the restaurant always came first. I was so consumed with work I can hardly blame her for cheating on me.
I’m sure she told Sabine just how thoroughly I’d abandoned her.
When she left me, I thought that was my rock bottom. ”
Laurent glanced at me, then suddenly away. It was such a guilty gesture, like something a child would do.