Before going home, I slip into the test kitchen to wrap some leftover chicken in wine sauce, a dish I made yesterday. Papi loves this stuff.
I’m surprised to find Pippa is still here this late. She’s cleaning the area around her station, where a beautiful croquembouche tower is displayed on a cake stand. Glimmering strands of spun sugar are draped over the profiterole stack.
I hesitate, since we haven’t really spoken since the sunchoke soup disaster. I miss hanging out like we used to. I’ve never had friends like this. And I went and made a mess of things.
“Wow,” I say, sounding like I’m trying too hard.
“Yeah, it’s nice, huh?” Pippa’s eyes are set on the pastry tower. She fumbles with a strand of spun sugar and I can sense the tension between us bothers her as much as it does me.
After a long pause I add, “I didn’t plan to do it . . . misleading her, I mean. It just happened.” I gesture apologetically with my open palms.
Pippa stares me in the eyes. And as uncomfortable as it makes me feel, I hold her gaze. I want her to know how truly sorry I am.
“How can I trust you won’t do the same to me?” she asks. The question stings. I hadn’t thought of it that way. “It’s hard enough being a woman in the kitchen. We don’t need to tear each other down.”
Pippa shakes her head. She must see the hurt in my face because she looks away.
“I wouldn’t . . .” I stutter. “I got caught in the moment. It was stupid and childish. I feel like crap about it. You guys are my friends.”
“Strong women lift each other up,” she says in a gentler tone. Her hand reaches for my arm. The touch has a grounding effect. “You need to talk to Lucia. Set things right.”
My face goes hot with embarrassment and shame.
“I know,” I say in a low voice. I just don’t know how, exactly, to make it right.
Pippa nods. Her shoulders relax slightly, and her features soften somewhat.
We both turn to admire her creation in silence.
“Did you make this in one day?” I ask, incredulous.
A satisfied smile appears on her face. “Yes, we did. Chef Troissant is some kind of pastry genius. I mean, she hasn’t written any books or won any big titles. But she’s crazy good.”
“It’s perfect,” I say, leaning in to sniff the buttery scent of the profiteroles.
“Do you want to try one? I have some leftovers.”
“I would love to.” She hands me a delicate pastry and I put it into my mouth. It’s airy-light and filled with vanilla bean cream. Absolutely delicious. “This is amazing.” The last thing I want is to feel jealous, but I do. Pippa got to stay behind and craft this spectacular dessert.
I remind myself I was one of the chosen allowed into Grattard’s precious kitchen—one of only three. I should feel extremely proud of myself. But now, staring at this gorgeous tower of cream puffs, I wish had been left behind with Pippa.
“How was your day?” Pippa asks. “Lucia was walking on sunshine when she left. She said it was exhilarating finally being in the real kitchen.”
“It was fine,” I say while reaching for another profiterole and stuffing my mouth with it. Pastries make a great avoidance tool.
“Fine?” she asks, her tone doubtful.
I point to my full mouth and manage to say, “These are so good,” between bites. I ignore the curious look she’s giving me.
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Why?”
“You don’t look fine to me. You seem down.”
“Long day.” I won’t admit, even to myself, how miserable I really feel.
“When are you going back to London?” I ask, attempting to steer the conversation away from me. “Maybe we can hang out or something before you leave.” It’s supposed to be a casual question, but it comes out loaded with all the baggage from our last outing and the drama I’ve created in our threesome.
“Not for a while,” she says tentatively. But then her face breaks into a smile she can’t seem to hold back. “I got a job at Pâtisserie Lulu. I’m assistant baker.”
“What? That’s amazing!” I reach out for a hug. Pippa hugs me back, which I take as a sign of progress. Maybe our friendship isn’t dead after all—more like in a coma.
“Wow, congratulations. How did that happen?” I ask.
“I went by a few days ago to taste their canelés—oh my god, she has the rum shipped in from Martinique, it’s amazing—and Chef Lulu was speaking with a customer. I introduced myself and told her how much I loved her pastries, and that I was part of this program. Then she said she was looking for an assistant baker if I was interested. I said yes, right on the spot.”
“That’s amazing,” I say again.
“I start next week. Right after our final exam on Monday.”
I’m trying really hard just to be happy for Pippa and to celebrate this wonderful accomplishment. But I can’t help feeling sorry for myself. Her excitement is palpable. She knows exactly what she wants and where she wants to be. I wish I had her clarity.
“I have to go,” she says, pulling out her phone and staring at the screen. “I’m taking this little guy home before it gets soggy. My flatmates can’t get enough of our assignments.”
I help Pippa pack her croquembouche, careful that the spun sugar stays intact. Then I hold open the back delivery door as she walks into the alley carrying a tall box full of pastries.
“Take care, Isa,” she says, disappearing into the busy street.
I close the door and lean my back against it, hands falling limply to my sides. I’ve painted myself into a corner and there is no escape. While Pippa and the others get to savor the joys of baking, I get to pinprick sauce dots onto a plate for hours on end. Maybe tomorrow will be different.
I’m startled by Chef Troissant, who stumbles out of her office carrying a half-empty champagne bottle under one arm and a glass flute in the opposite hand. At first, she doesn’t notice I’m in the kitchen. She pulls a stool from the kitchen island, sits, and refills her glass.
When she lifts her head, she seems genuinely shocked to see me standing by the back door.
“What are you still doing here?” she asks, slurring her words.
“I was about to leave,” I say, walking toward her. “Just wanted to get what’s left of my chicken.” I pull my apron over my head and fold it on the table. “It’s for my dad,” I say, sounding apologetic.
“Ah, I see,” she says. “Might as well get yourself a glass.” She pushes the champagne bottle in my direction.
I stare at the bottle, wondering what to do. I’ve never been to a French school, but I’m pretty sure I’m not supposed to be drinking with my teacher.
“What?” she asks. “Ah, you’re American. Not until you are eighteen, oui? I won’t tell anyone.” She brings her index finger to her lips and makes a shushing sound.
I go get a glass to appease her. The last thing I want is to turn Chef Troissant against me right before the final exam.
I fill my glass only halfway.
“Alors,” she says, and I notice her eyes are rimmed red. She raises her glass and gives me an expectant look, so I raise mine to meet hers.
“À votre santé,” she says, clinking my glass. I take a small sip. This all feels super weird.
“Are you okay?” I ask, trying to sort out what to do. Do I call Pippa to come help me? Or do I just leave?
“You want to be a chef, oui?” she asks. Her eyelids are heavy and she’s propping her face up with one arm leaned against the kitchen island.
I nod, afraid to say the wrong thing. After the dots, this is not how I wanted my day to end.
“Let me tell you something,” she says, now pointing her index finger at me. “The kitchen is a man’s world. You want to succeed? You need to rip your heart out. Drop it in a hot pan and let it sizzle. That’s what it will take.” She stumbles back to the wine fridge and returns with an uncorked bottle of champagne.
“Perrier-Jouët,” she announces. “The best.”
The bottle she’s holding is worth about $500. I know this because Papi used to get it for Mom on their anniversary. The last bottle he bought is still unopened in our house back in Chicago.
Chef Troissant pops the cork and giggles like a schoolgirl.
“This is a good one,” she says, examining the bottle. “You pour,” she tells me.
I do as I’m told even though I’m second-guessing every decision right now. I half fill both our flutes, trying to pace myself. I don’t want to end up plastered in front of my teacher, even though I doubt she will remember any of this in the morning.
“It was an accident, champagne. Did you know this?”
I shake my head. I did not know.
“The wine was bottled after the initial fermentation. The bottles exploded and the corks popped. Le vin du diable, they called it.”
The devil’s wine. How appropriate.
I sip on my glass and the bubbles burst in my mouth, leaving behind a flowery sweetness.
“That was nice . . .” I say as I set down my glass. “It’s getting kinda late, though . . .” I grab my apron and take one step back.
“Five years I give to this man,” she says. “All this time, waiting for a recommendation. Maybe a restaurant in America, New York or D.C. Anywhere!”
She pushes out a stool with her foot and I take it as a suggestion—an order, really—to sit and listen.
“But no, instead I’m fifty feet away. Behind the curtain.” She scoffs. “I have talent too. That mandarine foie gras everyone talks about? That was my idea. I came up with that, not him.”
She seems to be waiting for an answer, so I say the only thing I can think of. “Yeah, the foie gras is awesome.”
“Thanks . . .” Her voice trails off.
“Is there some in the fridge?”
“You’re right. We should have some foie gras,” she says, suddenly wide-eyed and animated. “To my foie gras!” She clinks my glass and downs hers like it’s grape juice.
I finish the rest of my champagne, already feeling its mind-numbing effect. This stuff is like a liquid anesthetic. The anxiety that only moments ago felt like a sharp knife has transformed into a dull blade. My mind is so dazed that I don’t even think about the poor, tortured geese whose livers are systematically overstuffed to make the foie gras. Normally I would be too ridden with guilt to enjoy it.
Chef Troissant returns with a spread of crackers and a foie gras terrine that takes half a day to make—surely someone will miss this in the kitchen tomorrow. Then she drops a blue booklet in front of me on the table. “Pâtisserie Clémentine. Opening soon.”
I take the book in my hands and flip through the pages written in French. It’s a business plan complete with financial projections and architectural drawings of the store. A big sign in gold letters reads Pâtisserie Clémentine over a quaint storefront with bright flower baskets hanging on both sides of the front door. The interior drawings show plenty of space for a long pastry display cabinet, a coffee bar, and a few dozen café tables. I flip to the business goal section, where it reads: “To provide artistic products of distinctive quality, made by a devoted team, led by Chef Sabine Troissant.”
“You’re opening your own place?” I ask, surprised. I read somewhere that in France it is rare to find a woman at the helm of a pastry shop. For both Pâtisserie Clémentine and Pâtisserie Lulu to be female-led and in the same town seems too much exception to fathom.
“This is my dream,” she says, digging into the terrine with a cracker. “When I started here I had so many ideas, so many things I wanted to do. But that kitchen can be like a spoiled child. You give and give and give, and never get anything in return.” She pauses, staring at the bubbles rising inside her champagne flute. “I feel so far away from where I wanted to be. Did you know two years ago I made the semifinals in the MOF competition?”
My jaw drops to the floor. There is nothing like the MOF tryouts in the world. Seventy to eighty candidates compete in the most grueling two-day competition against perfection. About sixteen normally make it to the finals. I realize Chef Troissant is not just a great pastry chef. She’s one of the world’s best.
“But the semifinals are just the beginning. For the next year you need to prepare, find a MOF consultant, a coach, and a full-time assistant. It’s very hard work.” She swishes the champagne around in her glass.
“How was it? The finals. Were they as crazy as everyone says?” I ask.
She shrugs, pursing her lips.
“I wouldn’t know,” she says. “Grattard said it was a busy time at the restaurant and he could not do without his pastry chef. Then I spoke to Legrand, asked him to mentor me, but he said he would not go against Grattard’s wishes. I had to bow out.”
“Why didn’t you just quit?” I ask, leaning over the island.
“My mother, Clémentine, was sick at the time. I needed the job.”
“Wow,” I say. “That sucks.”
She gulps down what is left of her champagne. When she reaches for the bottle, she accidentally knocks it over and it spills all over the floor.
We both break out laughing.
“Go get another one,” she says.
I do as I’m told and walk over to the wine fridge. I find a bottle of very expensive Veuve Clicquot, the same brand Chef Legrand bought from the shipwreck.
Even if this bottle wasn’t found at the bottom of the sea, I decide Chef Troissant also deserves to drink her own bottle of Veuve Clicquot. She may not have the stupid MOF title, but in her own way this woman is exceptional.
I bring her the bottle.
“Excellent choice,” she says, pulling out the cork. She pours two glasses.
“To your pâtisserie,” I toast, and our glasses clink. “May it be the best in all of France! Hell, the whole freaking world!”
We laugh together, then launch ourselves into the terrine until we are fingering foie gras off the table. Now this is what I call high dining.
“This is so good,” I say as I lick my fingers.
“My recipe,” she says with both pride and disdain. “But who cares, right?”
She staggers to a standing position and zigzags back into her office. I follow her just to make sure she doesn’t trip and fall. I’m not faring much better. The entire kitchen appears out of focus and I’m holding on to the wall for support. Thank goodness I didn’t finish that last glass.
I ease her onto a couch, prop a pillow under her head, and cover her with a blanket. Before she passes out she says, “Why was the cake missing a piece? It was excellent in flavor but had a hole in the middle.”
It takes me a moment to realize she’s talking about the mille crêpe cake.
“Because an infuriating Spaniard who lives with me has no appreciation for the culinary arts,” I say.
“Infuriating, huh?” She looks at me and smiles. “You like this Spaniard?”
“He’s just so . . . chill all the time! It makes me crazy. And he drives this stupid motorcycle with a stupid sidecar. Who does that?”
“Do yourself a favor and call him to take you home. And clean up before you leave.”
She curls up and turns away from me. I guess this is my cue.
I stand by the door, watching my passed-out teacher. What just happened? I don’t even know.
What I do know is this: I am too lightheaded to get home on my own. I pull out my phone and call Diego. Dang, I’m that kind of drunk.