Chapter Four
The following morning, Poppy was woken by the alarm on her phone telling her that it was time to jump in the shower – which turned out to be nothing more than a broom cupboard – and prepare herself for her debut at a real French patisserie. Nerves jangled and she felt lightheaded as she contemplated what lay ahead; her most immediate fear being that she wouldn’t understand what the customers were asking her for. She hoped that on her first day at Patisserie Madeleine Olivier would have arranged for her to work behind the scenes, learning the routine in the kitchen and familiarising herself with the various products.
Even though she had trained as a pastry chef at college, then worked at an upmarket bakery in Sidmouth where she had honed her craft until she was able to create all of the products the shop offered without thinking, she was still anxious about what she had agreed to do. At the bakery, the repertoire rarely changed; scones, Devonshire splits, apple cider cakes – along with a nod to their French cousins, pain au chocolat, tarte au citron, éclairs, and profiteroles – with the occasional variation for the festive season.
She had become proficient in creating the patisserie. Surely she couldn’t have forgotten everything she’d learned over the last year or so while she concentrated on her chocolate-making business?
Keen to make a good first impression, Poppy chose her smartest tee-shirt – a pale lemon colour with daisies printed around the neckline – and a pair of navy-blue tailored trousers, completing her outfit with her trusty denim jacket. Finally, she wrapped a jaunty Hermès scarf she’d found draped on a hook next to the door around her neck, pulled on her favourite pale blue beret, and prayed that she looked chic enough to blend in with the Parisan locals.
It was still early, and as she emerged from the building she was greeted by a clear blue sky and shards of weak autumnal sunshine washing the scene with a golden glow. Even at that hour of the morning, the street thrummed with life; pedestrians, cyclists, groups of visitors following their enthusiastic tour guides towards Notre-Dame Cathedral, their cameras nestled against their chests, ready to be pressed into action when they rounded the corner at the bottom of the street and came face-to-face with the iconic structure in all its glory.
She followed in their wake, pausing once again to peer into the window of the Maison de Pierre boutique, her gaze lingering on a gorgeous fern-green wool dress, nipped in at the waist by a matching belt sporting an intricate silver buckle. She knew it would look amazing paired with the knee-length brown leather boots and the green cloche hat she’d brought with her…. until she saw the price tag and almost collapsed.
She moved quickly on, past the pretty flower shop showcasing a kaleidoscope of colourful blooms, past Bistro Fabien where patrons sat at the outdoor tables huddled into thick overcoats as though sheltering from an arctic storm, and finally past the wonderful bookshop, Librairie Juliette, its carved wooden frontage equally as interesting as its contents.
However, when she arrived at Patisserie Madeleine, all she could do was stare in wonder. It was the prettiest store in the street by a long way. Its fa?ade had been painted in an attractive shade of sky-blue, its wide double windows protected from the sun by a cream-coloured canopy with scalloped edges and the words Patisserie Madeleine printed in gold letters across its length. A pair of lollipop olive trees stood sentry at the gilded front door, their spindly trunks decorated with cream ribbons fluttering in the breeze.
But it was the window display that caused her to swoon with delight.
She feasted her eyes on the neat rows of pastries, each one a masterpiece in itself. There were fraisiers, choux à la crème, raspberry mille-feuille, Paris-Brest, macarons in every colour of the rainbow and, of course, the shop’s namesake – a selection of madeleines baked to perfection. There were also éclairs, profiteroles, financiers, religieuse, canelé, merveilleux, squares of moelleaux au chocolat topped in edible flowers and beautifully presented slices of opera cake, all neatly arranged to showcase their culinary beauty to the best advantage.
It was more like a high-end jewellery store than a neighbourhood bakery, but this was better, much better than a jewellery store, because the exquisitely crafted products on offer were edible!
Poppy could have stood there drooling all morning, but she knew Olivier was expecting her and she didn’t want to be late for the second time in two days. So, with a quick inhale of breath to dampen her rampaging nerves, she pushed open the door and stepped inside the emporium of epicurean magic. Immediately, she was enveloped by the most exquisite fragrance; a fusion of vanilla and warm, buttery pastry, with a top note of caramelised apples that sent her senses into overdrive.
Unsurprisingly, there had been nothing in the studio’s cupboards for breakfast, not even a jar of instant coffee – although she suspected that wasn’t very Parisian – and she could feel her tastebuds tingling as she surveyed the place where she would be spending most of her time over the next three weeks. To her left was a glass counter running the length of the shop filled with tray upon tray of perfect patisserie; to her right was a highly polished wooden shelving unit, home to neatly arranged pyramids of fancy boxes, hand-painted enamel tins and cut-glass jars filled with jellied fruits and pastel-coloured sugared almonds.
Patisserie Madeleinewas a patisserie palace, and she couldn’t believe how lucky she was to have been asked to work there.
‘Que puis-je vous server, mademoiselle?’
‘Oh, erm, bonjour, je m’appelle Poppy Phillipson. Je suis…’
She paused to scour her brain for the right words, but the French she had learned at school just wouldn’t come. She could feel heat flushing in her cheeks as she stared at the thirty-something man who had appeared behind the counter, dressed in a pristine white chef’s jacket – embroidered with the Patisserie Madeleine logo and his name, Alain – and she realised he must be Olivier’s twin brother.
‘Ah, oui, Poppy! Olivier t’attend! S’il te pla?t, passe par la cuisine… là-bas.’
Alain pointed to a door on the right, and Poppy managed to cobble together that Olivier was waiting for her in the kitchen, so she nodded her thanks to Alain, headed towards the door he’d indicated, and stepped into what was clearly the engine room of the business. It was smaller than she had expected, around the same size as the kitchen at the Boathouse Bistro, but that was where the similarities ended. Patisserie Madeleine’s kitchen boasted top-of-the-range commercial appliances, shiny stainless-steel utensils hung from a long horizontal rail, and a huge preparation counter where trays of perfect patisserie were awaiting their final inspection.
‘Bonjour, Poppy!’
A tall, dark-haired man rushed forward to greet her, and even if she hadn’t just met his twin brother, Alain, she would have known straightaway that this was Olivier because his wrists were encased in plaster casts. She couldn’t prevent a smile from twitching at her lips when she saw that the casts had been liberally decorated with drawings of flowers, rainbows, hearts and unicorns, and signed by “Ana?s”, “Lili” and “Théa”, and she remembered Jamie telling her that Olivier was the proud father of three young daughters.
‘Parles-tu fran?ais, Poppy?’ Olivier enquired, his brown eyes soft and filled with kindness. He too wore a white chef’s jacket, its buttons straining at the waist, but he’d added a jaunty red neckerchief that gave him a certain Parisian panache.
‘Désolée, mon fran?ais est un peu rouillé ces jours-ci,’ Poppy said, remembering at the last minute the phrase she had been taught by the French exchange student who had come to their school when she was studying for her A levels and who had, probably unwisely, offered to help with their conversational skills. ‘But I promise to work on improving my fluency while I’m here.’
‘C’est magnifique!’ Olivier smiled, before switching to English. ‘Poppy, I want to first of all express my, and my brother’s, wholehearted gratitude to you for coming to our rescue at such short notice. As you can see, I am somewhat… indisposed, and it has proved impossible to secure qualified assistance for a mere three weeks. Rest assured, though, I am still able to do most things here in the kitchen, but I’m slower and a little clumsier than usual.’
‘It’s not a problem. In fact, I’m excited to be here, and I’m grateful for the opportunity to learn about creating authentic French patisserie from you and Alain. If I have any spare time, I’m hoping to experiment with blending English and French pastries to create a delicious new twist on the original.’
‘That’s an… interesting idea.’
Poppy couldn’t fail to see the look of horror on Olivier’s face at what she had suggested, but he recovered quickly, giving her a broad smile. Belatedly, she realised that what she had said was probably sacrilege to someone like Olivier, who had no doubt been creating the products she’d seen in the window to the same precise recipe for years, if not decades.
‘D’accord, when Camille arrives for her shift, Alain – who usually serves our esteemed customers during the early morning rush – will come and assist me here in the kitchen, and if you feel able, I’d like you to help Camille in the shop. Jamie told me that you are trained as a pastry chef, and so I assume you are conversant with the various types of patisserie we offer here?’
‘Yes, I think so.’
‘Good. But first, breakfast!’ Olivier handed Poppy a tiny cup of black coffee and placed a freshly baked croissant on the bench in front of her. ‘Bon appétit.’
She took a gulp of the best coffee she had tasted since her last visit to see Oscar and Holly at the Fox Fiddle, enjoying the instant energy boost the shot of espresso produced, then she devoured the warm, buttery croissant, relishing every mouthful.
‘Mmm, ?a fond dans la bouche!’
Olivier smiled in acknowledgement of her praise, then reached for a bag of flour and dumped the contents into a huge silver bowl, a cloud of white particles ballooning into his face, which she could see from his expression didn’t usually happen when his wrists weren’t encased in plaster.
‘Are you settling in at Maman’s studio?’
‘Yes, thank you. It has an amazing view.’
‘One of the best. Now that we have the girls to think about, my wife Céline and I have moved out to the 16e, but we do still love Le Marais. It’s one of the most vibrant and cosmopolitan neighbourhoods of the city; it’s hip, diverse and exciting, packed full of art galleries, museums, vintage and designer fashion boutiques, and lots of fabulous places to eat whatever your tastebuds demand. My mother loves it, too. She has refused to live anywhere else. She’s happy here, and she has many friends within walking distance of her apartment.’
When Poppy finished her coffee and croissant, the injection of caffeine and sugar lifted her spirits and she felt like she could conquer the world. So, when Alain appeared at the kitchen door to inform Olivier that Camille had arrived, she pulled on the cream linen apron that she was thrilled to see had been embroidered with her name, squared her shoulders, and headed into the shop to face the hungry hordes of Paris.
After a quick introduction to Camille, and an even briefer explanation as to the whereabouts of the branded packaging, Poppy was thrown in at the deep end. However, to her surprise and delight, she found she had little difficulty understanding what people wanted, and on the occasion she did, they were happy to point to their preferences.
She adored the sky-blue patisserie boxes that were used to package the exquisite pastries, each one tied with a flounce of white ribbon, and she was amazed at the patience of the patrons who waited in line until it was their turn to make their selection. She knew from experience that many of the customers at the Boathouse Bistro would have huffed and puffed if they’d had to wait even for a few minutes for their purchases to be so exquisitely wrapped, or for a table to become available during the busy summer season.
At eleven o’clock, there was a noticeable lull in trade, and Camille was finally able to introduce herself properly to Poppy, complimenting her on her swift assimilation into what had turned out to be a perfectly choreographed routine.
‘Merci, Camille.’
‘De rein.’
Poppy smiled at her colleague, taking in her glossy auburn hair, styled into a graduated bob, and her choice of vivid red lipstick that highlighted her pale, flawless skin. She also wore the Patisserie Madeleine apron, but for some reason she had chosen to wear odd shoes that day – one red, one blue – and her calf-length trousers sported several appliqué patches featuring butterflies and flowers. (Poppy briefly wondered if Olivier’s daughters had designed them for Camille.) Her perfume was unusual, too; a blend of sweet and spicy. Not unpleasant, just different.
They had both been run off their feet that morning, and yet her colleague’s smile had never faltered. Even now, as she perched on a high wooden stool behind the counter scooping the crème diplomate from an éclair with her index finger, she exuded an upbeat, cheerful vibe.
‘So, how do you know Olivier?’
‘He’s a friend of my brother’s. They trained together at Le Cordon Bleu over a decade ago and they’ve been friends ever since.’
Camille glanced over her shoulder towards the closed kitchen door, then leaned towards Poppy conspiratorially. ‘Don’t tell him I told you this, but he hates coming into the shop. He always stays in the kitchen, which he calls the “beating heart” of the whole enterprise.’
‘Really. Why?’
‘He had a disturbing experience last year with a customer, and since then he refuses to serve behind the counter.’
‘What kind of disturbing experience?’
‘It was an American tourist, at least I think she was a tourist. Maybe she lives here, I don’t know. Anyway, she wasn’t happy with her special-order croquembouche, so she stormed into the shop to complain and demand a refund. She was very rude, said some derogatory things about Olivier’s talent as a patissier, and he had no idea how to respond; he’d never had to deal with any kind of criticism from our clientèle before, only effusive praise. He was mortified and took the complaint personally. Now he refuses to step foot in here when the shop’s open to the public, and he never goes online to read our reviews – which I have to say are invariably glowing – but, of course, there are the occasional disgruntled reviewers who expected to get something different.’
Camille paused to finish off her éclair.
‘You know, it’s his dream to win an award. It’s what he’s been aiming for since he took over Patisserie Madeleine from his father ten years ago. Alain’s told him over and over that he has nothing to prove, and I don’t know why it means so much to him, but it does. Olivier says that everyone needs the recognition of their peers. Personally, I don’t think that’s true – acceptance comes from within. Anyway, he’s devastated because there’s a competition in a couple of weeks’ time which he enters every year and would love to win, but after the skiing accident he’s not sure he’s even going to take part.’
‘Why not?’
‘He says he’s not at the top of his game.’ Camille smiled, dimples appearing in her cheeks. ‘Alain’s always telling him that taste is subjective, and I agree. We don’t all like the same things, and whether he wins a competition or not depends totally on the preferences of those who will be sitting on the judging panel this year. Do you have a boyfriend, Poppy?’
Poppy gasped at the sudden swerve in conversation, the familiar twinge of distress zipping through her chest as her thoughts involuntarily scooted back to her break-up with Drew. There was no way she wanted to go there, especially with someone she had only just met – it was still too painful, not to mention embarrassing – so she smiled and tried to sound as nonchalant as she could when she replied.
‘No, I don’t. In fact, I’m on a dating break… until the end of the year.’
‘Really? So you’ve decided already that you’re not going to date anyone while you’re in Paris? What if you meet your soulmate here?’
‘That’s not likely, is it?’
‘How do you know?’
She stared at the serious expression on Camille’s pretty face, noticing for the first time the huge crescent-shaped earring she wore in one ear and the diamanté one in the shape of what she hoped was a baguette in the other. ‘I suppose I don’t, but my track record this year has been far from encouraging.’
‘Want my advice?’
‘Ok… ay.’
‘Variety is the key.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, I love éclairs, they’re my favourite of Olivier’s patisserie marvels, but if I only ate éclairs every day for the next month, I think I would be a bit bored with them, and crave a pistachio macaron, or a raspberry mille-feuille, or a tartelette aux fraises, or even one of those financiers, which are my least favourite of Olivier’s creations. So, one day I might have a coffee with Jules from the pharmacie, the next I might go for a glass of wine with étienne from the magasin de flleurs across the street, and the following week I might have dinner with the guy who walks his dog in the Bois de Boulogne. What I’m trying to say is… Vive la difference!’ Camille laughed, the high-pitched tinkling sound causing Poppy to smile, too. ‘Want to know a secret?’
Poppy nodded; she liked Camille already.
‘Sure.’
‘J’adore Pierre Bardoit.’
‘Who’s Pierre Bardoit?’
‘Did you see the Maison de Pierre boutique on your way here this morning?’
‘Oh yes, the very expensive clothes shop?’
‘Pierre designs all the pieces himself. He’s a true sartorial maestro! What he can’t do with a needle and thread isn’t worth knowing. That’s my absolute dream!’
‘What? To date Pierre?’
‘No!’ Camile laughed. ‘It’s his talent I adore, not Pierre himself! No, I meant that it’s my dream to design beautiful clothes and to have my own boutique one day, just like Pierre.’
Camille jumped down from her stool and whipped her apron over her head to reveal a purple and orange tunic with what looked like a row of dancing cucumbers sewn across the front – or perhaps they were courgettes – complete with little feet sporting high-heeled red boots.
‘I designed this myself, and these trousers, too. Oh, I know I’m a world away from what Pierre creates, but a girl can dream, can’t she?’
‘Of course she can.’
‘What’s your dream, Poppy?’
She held Camille’s gaze and saw genuine interest there, so she decided to confide in her.
‘I want to run my own English Garden Café where I’ll serve elegant crust-less sandwiches and the most beautiful desserts and pastries in the whole of Devon. While I’m here in Paris, I intend to learn everything I can about real French patisserie from Olivier and Alain, and then use that knowledge when I’m back home to create a marriage of French and English patisserie; twice the beauty, twice the taste, together in one delicious mouthful.’
She saw Camille’s lips twitch at the sides.
‘Did you mention this to Olivier?’
‘Not about the café, but I did mention the blended pastries idea.’
‘And?’
‘He looked horrified.’
Camille burst into laughter. ‘He’s a purist; the recipes he follows haven’t changed since the day his grandmother opened this patisserie in the early 1960s. But I agree with you, Poppy, we need to constantly think about expanding our horizons, otherwise we’ll become stale, blinkered in our outlook. When we insist on taking refuge in our self-made bubbles of familiarity, it’s not good for our creativity, and not good for our souls.’
Poppy realised that what Camille was saying was similar to what Hélène had said to her the previous night, and as the lunchtime crowd descended, making the continuation of their conversation impossible, she spent the afternoon pondering their words.
She was guilty of sticking to the same repertoire in all aspects of her life. She made the same desserts at the Boathouse Bistro – the customers liked them and they sold well, so why change what worked? She slept in the same bedroom as she had since she was a child – she was comfortable at home, her parents loved her and supported her in everything that she did, so why move? And finally, over the last few months at least, she had stuck to dating the same kind of guys – a long, uninterrupted string of éclairs.
No wonder they didn’t work out.
However, in her defence, when she had stepped out of her comfort zone and tried a raspberry mille-feuille topped with vanilla-flavoured icing – aka Drew Goodwin – it had been a disaster on an epic scale. So, for the time being, she would adhere to the promise she had made to herself and keep the rest of the year “patisserie-free”.