Chapter 23
“You’ll astound them,” Laurent assured me as we walked into the building for another gala meeting.
It was the week after New Year’s, and this meeting was especially important because we’d be making test batches of our recipes in the kitchens. I was nervous to see Sabine again, and on top of that, there’d be taste testers judging our food.
Fatima had told us they were just volunteer chefs who’d give us tips to make sure our recipes were the best they could be, but I still felt like I was about to take an exam.
Our judging panel, as it were, was already seated in the kitchens. There were half a dozen of them, including Fatima and, of course, Sabine.
Sabine was wearing a full-length gown with a plunging neckline, which one might say was too ostentatious to taste test recipes. I was tempted to point out that her bra strap was showing, but I demurred. My plan for dealing with Sabine was to simply ignore her as much as possible.
I was anxious starting off, but once I turned my back to everyone and concentrated on the recipes, my nerves eased.
This was just baking. I did it nearly every day.
Plus, I already had a head start. Many of my recipes required extended time for proofing or setting, so I’d come to the kitchens the day before to get them started.
That made things easier for me today, since most of the recipes only needed to be baked or get their finishing touches. As I completed each recipe, I passed out samples for the taste testers to review.
First done were the baklava croissants. Fatima had loved the idea, despite Sabine’s complaints, but I was nervous to see what the panel thought of it. As each person tasted their croissant, I watched their faces closely.
“Magnificent filling,” one of the chefs declared. “Was it difficult to get the honey from making the pastry layers stick together?”
“Oh, it was so hard to figure out,” I admitted.
“The filling in my first try was too runny and melted during baking. Those croissants were basically soggy, sticky bricks,” I said, grinning.
“The second time, the texture was right, but I added too much filling, and it overwhelmed the pastry. It took a lot of trial and error.”
“These are very well balanced,” another chef said.
Sabine spoke up. “You don’t think they’re too obvious? They seem very obvious to me.”
Blank faces regarded her down the length of the table.
“Too obvious?” the first chef repeated.
“Sabine, dear, what do you mean?” Fatima asked.
“Oh, never mind,” Sabine said, pushing her untouched croissant away. I allowed myself the tiniest smile before getting back to work.
Everything I made got compliments, even the fussy mille feuilles, which took me forever to assemble with their layers of pastry cream and puff pastry. I wasn’t very well-versed in food styling, and the chefs gave me excellent tips for decorating them.
If I’d thought Sabine randomly popping up at Laurent’s on Christmas would somehow soften her feelings toward me, I quickly learned that was untrue. She had barbs for each of my recipes: they were too plain or too heavy or some other thing.
But everyone ignored her, and I barely paid her attention myself. I was too happy talking shop with people who knew the intricacies of baking and what it took to create pastries that delighted a crowd. I scribbled down everything they said, my confidence swelling little by little.
Laurent’s first dishes were finishing up by the time I served my final dessert: the macarons. Not a single one of the judges could think of a way they could be improved.
Buzzing from their compliments, I took a seat at my work station to observe their comments on Laurent’s food. Sabine would probably be vicious, but I’d tried each of these recipes Laurent had created, and I knew they’d send the judges into raptures.
But Sabine was strangely enthusiastic about Laurent’s food.
She declared his couscous sauteed in duck fat “sublime” and told the chef next to her that Laurent’s chicken fricassée with sumac and mint was the best thing she’d ever eaten in her life.
Laurent frowned at her compliments, but otherwise his attention was on the chefs.
As they spoke, I saw his eyes glowing the way they did whenever he was deeply interested in a subject.
When things finally wrapped up, Fatima congratulated us on our menus.
“I’m certain that, whatever else happens, this gala will have food that is second to none!” she said proudly.
A man from the judging panel, the one sitting next to Sabine, stood. “Monsieur Roche, may I have a moment of your time?”
Laurent turned to me, his eyes still bright. “I’ll be right out.”
I waited for Laurent in the hall, wondering what the man was saying to him. Probably just complimenting him more on his dishes. Laurent certainly deserved it.
Just then, Laurent stepped out of the room looking like he’d just won the lottery. Surprise and nervousness and pure happiness passed across his face as he walked over to me.
“What is it?”
“That man, the man who spoke to me, he owns restaurants. He has one in Berlin that needs a new head chef. He asked if I wanted the position.”
I barely stopped my mouth from dropping open. “What did you say?”
“I told him I couldn’t make any decision right then, but that I’d think about it.
” Laurent’s gaze slipped from mine; he was focusing on something I couldn’t see.
“Margot, do you realize what this means?” he asked excitedly.
“This is the chance I’ve been waiting for.
That’s why I wanted to do this gala in the first place, to see if I still have what it takes to be a chef. ”
“So, you’re going to take the job?” I asked quietly.
Laurent took my hands in his. “I’m not doing anything without your full agreement. But,” he continued, “We could make this work. You could come to Berlin with me—”
I was already shaking my head. “I have a life here, Laurent. I can’t just pack it up.”
“Well, then we’ll visit each other. All the time. And this wouldn’t be forever. Just enough for me to get some experience. Then I can find another job in Paris or wherever you want to live.”
Laurent looked so excited and happy, but I was wary. “What if things go the same way you said they did last time? Where you get consumed with work and forget about everything else? Forget about me,” I added, very quietly.
Laurent’s hands were warm on mine. “That won’t happen,” he said, all his intensity focused solely on me now.
Those golden eyes were enough to drown in.
“I know myself better now, and you’re too important to me.
You come before anything else. Absolutely anything else.
You say the word, and I’ll turn the job down without another thought. ”
I believed Laurent, believed that I could tell him I wasn’t comfortable with the distance or the pressure of a chef position and he’d walk away. But I looked at the excitement stark on his face and remembered all the nights he’d come home exhausted and demoralized from his office work.
There was no possibility of me telling him to throw away this opportunity.
“I think you should go for it,” I told Laurent, concentrating hard on looking happy. If there was ever a moment I needed to call on the sunniest parts of my personality, this was it.
Laurent burst into a smile and caught me up in an embrace. As I breathed in his scent of rosemary and citrus, only one thought was running through my mind: Please don’t let this be what breaks us.