Bon Appetit by Sandra Byrd Read Free Book Online Page A

course, I didn’t agree with putting preservatives in baked goods either, but it wasn’t as horrifying as she seemed to think. Sometimes the French took this food thing a little far.
    I opened the oven and reached in with my well-protected arm to pull out the pan of chouquettes. I knew the bread bakers would soon need the oven to bake the evening batch of breads so they would be available when people stopped by on their way home from work.
    Holding my breath, I banished thoughts of my greasy pound cake and pulled the pan out of the oven, setting it on the counter. I put the chouquettes on a cooling rack and, a few minutes later, popped one into my mouth.
    Perfect! I smiled, put two on a plate, and walked into one of the cool rooms where Patricia was icing and assembling the wedding cake.
    “Voilà,”
I said, passing her the plate.
    She ate one, then the other. “A little eggy,” she said, “and they could use more sugar on top. But good enough for a child’s
goûter.”
    “Merci,”
    I said, backing out of the room. I knew from working with Patricia that was high praise.
    I piled the chouquettes on a plate to wait for Céline. Then I busied myself dipping coffee beans into slick, inky chocolate.
    “Lexi!” A young voice ran through the front of the shop and back to the bakery.
    “Hey, Céline!” I said. “I have something special for you”. I held out the plate of chouquettes.
    “Merci,”
she said, popping one into her mouth. “Mmm, very good. My favorite”. She took another one and set her school bag on the floor. Then she ran back to see her
tante
Patricia.
    A few seconds later Philippe walked in and smiled at me. He let his kindness shine.
    “Bonjour!”
he said. “How is the new chef doing?”
    I grinned. We all knew I was not yet a chef. “Good days and bad,” I said. “Mostly good”.
    “What did you do for your weeks off?” he asked. “Conquer Paris?”
    If only he knew!
    “I did visit Paris, but only for a few days”.
    “Did you visit any museums?” he asked. “The Musée d’Orsay?”
    “No, not yet”. I hesitated. “The Musée d’Orsay is at the top of my list. I love impressionist art”.
    Philippe walked over to the peg board where the evening’s orders were posted and took off some slips and a few phone messages. As Monsieur Delacroix was not in residence, Philippe was in charge, andhe walked like a man confident in his domain. I found it appealing.
    He walked back toward me. “Then why haven’t you visited the musée yet?” He looked at me, so genuinely interested, not just making small talk. I felt I should tell him the truth.
    “When I went to Versailles, it fulfilled a lifelong dream. I loved it. But there was no one to talk with about it, and it cut into my happiness. I’ll have a friend at school—I already have one woman in mind—and then go places with her and share the experience”.
    “Ah,” he said. “That makes perfect sense. Happiness shared is doubled and sadness shared is halved, we say”. He smiled again and as he did, he looked younger and sweeter.
    “Yes,” I agreed. “That’s exactly what I mean”.
    Céline came running back into the room, pulling Patricia along with her.
    “Taste the chouquettes, Papa,” she said. “They are
délicieux”.
    Philippe bit into one. “Very good,” he said, “if a bit eggy”. He looked at Patricia. “You’ve been out of practice in the United States”.
    Patricia, to her credit, said nothing. Céline was too busy stuffing her mouth to correct her father. I looked down and promised myself I’d practice more and feel okay that I was, as of now, imperfect.
    Patricia took Céline into the office so she could work on her homework until Philippe was ready to take her home. Philippe went into the bread-baking room and got the crew ready for the final push of the day, after which, I was sure, he’d join Céline in the office and answer his phone messages. I got back to dipping coffee beans.
    About an hour