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I texted back a crossed-fingers emoji before gingerly choosing a choux puff from the tower and giving it a sniff. Mmm. Promising. Maybe the caramel was a touch over? Hard to tell.
The minute I bit into it, though, I knew that it wasn't good enough. That symphony I just described? Nope. This reminded me more of an orchestra tuning up. A cacophony. I sighed.
At least Anthony still seemed interested. His tail wagged and he looked up at me expectantly.
“Okay, boy. Just a tiny taste.”
I collapsed onto the couch next to him and offered him a crumb. He sniffed it and took a cautious nibble. Then, I swear, he literally turned his nose up.
"Well, excuse me, Anthony Pawdain! Not up to your standards, huh?"
Anthony might not have been into the fancier bakes I attempted, but he was the world's biggest fan of my apple pie. Based on my mom's recipe, it was simple as a smile. My mom's pie was the reason I'd always wanted to work in pastry. It wasn't just food, it was love.
Every time I tasted that pie, it was like I was a kid again, back in sleepy Bluehaven Beach, surrounded by the warmth and security of my parents.
Poor Mom and Dad. Losing Mom when I was ten left Dad to raise me solo while juggling the demands of running the town's bar. He worked so damn hard it almost killed him. For the past three years, he'd been at a veteran's care home in Bangor, Maine. It pained me to be so far away from him, but whenever I suggested moving closer, he'd put his foot down.
"Chase those dreams, El," he'd insist. "If you even think about moving here, I’ll chase you back!" He was as stubborn as . . . well, about as stubborn as me.
Anthony whined at me again and then walked over to the fridge, pawing at it.
"All right, pup. All right."
As soon as I opened the fridge, Anthony went berserk, circling around on the couch. He always knew when something good was coming his way. And he knew I always kept an apple pie in the fridge. I broke off a few crumbs for him and he devoured them immediately, before looking expectantly at me for more.
"No chance, mister! But if you’re still hungry, you can have some cooked green beans."
Anthony practically rolled his eyes.
On my way back to the fridge, I stole a bite, careful not to let Anthony see.
Sweet merciful heavens, it was divine. Apples. Cinnamon. Sugar. Butter. Nothing else. No pretense, no gimmicks.
It was a shame I couldn't present this to Chef Luigi tomorrow. I laughed to myself as I imagined how that would play out. He'd sneer, then ask me if I seriously believed something so rustic and simple belonged in Manhattan's latest Michelin-starred restaurant.
Then he'd laugh me out of the place, and I'd have my worst fears confirmed: I'll never be good enough to run my own patisserie.
***
By some miracle, the next morning, I nailed the caramel first time.
I assembled a small croquembouche and carefully wrapped it, before heading to the door.
The Tortoise was a cozy trattoria on Central Park South which had space for around thirty covers. Head chef Luigi Tartaruga was something of an industry legend. He was only in his twenties, and his rise to the very top of New York fine dining had been stratospheric. People called him a genius, called him brilliant, called him one of the greatest chefs to ever live.
Me? I preferred to call him an asshole.
I arrived at the restaurant twenty minutes before my noon appointment. True to form, Luigi kept me waiting until half an hour after it. As I sat alone in the bar, I could hear my colleagues busy at work with the mise en place for the evening's service. I loved the sound of the kitchen. The machine-gun rhythm of vegetables being chopped, and the hollow drumming of ingredients being swept into bowls and pans. It was pure drama.
When Luigi finally deigned to make his entrance, he didn't apologize for being late. Instead, he burst through the bar's heavy double doors like there was no time to lose.
"Elara," he said, locking his intense brown eyes on me. His skin was pale as milk, with jet-black stubble shadowing his hollow cheeks. He had an unruly mop of glossy black hair which he repeatedly wiped away from his brow as strands fell over his eyes.
"Chef," I replied, my voice catching in my throat. “Thank you for taking the time to—"
"Come on,” he interrupted me with his harsh Italian accent. “Let's get this over with."
I swallowed. “Sure thing.”
