Chapter 27
When things are falling apart (which they certainly were for me, and in quite a spectacular fashion), when everything appears hopeless, a true child of France knows that there is only one thing to bake: the croissant.
There is nothing that demands such attention and patience, and reveals such a sublime reward, as whorls of buttery, flaky dough baked to golden perfection.
A few hours before dawn, I decided that sleep was going to remain elusive. I got up, put the dough hook on my stand mixer, and measured out flour, salt, sugar, and yeast into the bowl. Then I made a little well in the middle and poured in water and milk.
I made myself a cup of tea while the yeast did its thing.
When I was done, I added in the butter and turned the mixer on again.
Not having the inclination to do anything else, I stared at the dough as it mixed, watching it become smooth and glossy.
After ten minutes, I pulled on a piece of it to make sure it was the proper consistency: stretchy and not sticky.
I wrapped the dough in plastic wrap, stared blankly at a magazine while I waited for the requisite hour to pass, then moved the bowl to the fridge and tried to get a few hours of sleep.
It worked, a little. I awoke, not refreshed, but at least not as exhausted as I had been. I wondered what Austin and Jackie were doing, if there was any hope for them, or if Austin had passed the night in a bunk at a hostel, wondering how his life had so suddenly come apart.
Speaking of lives coming apart, what was Laurent doing right now? Working, of course, or catching a few hours of sleep before he returned to working. I wonder if he even thought of me.
But enough of that. Back to baking.
I worked my way through the steps, forcing myself to make everything neat and perfect.
The harder I concentrated on baking, the fewer unsolicited thoughts that could creep in.
I took the dough from the fridge, then rolled it into a rectangle, each side and corner perfectly formed.
Then I stretched the dough over the cold butter I’d similarly rolled into a rectangle, making sure there was not a single crack in the seams. I put it in the fridge to rest.
Once it had, I took the dough out and cut it into thin rectangles.
Then I cut each of those in two to form triangles.
Next—my favorite part—I rolled each triangle into the classic croissant shape, starting at the wide end, and taking care to keep the point centered and the shape gently curved.
I gave them each an egg wash, then put the croissants in the oven to proof.
It was nearly dawn by the time the croissants were done proofing, but time was meaningless.
I pulled them out of the oven just as the sun peeped over the horizon and began soaking Paris in pale, golden light.
I took a moment to admire the croissants’ doughy perfection.
They got another egg wash while the oven preheated, then went back into the oven to bake.
When the timer went off, I pulled the croissants out and set them on the stove. As they cooled, I appraised them from every angle. Try as I might, I couldn’t find fault. They looked beautiful. But, of course, the proof was in the eating.
I plucked the plumpest-looking croissant from the tray and took a bite.
The golden-brown crust crackled, and the airy inner layers nearly melted in my mouth.
The taste of it sent me back to all the thousands of croissants I’d eaten over the years: at breakfast with my mother, at school, on stilted dates, quickly while waiting for a train to arrive, late at night from a greasy paper bag, in strange new countries, in my own home.
I chewed slowly, savoring every bite. When the croissant was gone, I licked its buttery remnants from my fingers.
“That was very good,” I said aloud to my empty apartment. For a few moments, I soaked in the quiet feeling of pride.
“Alright,” I sighed. “What should I make next?”
So, as it had all my life, baking pulled me out of the depths of despair.
In the days that followed, I baked everything I knew and found new recipes when those ran out.
I baked squashy eclairs, rainbow-colored macarons, and baguettes by the ton.
I baked maple pecan sticky buns, tarte au citrons with candied lemon, tiny petit-fours scented with rose and lavender, Cornish pasties filled with beef and onions and cheddar, apple strudels, chocolate chip biscotti, banana honey nut bread with a crackly top.
Of course, I couldn’t eat all this, so everyone I knew found themselves gifted with the bounties of my labor.
“Again, chérie?” Madame Blanchet asked, looking at the miniature apple pie I was holding out to her. She took it with a strained smile. “Well, I’m glad you’re keeping yourself busy.”
Work brought a surprising bright spot: There was another proposal, and not one we’d been told of ahead of time. Its unexpectedness made it all the sweeter.
Malcolm and Lily were at one of my tables along the windows. As I was walking toward them to clear their table of the pasta course, a jittery Malcolm shoved a small box across the table toward his girlfriend. I stopped in my tracks.
Lily only looked at the box bemusedly.
“Um. You should open it,” Malcolm said.
Still frowning, Lily did.
Her eyes bulged. I was several meters away and had to crane my neck to get a better view of the ring. Rose gold setting with a sapphire center stone. A very nice choice.
Once the ring was revealed, neither Malcolm nor Lily moved.
Come on, I silently urged the proposal gods. Let this one go right.
Lily looked at the ring for several seconds (during which I was genuinely concerned Malcolm might pass out). Then she looked at Malcolm and burst into tears.
I heaved a sigh of relief. Very quickly, Malcolm and Lily were both crying, Malcolm was putting the ring on Lily’s finger, and Lily was trying to hug Malcolm while wiping her face.
I gave them a few minutes, then came over with champagne and my congratulations.
I took the photo they requested, checked the rest of my tables, then asked the kitchen to hold Malcolm and Lily’s next course for a few minutes.
There are many moments in life that are the perfect moment to dive into a plate of short ribs, but immediately after your engagement is not one of them.
The two of them were so obviously bursting with happiness as they admired the ring, and each other, and crinkled their noses as they drank the champagne.
They were the final table to leave that night, and I wouldn’t have let anything in the world hurry them.
I knew how rare it was to have a moment in your life when you felt so completely happy.
Life is hard and full of moments you think will break you.
You need to hold on to those shining moments as much as you can.
***
“Want to grab a quick bite?” Yasmine asked after our shift ended. “Anywhere you want.”
“You know when you say that I’m going to choose McDonald’s,” I told her.
“To the Golden Arches it is.”
“The proposal seemed like it went well,” Yasmine said as we walked along the dark street.
“It did.”
“They seemed very happy.”
“Oh, they were.”
“You seem miserable though.”
I stopped abruptly on the darkened sidewalk. “What do you mean?”
Yasmine raised her eyebrows. “Margot.”
I started walking again, quickly now because I was uncomfortable. I should never have taken Yasmine up on this outing. Even McDonald’s wasn’t worth this.
Yasmine hurried to stay alongside me. “Margot, I’m your best friend. I know how you’re feeling.”
We were in front of the McDonald’s now. I took the opportunity to go straight to the counter and place my order of a double cheeseburger with fries and a milkshake.
A lot of people think you can’t supersize your McDonald’s order in France, but I know firsthand that if you ask them to do it while looking really sad, they’ll shove a bunch of extra fries in the container for free.
We took a seat in the least sticky-looking of the booths. Yasmine hadn’t spoken again, but she was watching me closely.
“Do you ever think about moving on from Le Jules Verne?” she asked finally.
I blinked, startled at this new line of discussion.
“Leave the restaurant?” It was almost funny.
“Yasmine, that place saved me five years ago when I was barely able to function after my mother died. Do you remember what a wreck I was when I started working there? Making people happy gave me a reason to get up in the morning. I’m up to one hundred and ninety-one proposals.
I did that. I helped those people have one of the happiest moments of their life. ”
“But Margot, you never became one of those happy people. You’ve spent the last five years always smiling, always solving problems as you chased happiness for guests, but you haven’t figured out how to get it for yourself.”
I looked away. I couldn’t believe I was getting attacked like this, and in McDonald’s, of all places.
“Have you—” Yasmine hesitated. “Have you considered applying to pastry school again?”
“Yasmine, I can’t think about this right now. It’s just too much, with the gala coming up, and ending things with Laurent…”
“But why not?” Yasmine pressed. “What’s a better time to change your life than when it’s at its worst? What if this is your sign to really go after what you want?”
I remembered Laurent’s words the day we broke up, how he’d accused me of giving up on my dream.
He wasn’t wrong.
But still.
“Why should I be good enough for pastry school?” I said heavily. “I’ve already failed at it once. I’m not even good enough to be a girlfriend. I’m back to being as single as ever.”
Yasmine rolled her eyes so hard I thought she’d crick her neck.
“Margot Delcour. You are not going to sit here and tell me you won’t start living your life until someone tells you you’re good enough.
Don’t give them that power. Sabine thinks you’re the worst baker to have ever walked the Earth?
Make your gala desserts so good that she cries herself to sleep.
You want to go back to pastry school? Finally finish one of those applications you’ve been littering your wastebasket with for years, and get back to it.
Only this time, go to the school you want to go to, not the school your mother wanted you to go to.
“And if you fail again? I mean, that’s a great story. Who fails pastry school twice? As for Laurent, he can go cry himself to sleep in Berlin. You don’t need someone to choose you, Margot.” Yasmine’s eyes were blazing. “You choose yourself.”
The fluorescent lights of the McDonald’s smeared and blurred as my eyes filled with tears.
“Margot, I know you love the restaurant, and making people’s dreams come true, but it’s become your excuse to not take any risks. Just tell me this: do you still want to be a pastry chef?”
I made myself meet Yasmine’s gaze.
“More than anything,” I said, and although my voice was barely a whisper, Yasmine heard me.
Yasmine leaned across the plastic table. “Then why don’t you do it?”
On the tip of my tongue were the lines I’d used for years: that I was fine, that everything was great, that I was so happy, couldn’t you tell by how much I was smiling? But this time the usual words wouldn’t come.
I sniffed, then said the only thing I could manage: “I can’t have this conversation without a milkshake.”
Yasmine hurried to get our food, and, as I pulled my tray toward me, a tear splashed onto my food. I sighed. It seemed cosmically unfair that, on top of everything else, I couldn’t even enjoy crispy fries.
“I don’t know if I’m up for this,” I admitted. “I’m afraid of failing and letting down my mom again.”
Yasmine looked as forceful as I’d ever seen her. “Margot. You didn’t let down your mother. You didn’t even fail. You just had a setback. It only defines you if you let it. It can just be one page in your story. It doesn’t need to be the end.”
“But what if I’m terrible at pastry school again, and I learn I’m actually not as good at baking as my mother thought I was?”
“I don’t think that’ll happen, but if it does, then your mom still has a daughter who was brave enough to try again after the hardest failure of her life. How could she be disappointed with that?”
I wrapped my trembling hands around my milkshake. My voice was small. “I don’t know how to start.”
Yasmine gripped my greasy fingers. “Just take one step forward.”