broad-shouldered in chefâs whites. Heâd tied a bandanna on his head. âDonât see the point, me.â He frowned. âWeâre all bloody doomed anyway.â
âNo, weâre not!â disagreed the petite, plump baker beside him. No longer an apprentice, Myra had been through the fire. Her grit and experience showed. âPhoebe will set things right.â
There was a general murmur of agreement over that. Except for Hugh, who was the newest apprentice, they all seemed to have the opinion that Phoebe would be able to right the ship.
Largely, I figured, with my chocolate-whispering help.
âItâs a matter of time. Youâre all a bunch of blind idiots, if you canât see that.â Hughâs sinewy muscles flexed beneath the rolled-up sleeves of his whites, showing off multiple tattoos. Beneath his bandanna, he had wild hair and a pierced eyebrow. In his combat boots, he carried a knife. Iâd seen it when heâd hoisted some trash. âI never should have come here.â
He whipped off his apron, untying it with nimble fingers. He hurled it away. His knuckles bore multiple tattoos, too.
On a stream of swearing, Hugh stomped toward the back door.
Myra nudged me. âShouldnât we go after him?â
âNope.â Hugh needed time to cool offâtime to regain hope that his apprenticeship would work out. âHeâll be back.â
Everyone looked dubious, but I was certain. Iâve known people like Hugh Menadueâproud, hotheaded, and impervious to the dangers of fire, knives, and 115-degree heatâfor years now. He was born to work in the restaurant business. He was family now.
We all were. That was my rule. When consulting, my first order of business was diagnosing interpersonal problems in any given environment and dealing with them. Only after that did I tackle brittle cookies, failed viennoiserie, or fallen gâteaux.
With Hugh momentarily left to his own devicesâand, most likely, the comforts of a cigarette in the alleywayâI set about assigning tasks. One baker chopped chocolate with a sharp chefâs knife, turning it from a solid block to uniform tiny shards. Another cracked room-temperature eggs, kept that way so theyâd blend uniformly with the batter and not âcurdleâ itâbasically, overchill the butter in the mix, and make it harden into small lumps. Another sifted flour. A fourth added hot coffee to cocoa powder, melting the cocoa butter trapped within those particles and enabling them to meld smoothly with the brownie batter.
Thatâs a trick you might not have heard of. Although it seems efficient (and obvious) to combine dry cocoa powder with flour, itâs almost always better to mix it with a liquid first. Otherwise, youâre leaving flavor untapped. Just take one whiff of the resulting slurryâas I did thenâand youâll be a convert.
As the (lackadaisical) business went on in Primroseâs front of house, we went on with our (umpteenth) brownie lesson in the back. I might have despaired of ever teaching the beginner staff the best ways to grind almonds for macarons or beat eggs for genoise, but their mistakes were the best way to learn.
I can tell you twenty times not to overbeat the sugar and butter for chocolate chip cookies, to substitute part bread flour for cakier results, to add more salt than you think you need, to chill the dough before baking, and not to reuse a sheet pan before itâs cool . . . on and on and on. But until youâve spent forty-five minutes laboriously mixing chocolate chip cookie doughâonly to scoop it, bake it, and wind up with a lavalike spread of greasy, flat, sadness-inducing cookiesâyou just wonât get it.
While the resulting (refined) brownies baked, I got busy checking with Primroseâs resident chocolatier. To my relief, the department that handled truffles, fudge, and handmade bars full of cacao nibs,
K. Sterling
Jacquie Rogers
Rebecca Hamilton, Conner Kressley
Shiloh Walker
Elizabeth Moynihan
Mary Balogh
Tara Fox Hall
Jonathan Maberry
Jane Hunt
James Kakalios