Chapter 30 #2
When I walked into the main ballroom, I paused in pulling leaves out of my hair (There’d been a low-lying branch hanging over the road at one point, and I’d gotten a faceful of it). My eyes widened.
Gone was the bland, aging room that had looked better suited to hosting business conferences than a fancy event.
The decorators had worked their magic, filling the space with glittering chandeliers, potted palms in ceramic planters, turquoise and pink rugs spread across the floor, divans with piles of cushions, and bouquets of red and orange flowers.
“Margot!” I turned to see Fatima striding toward me, energy crackling around her. In her hands was a towering stack of papers, heavily earmarked. A trio of assistants trailed behind her.
“Margot, I’m so glad you were able to get here. The strike is expected to be resolved this afternoon, so it shouldn’t affect guests, but it’s been chaos making sure the staff is able to get here.” We stepped into the kitchens. “Do you have everything you need?”
I took a glance around my counters. “I think so. Thank you, Fatima.”
“No, thank you, Margot. I don’t know what we would have done without your talents.” Fatima smiled warmly at me.
Don’t thank me until this is all over, I almost said, but Fatima didn’t need any more stress today.
I relaxed more once I was in the familiar order of the kitchens.
I set the first trays of croissants I’d made yesterday into the oven to bake.
Once they were cooking, I got to work making the ma'amoul cookies. It was my favorite type of recipe: streamlined, uncluttered. There weren’t many steps or ingredients, but each of them mattered.
I mixed ghee and sugar with flour, then slowly added in rosewater and milk.
I kneaded it into a sticky, sweet-smelling dough, then let it rest while I thickened the raspberry coulis until it could hold its shape.
Then a piece of dough was wrapped around a bit of jam to form the cookies, and I gently pressed the mold into its surface to leave a delicate geometric pattern.
By late morning, the first batch of croissants was cooling, and the second was in the oven.
When the croissants were just slightly warm, I drizzled them with a mixture of rosewater, honey, and chopped pistachios.
I took the most misshapen one (although, really, they all looked perfect) for my breakfast.
Next, I spent an inordinate amount of time plating the macarons. They were the star of the pastry table, and I wanted them to look like it. I carefully arranged them on golden tiered platters, alternating colors so that they looked like rows of golden, emerald, and violet jewels.
I couldn’t help but feel a little rush of pride when I looked at them. Macarons had been my first baking creation that had really impressed my mother, and they’d been the menu item that had most impressed the gala team.
A sweaty Yasmine hurried in while I was obsessing over them.
“Oh, they look gorgeous,” she said, reaching out a hand. I slapped it away.
“No touching. The extras are over here,” I said, directing her to a small pile on the counter.
Yasmine bit into one and sighed with pleasure.
“Incredible. Now take a break and come see where you’ll be for the gala.”
The dessert area was at the back of the ballroom. I was glad to see it’d be slightly removed from the main bustle of the party. The table was draped in pink and orange silk, and platters were already set up with the cookies and croissants.
“Your team did a lovely job,” I said. Displayed so fancily, my desserts really did look worthy of the event.
“Didn’t they?” Yasmine said admiringly. She plucked a croissant from the back of a platter and winked at me. “No one will notice. Keep doing your thing. I’ll stop by again soon.”
Back in the kitchens, the rest of the culinary team were busy chopping, baking, and sautéing. Laurent’s dishes were all coming together.
There was buttery couscous that’d be garnished with thin slices of preserved lemon, chicken tagine with crackly, golden skin, paper-thin crepes that’d be filled with mushrooms, spinach, and melty Emmental cheese, beef stew bubbling away, heaps of salads, mountains of figs and dried nuts, ice-cold slices of melon, glass dishes of jams and preserves and—my heart twisted—a whole row of perfect-looking quiches.
Focus, I told myself. The first guests would be arriving in less than an hour, and I had dozens of mille feuilles to assemble before then.
I got to work baking the puff pastry. It took several rounds in the oven to cook it all.
Once that was done, I began piping perfect circles of pastry cream onto the pastry, then stacking them three high.
Next, I striped the blue and gold glazes on top of each mille feuille and dragged a toothpick through them several times to create a chevron pattern. I finished with ten minutes to spare.
In the ballroom, everything looked perfect. Dozens of candles had been lit, and the room flickered with their light. The band was setting up on stage, the bar was ready, and the first guests, dressed in gowns and tuxedos, were walking in.
I was about to turn back to my table when the main doors opened again. It was a sunny afternoon, and the figure was backlit so that I only saw a vague form. But then the person lifted a hand to smooth his curls, a gesture that was so etched into my heart that I’d know it anywhere.
Laurent stepped into the light.