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He paused a moment, then clapped his hands together loudly, making me jump. "So. Remind me what this is about."
"I was hoping to join the pastry team."
His face contorted into an expression of confusion. "I don't think so."
"You said I could bake something for you?"
Silence.
"Last week?” I asked, my voice slightly squeaky. “Remember? It was after service on Thursday, when you complimented my beetroot confit."
"What did I say?"
"You said it was adequate."
He nodded, then came to sit down next to me, a little too close for comfort. Every move he made seemed calculated to unnerve. "Ah yes, I remember. Well. What have you got?"
I reached into my bag and carefully extracted the package.
"It must be Christmas," he said. Was he trying to make a joke? It was impossible to tell.
As I took the miniature croquembouche out of its box, Luigi’s eyes widened. Was that a glimmer of approval?
"Croquembouche," he mused, his tone inscrutable. "Interesting. You know, this is exactly what I thought you would make."
"Really?"
"Of course."
I swallowed, my throat suddenly dry. "Why?"
"Because of where you're from."
"Maine?"
"No, no, no. The trailer park. You want to prove that you've transcended your humble roots, eh? Showcase your newfound sophistication."
I chewed the inside of my lip. "I don't think th—"
"I understand," he said, putting a hand on my shoulder. "I know what it's like to have something to prove." I hated myself for not immediately brushing his hand away. He treated all the staff this way, regardless of gender, and we tolerated it because of his genius. That didn't stop me from instantly wanting to take a shower.
"Anyway, this is what I made. Croquembouche, with caramel crème pâtissiere."
"So you constructed it with caramel, and then used more caramel to fill the puffs?" A look of amused disdain.
Oh, crap.
"I wanted to demonstrate my proficiency with both types of caramel."
"I see. You really are eager to prove yourself."
It was true. I didn't want to be the trailer park girl who could only bake apple pie and had a penchant for Cheez-Whiz and corn dogs. I wanted to be sophisticated, with refined tastes, someone who could hold her own in a conversation with Gordon Ramsay and distinguish between a macaron and a macaroon. Basically, I wanted to be something I wasn't.
"Anyway, the proof of the pudding is in the eating!" Chef Luigi grabbed the top choux puff from the croquembouche dispassionately, as though plucking a dandelion from an overgrown lawn. And then he took a bite.
He chewed. And chewed. And thought. And chewed some more.
With each movement of his jaws, the tension mounted. Finally, I watched him swallow, tracing the movement of the food I’d so painstakingly created as it moved down his throat. Slowly, he turned to me. "You know, Elara, there's a fine line between sophistication and pretension."
