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The judges spring another challenge on us, asking us for six perfect, identical danishes to be made with puff pastry, which means Fallon and I need to split our attention. I make a snap decision when I find out Fallon doesn’t know how to make puff pastry without a recipe. He can fold the butter into the croissant dough, finish the fillings, and I’ll work on the danishes.
Things start going off the rails pretty quickly—right around the time the live audience shows up.
Somehow, the filling ingredients for our almond croissants end up way, way too salty. It needs to be made again. Once that’s done, the red timer is counting down, down, down—so I go to check on the folded croissant pastry in the fridge. Beside it, my carefully prepared butter block is still wrapped in plastic.
I pull it out, frowning. “Fallon?”
He’s prepping our onion-and-goat-cheese filling for the other croissants we’re making—we decided to go savory—and glances over his shoulder as his hands keep chopping. “Yeah?”
“What butter did you use for the croissants?”
He jerks his head at the end of the counter. “The stuff over there.”
My stomach bottoms out. “The room-temperature butter?”
He yelps, then looks down at the fresh line of blood on his finger. “Shit. I cut myself.” Glancing up, he nods. “Yeah, the soft stuff. I spread it over the dough and folded it like you said.”
As a medic rushes over to tend to his finger, I almost start to cry. Croissants need cold butter. You need to have thin sheets of cold butter sandwiched between thin sheets of dough. If Fallon didn’t laminate layers of butter in between the dough, that means the pastry won’t be flaky. We won’t have croissants.
And it’s too late to start over—especially since Fallon needs to make the onion mixture again on account of the blood.
By the time the timer has counted down to the last hour, I know our croissants haven’t proofed long enough. Without the butter laminated properly, they won’t end up flaky. They’re going to turn into a dense, soggy mess, and there’s nothing I can do about it.
My danishes have fared a little better, but the fillings aren’t anywhere near perfect. I cut them crooked, too, and I forgot to egg wash them until they were already in the oven a few minutes, so they’re not as golden-brown as they should be, and the filling has run out and burned around the edges.
It’s a complete and utter unmitigated disaster. Not one single thing has gone well.
I’m close to tears and my hands are shaking so much Fallon has to take over pulling the danishes from the oven. His lips are pinched, jaw set in a grim line.
Glancing up at the bleachers in the mezzanine level, I see my best friend Candice leaning against the railing. She’s shouting and cheering me on while Simone and Fiona are waving signs with my name on them in glittery writing.
Behind them, I meet a man’s eyes for a brief moment before he ducks away. Did he look familiar? I glance again, but I can’t see anyone. My eyes are too blurry to tell, anyway.
Dread twists in my stomach. Everyone will see me fail.
I should be happy they’re here, but all I feel is deep, overwhelming embarrassment. I’ve made thousands of croissants in my life, and none of them have been as bad as this.
When Fallon pulls out the croissants from the oven, I brush a hot tear away from my face. They look like they were made by a child. An amateur. Soggy, with butter melting out the edges, dense, and I can already tell the bottom is doughy.
Fallon sets the tray down and leans against the counter, looking at the little nuggets of unrisen dough in crescent shapes. He glances over at me, looking miserable. “I’m so sorry, Jen. This is on me.”
I pick up one of the ruined croissants and turn it over, dropping my chin to my chest. My bottom lip wobbles.
Look, somewhere in my mind, I know it’s only a TV show. I know it’s some stupid competition, and in the grand scheme of things, it means nothing.
But the thing is…it means a lot. This is going to be broadcast to thousands—maybe millions—of people. My parents could see it! How will they react when they see me making a fool of myself on national television? How could they possibly be encouraging of my career as a pastry chef when this is what I produce?
Congrats on the new book! I heard you can’t even make a croissant.
“Hey, don’t cry,” Fallon says, moving closer to shield me from the nearest camera.
I put my palm on his chest and gently push him away. “Stop, Fallon. It’s fine.”
His face twists. “I’m sorry. It was my fault. I didn’t know about the butter.”
“I should have paid closer attention,” I say, and it’s true. How could this be Fallon’s fault when I’m the supposed pastry chef?
I’m ashamed of myself. It’s pastry, for crying out loud. But, but… Oh, I’m such a loser, because I do care. I wanted this to be perfect. I wanted to do well. I wanted my friends and family—my parents—to be able to watch this show on television and finally, finally understand why I quit my “real” job to pursue this dream.
