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CHAPTER ONE
Elara
Oh, caramel, you diva. I hate you and your delicious guts.
There I was, hunched over the stove in my sweaty shoebox of an apartment, wielding a wet pastry brush like a crazed artist. I delicately stroked the sides of the pan, determined to keep the caramel from turning into a crystallized nightmare.
"Not this time, caramel," I said, my voice a caricature of a comic-book-villain. "This time, I, Elara O'Neil, will be the one who laughs last."
And laugh I did. A manic, exhausted chuckle that was proof of how many times this had gone wrong today.
Thirteen times. A fricking baker's dozen.
Thirteen times I'd watched the color of the molten sugar in my pan change from mellow yellow, to rich gold, to coconut-husk brown. I was so tired I couldn't trust my eyes anymore.
It never got totally dark in my Astoria apartment—there was too much second-hand light from the bodegas, drug stores, and New York City nightlife —but still, night had somewhat dimmed the light. Trying to tell the exact shade of caramel in the pan had become almost impossible. Was it “golden brown” or “bitter bronze?”
I was too scared to check the time. I didn't want to know how late it was because I had to be up early tomorrow to do this for real.
I was due to deliver a croquembouche to my boss at midday. After months of pestering, he'd finally agreed to let me try out for the pastry team at The Tortoise. And I wasn't going to blow this chance, even if it meant staying up all night and single-handedly causing a sugar, butter, and cream shortage in the tri-state area.
Nearby, Anthony, my gorgeous little Cavalier King Charles Spaniel, whined.
"I know, buddy," I said, glancing over at him. "I’m just as impatient as you are!"
Anthony sat on the couch, his glossy chestnut ears flopping unevenly as he cocked his head at me. I only ever gave him the tiniest tastes of the pastry I made, because sugar wasn’t exactly part of a veterinarian-approved diet, but he was always so happy to be included in everything I did, and it was heartbreaking to—
Suddenly, I sensed a shift in the caramel's texture.
"Fuck, fuck, fuckity-fuck!"
I looked at the pan aaaaaand . . . it was ruined.
In the few seconds I had spent looking at my little friend, the smooth liquid in my pan transformed into a mush of crunchy sugar crystals.
Anthony looked at me curiously, brown eyes wide.
"It's not your fault, Anthony," I sighed, deflated. “It’s mine. All mine.”
I was the one who had decided to make croquembouche—a notoriously complicated cone-shaped tower of buttery, crème pâtissière-stuffed choux pastry balls, bound together by my arch-nemesis, caramel, and then draped in delicate threads of spun sugar.
The perfect mouthful should be a symphony.
Picture this: you pluck a petite, golden-brown choux puff from a tower of its friends. The puff is perfect, enrobed in a delicate, spun-sugar web, its caramelized shell begging to be cracked open. As your teeth sink through the crisp outer layer, the tender interior bursts with a rich, sweet filling, a little like vanilla-infused custard. The smooth, velvety filling coats your tongue, its decadent flavor lingering just long enough to persuade you to take another bite. And so, you do. . . .
"One more try," I said to myself with a yawn. “Don’t give you on your dreams, Elara.”
It turned out that one more try was all I needed. This time, I kept my eyes glued to the pan, and eventually, I had something that could pass for golden-brown caramel.
After waiting for it to cool, I began dipping the choux puffs, then carefully pressed them together, using extra drizzles of caramel as edible glue. When I was confident in my croquembouche's structural integrity, I snapped a photo and sent it to Lily, my BFF in Bluehaven, and Helen, my colleague at The Tortoise.
Lily replied almost instantly.
You talented croquemBITCH!
I texted back a heart emoji just as Helen replied.
If I was Luigi, I’d hire you on the spot! But I’m not that pervy butthole. Good luck!
