her eye.
I felt a small twinge of self-satisfaction. It was so rare I held any trump card at all in this country!
“How was school this morning?” Patricia asked as I walked into the bakery after class.
“Fine,” I said, not wanting to complain. Even if I was cheap labor, I appreciated getting to go to school. “We’re still not doing any real baking, just testing, science, prep, history. Next week we start baking in truth, with breads, then
macarons, petits fours
, and small pastries”.
“I know,” Patricia said authoritatively. “After class you’ll come here or to the village and make the same things you’re learning in class, all week. I have some simple pound cakes for you to make today. Let’s go”.
She walked me toward the kitchen where she’d set out a plastic-covered recipe. I recognized it immediately. It was the same recipe I’d failed the week before in class.
“Please make six of these,” she said. “Call me as soon as you’re finished”.
I hadn’t eaten lunch yet, but that didn’t matter. I got to work on the cakes right away.
I weighed the ingredients out exactly and beat them just enough to mix everything but not enough to whip too much air into the batter. I didn’t want holey cakes.
The baking team in the next room was made of young and old, and one of the younger men turned on a radio station that played French pop. It picked up my mood.
I noticed the light was off in Philippe’s office and the door was shut.
I walked by the oven every ten minutes, looking in and praying the cakes wouldn’t be burned or flat or greasy or anything else. I cleaned the dishes in the sink and wiped down the labels on all of our spices. I repacked the chocolate tubs.
Finally, it was time. I took the cakes out of the oven.
Perfect!
I let them cool, and when one was ready, I brought it back to Patricia, who was in the cool room whipping up icing for yet another wedding cake. Next to her sat a pot of tempered chocolate and some leaf stencils.
“Here it is!” I said, offering it to her. She looked at it, sniffed its baked butteriness, and broke off a piece.
“Good,” she said. “Not greasy. Have Simone package the rest for the front”.
By that comment I knew Monsieur Desfreres had reported on my failed attempt. Patricia turned to her work, but just as I was about to leave the room, she called me back.
“Have you made chocolate leaves before?”
I set the rest of the cake down. “No, I haven’t”.
“Are you in a good mood?” she asked.
I looked at her questioningly. “Yes”.
“You cannot temper chocolate or work with it if you are upset, angry, or dull. It will cause the chocolate to bloom. The chocolate can sense your mood”.
I nodded. I didn’t know how I felt about that, but I had noticed that my recipes came out better when I was cheerful.
She showed me how to temper a bit of chocolate in a small, controlled pot and then paint the chocolate over a leaf stencil on waxed paper.
“You try it,” she said, as her chocolate cooled and hardened.
I took a deep breath and melted the chocolate, stirring the bits until it tempered. Then I painted a leaf, and made some swirls and strokes with the brush to imply veins. When both of our leaves had dried, I thought mine was the better of the two.
“You can see how my chocolate has a bit of white on it,” Patricia said. “It is not glossy and smooth. This is not a good day for me. I am tired of doing wedding cakes”.
Tired of doing wedding cakes?
How about I do the wedding cakes and you do the dishes?
I thought. But then the idea of being in chargeof the most important cake in anyone’s life scared me, and I mentally backed off.
“Your leaf is adequate,” she said, breaking it off. She handed it to me to eat and bit into hers. “I am going to have a cigarette”.
She walked outside and sat at the patio table, and I went back to the bakery, nibbling on my chocolate. I’d noticed this morning that my pants pinched a
I felt a small twinge of self-satisfaction. It was so rare I held any trump card at all in this country!
“How was school this morning?” Patricia asked as I walked into the bakery after class.
“Fine,” I said, not wanting to complain. Even if I was cheap labor, I appreciated getting to go to school. “We’re still not doing any real baking, just testing, science, prep, history. Next week we start baking in truth, with breads, then
macarons, petits fours
, and small pastries”.
“I know,” Patricia said authoritatively. “After class you’ll come here or to the village and make the same things you’re learning in class, all week. I have some simple pound cakes for you to make today. Let’s go”.
She walked me toward the kitchen where she’d set out a plastic-covered recipe. I recognized it immediately. It was the same recipe I’d failed the week before in class.
“Please make six of these,” she said. “Call me as soon as you’re finished”.
I hadn’t eaten lunch yet, but that didn’t matter. I got to work on the cakes right away.
I weighed the ingredients out exactly and beat them just enough to mix everything but not enough to whip too much air into the batter. I didn’t want holey cakes.
The baking team in the next room was made of young and old, and one of the younger men turned on a radio station that played French pop. It picked up my mood.
I noticed the light was off in Philippe’s office and the door was shut.
I walked by the oven every ten minutes, looking in and praying the cakes wouldn’t be burned or flat or greasy or anything else. I cleaned the dishes in the sink and wiped down the labels on all of our spices. I repacked the chocolate tubs.
Finally, it was time. I took the cakes out of the oven.
Perfect!
I let them cool, and when one was ready, I brought it back to Patricia, who was in the cool room whipping up icing for yet another wedding cake. Next to her sat a pot of tempered chocolate and some leaf stencils.
“Here it is!” I said, offering it to her. She looked at it, sniffed its baked butteriness, and broke off a piece.
“Good,” she said. “Not greasy. Have Simone package the rest for the front”.
By that comment I knew Monsieur Desfreres had reported on my failed attempt. Patricia turned to her work, but just as I was about to leave the room, she called me back.
“Have you made chocolate leaves before?”
I set the rest of the cake down. “No, I haven’t”.
“Are you in a good mood?” she asked.
I looked at her questioningly. “Yes”.
“You cannot temper chocolate or work with it if you are upset, angry, or dull. It will cause the chocolate to bloom. The chocolate can sense your mood”.
I nodded. I didn’t know how I felt about that, but I had noticed that my recipes came out better when I was cheerful.
She showed me how to temper a bit of chocolate in a small, controlled pot and then paint the chocolate over a leaf stencil on waxed paper.
“You try it,” she said, as her chocolate cooled and hardened.
I took a deep breath and melted the chocolate, stirring the bits until it tempered. Then I painted a leaf, and made some swirls and strokes with the brush to imply veins. When both of our leaves had dried, I thought mine was the better of the two.
“You can see how my chocolate has a bit of white on it,” Patricia said. “It is not glossy and smooth. This is not a good day for me. I am tired of doing wedding cakes”.
Tired of doing wedding cakes?
How about I do the wedding cakes and you do the dishes?
I thought. But then the idea of being in chargeof the most important cake in anyone’s life scared me, and I mentally backed off.
“Your leaf is adequate,” she said, breaking it off. She handed it to me to eat and bit into hers. “I am going to have a cigarette”.
She walked outside and sat at the patio table, and I went back to the bakery, nibbling on my chocolate. I’d noticed this morning that my pants pinched a
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