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The interviewers made their way around the room, tasting dessert after dessert, asking probing questions to the bakers. I was third to be judged, which meant that I had the honor of them reducing the first baker to tears, and then blowing so much smoke up the ass of the second baker I swear he thought he was the new Pierre Trouffant by the end of it.
And then it was my turn. The judges approached my station, their expressions unreadable. They asked me to cut the tarte, which I did. The crust was snappy beneath the tender apple. Each judge took a forkful. I could hear the wet, squidgy sounds of them chewing up the food I’d just spent three hours slaving over.
"Why did you choose these desserts?" asked one man, his tone neutral.
"Um, well," I stammered, "my mom used to make this amazing apple pie when I was a kid. It inspired me to create the tarte Tatin."
"Interesting," said a second interviewer, taking another bite of the tarte. "Do you think you've improved on your mother's recipe?"
I hesitated for a moment, searching for a suitable answer. "My mom’s pie was delicious. But I prefer this recipe. It's more technical, and I think the caramel adds a lot to the apple." It was a lie. Nothing could ever beat Mom's apple pie. But I didn't want to get laughed out of the place, and the last thing I wanted to do was admit that I had overcomplicated things for no reason. "It's more refined."
"I see," said Martha. She nodded, then exchanged glances with the other judges.
"Your cotton candy cheesecake is . . . intriguing," said the first interviewer, looking it over. "Feels like being at a funfair."
I looked down at the smudge of pure white cheesecake filling at the center of the plate, with a generous dollop of cream on the side, swirled through with both pink and blue cotton candy. The entire creation was dusted with a fine sprinkling of buttery golden biscuit crumbs over the top. I was proud of the way it had come out, especially as it was a new recipe for me.
The judges laughed as they tried to figure out how to eat it. Laughing was good, right? Laughing meant they were having fun. And desserts were meant to be fun.
The first judge looked surprised at the flavor. "Do you think it's sweet enough?"
My heart beat faster. How could a cotton candy cheesecake be lacking in sweetness? I took an experimental bite. It was pretty damn sweet.
"I think it's about right."
Martha shook her head. "It needs to be sweeter, Elara. This dessert is meant to transport us to a fairground, to make us feel like children. For that reason, it would have been better not to deconstruct it, too. Children don’t care about deconstructed desserts. They just want a great big slice of fun on their plates."
I grimaced, struggling not to let my emotions show too clearly. "I guess I consider this a dessert for nostalgic adults, not children. So, I tried to add a touch of sophistication. I didn't want it to seem childish."
The head interviewer raised a finger to speak. "You have to execute on promise, Elara. Something that looks like this, so fun and gaudy and garish, it needs to pack a punch. Sadly, this does not."
"Having said that," the third judge said, "I can see the passion in this dessert. You wanted to share something about your childhood." I got the feeling that he was just trying to make me feel better.
How had I got things so badly wrong?
"Thank you for trying them," I said, feeling a rush of disappointment.
"Miss O'Neil, may I ask you a question?"
I nodded my head.
"You are clearly a proficient pastry chef. Both of your desserts are technically well executed. Not only that, but I can see that you've worked at The Tortoise—a restaurant with a Michelin star. So, just what is it that you hope to get from a course at the Pierre Trouffant Pastry School?"
I felt my legs tremble, and my mouth started to twist into a strange sort of grimace. “I just want to learn how to be good enough.”
Don’t cry, Elara. Do. Not. Cry.
There was a moment. The chefs exchanged glances.
"Thank you for your time," said the head interviewer, offering a curt smile. "We'll be in touch."
"Thanks," I mumbled, forcing a smile of my own.
What had just happened?
***
I canceled my plans for the night. I didn't feel like celebrating. And the idea of complaining to my old colleagues about how disappointing my life suddenly seemed to be did not sound fun.
