Читать книгу The Little Paris Patisserie - Julie Caplin - Страница 10

She almost walked past Patisserie C. That was it? She tamped down her disappointment, trying to find something positive to say about the outside of the double-fronted façade. It was difficult given the rather sad state of a too-virulent shade of turquoise paint which was curling and cracking, shedding its layers around the woodwork frames, making the shopfront look like an old lady that had been tarted up using too much make-up, while the door frame had an ominous stoop to it and the cataract-cloudy glass in the windows could have done with a good clean.

Peering through them, she could make out a rather functional looking café which bore no relation to the traditional, old-style, gilt-trimmed interior of her imaginings. Bentwood chairs, which had seen happier days, surrounded bistro tables arranged in stark, uniform rows, making it look like a prison holding bay rather than somewhere to go and enjoy a cake and coffee. In fact, it didn’t look as if enjoyment was on the menu at all in this place.

She hadn’t intended on actually going inside the patisserie as today was about getting her bearings, but as the weather was so miserable, she decided she’d warm up with a quick cup of coffee before heading back to the apartment.

Hesitantly she pushed her way through the doors into the gloomy interior. There was one customer, an older lady, seated at one of the tables and a man behind a run of glass counters which had a small selection of chocolate éclairs, fruit tarts and macarons, all housed in one central cabinet as if they’d congregated there for company. The cabinet hummed rather loudly as if it were struggling to keep up. The man didn’t deign to look up, he just kept polishing a glass in his hands.

‘Bonjour.’ Nina gave him a tentative smile, already feeling from the intense frown of concentration on his face that he wasn’t the sort to appreciate a friendly overture. He had a ‘repel the boarders at all costs’ sort of hunch as if he were trying to hide his face from the world.

‘Ow can I ’elp you?’ He lifted his head with the slowness of an octogenarian tortoise.

‘You speak English?’ That was a relief. ‘How did you know I was English?’

The look he gave her spoke the sort of volumes a megaphone would be hard pressed to beat and then to add further insult, he included a you-are-completely-stupid-but-I-will-bear-with-you-because-I-have-to roll of the eyes.

Seriously? All from one Bonjour?

‘I’m Nina. I’m … going to be working for Sebastian,’ she said, trying to sound confident, which wasn’t that easy in the face of his utter disinterest. If she thought Sebastian was intimidating, Marcel’s cool indifference made her question whether she should be here at all.

Yesterday’s meeting with Sebastian had rocked her more than a little, rather destroying her rosy vision of suddenly becoming a shit hot pastry chef. In the brief few days before coming out here she’d imagined observing him at work, absorbing everything like a sponge, while chopping things up, practising her skills under his tutelage as well as being his not so glamorous assistant. It certainly hadn’t occurred to her that she’d be so involved in the donkey work, doing the setting up, buying things or being left to her own devices so much.

‘Sebastian?’ Was it possible for his mouth to curl up any more?

‘Sebastian Finlay, he bought the patisserie.’

‘Ah.’ Or was it a pah? ‘The new bossman.’

‘That’s right. He sent me to check on the ingredients for next week and look at the kitchen.’

‘Feel free.’ With a sweep of his hand the man waved towards the back of the shop. ‘You won’t be bothering anyone. Perhaps a few ghosts of chefs past who will be rotating very fast in their final resting places. Bistro!’ He shook his head, a strand of hair slicked back to one side becoming dislodged, which he swiped away impatiently, his eyes flashing with indignation.

‘Your English is very good.’

‘I lived in London. I was mậitre d’ at the Savoy for some years.’ As he said it, he pulled himself up with a regal sneer. Nina imagined that behind the counter, his feet had clipped together.

‘Wow.’ Nina looked at him with renewed respect. The mậitre d’ at Bodenbroke was a cross between a mother hen, a sergeant-major and a sheepdog, soothing, cajoling and ordering everything into place while juggling the needs of guests and staff in the restaurant with calm unflappable authority.

‘I’m Marcel. For the time being…’ He paused. ‘The general manager here at Patisserie C.’

Making a quick decision, Nina held out her hand. ‘Nina – and I’m very pleased to meet you, Marcel.’ What was that phrase? Keep your friends close and your enemies closer. Making friends with Marcel seemed like a smart move.

Marcel ignored her outstretched hand and carried on polishing the glass in his hand.

Undeterred, Nina glued a pleasant smile onto her face. ‘Perhaps you could show me around, when you have a moment, but in the meantime, I’d love a coffee and one of those delicious looking éclairs. Is it OK if I sit over there?’ She pointed to one of the tables beside the window. She lied, the éclairs looked rather sad and forlorn. Worse still, Marcel’s lip curled as if to say, if you think that, then you’re an even lower life form than I’d originally thought.

‘If you must.’

Nina winced inwardly. This was going to be so much fun. Not.

She headed to the little table and as she passed, the sole occupier of the other table reached out and tapped her on the arm, giving her a quick conspiratorial smile before saying very loudly, ‘Don’t worry, he’ll soon cheer up.’

Marcel shot them both a dirty look which suggested that soon was a relative concept.

‘I’m Marguerite. It’s very nice to have you here.’

‘Hi … erm, I mean hello.’ Marguerite did not look like a ‘hi’ sort of person, although she gave her a big smile. ‘How do you do? Are you the owner? I mean old owner. I mean not old, previous.’ Nina tripped over her words conscious of the grace of the older woman, who was immaculately groomed.

The woman let out a delightful peal of laughter, as she lifted her chin and trained periwinkle blue eyes on Nina. ‘Alors, no, my dear. I’m accustomed to being the only customer here. I suppose I do think of it as part of my little world. And what brings you here?’

‘I’m going to be working for the new owner. Just for the next few weeks. Helping him with the patisserie course that he’s running.’

‘Ah, you are a patissier. Now that is a wonderful talent.’

Nina glanced round and lowered her voice; there was something about the woman’s enquiring gaze that encouraged the truth. ‘Actually, I’m assisting but don’t tell Marcel, I’m not sure he would approve. I’m not even a proper chef. It’s an opportunity to learn a bit more. I shall only be here for seven weeks.’ Sebastian’s caustic point that it took years to become a pastry chef still rankled. She knew that, of course she did.

‘I would love to be able to make patisserie.’

‘So would I,’ said Nina with a rueful smile before adding politely, ‘You should do the course.’

The woman looked at her gravely for a moment.

‘Actually, I think that’s a very good suggestion.’

‘Oh,’ said Nina completely nonplussed, suddenly remembering that Sebastian had been rather pleased that there were only three on the course.

‘Unless you think I shouldn’t.’ Marguerite’s face settled into stern lines.

‘Absolutely not,’ replied Nina. One more person wouldn’t make that much difference to Sebastian. ‘I think that’s an excellent idea. You’re never too old to learn new skills … except of course, you’re not old.’

‘My dear, I’m not in my dotage, I have all my mental faculties and I also have a mirror in my apartment which, alas, is rather honest.’ Her face softened and she smiled.

‘Well, you look good on it,’ said Nina.

‘Oh, I think I’m going to like you a lot.’

Nina grinned at her. ‘I can book you on the course, if you’d like.’

‘Excellent. And you still haven’t told me your name.’

‘It’s Nina.’

‘And as I said earlier, I’m Marguerite. Marguerite du Fourge, I live very near to here. Would you like to join me?’ She inclined her head at the spare chair.

Nina sat down, suddenly unsure what to do with her hands. Marguerite was one of those very elegant older ladies who had that same self-contained superior air that Valerie had exhibited. Was it a Parisian thing? Her silver hair was coiffured – there was no other word for it – in perfect silver waves and her make-up was discreet with a fine dusting of powder that softened the wrinkles around her eyes. In a rich russet-brown long skirt and a vibrant teal shirt, she made Nina, in her black jeans, black sweatshirt and ballet flats, feel like a dull sparrow next to a peacock.

Marcel brought over her coffee and the éclair and refilled Marguerite’s cup without being asked.

‘Merci, Marcel.’ She gave him an approving nod and his whole demeanour changed as he said something in rapid French back to her.

‘He’s a good man,’ said Marguerite to Nina as he bustled away like an important penguin. ‘He hides it rather well.’

‘Do you come here often?’ asked Nina, intrigued once more. It didn’t look like the sort of place that someone like Marguerite would frequent – surely there were much smarter places around?

‘It is convenient,’ said the other woman, almost reading her mind. ‘And I suppose I have the memory of what it used to be like.’ She gave a wistful smile, which softened her rather haughty face and made her seem suddenly a lot less intimidating. ‘And you live in Paris?’

‘Temporarily. I only arrived the day before yesterday. It’s a long story.’

‘I have plenty of time and I enjoy a good story.’ Marguerite’s eyes twinkled with mischief again, transforming the elderly matriarch into naughty Tinkerbell, and Nina found herself telling her the whole story, omitting of course the bit where Sebastian said she was the last person in the world he’d want help from. Not because she wanted to spare him and make the other woman think well of him but because it would lead to far too many questions.

In the end, she stayed chatting with the older woman for a good hour. Every time she thought they’d finished their conversation, Marguerite would ask her another question or tell her something about a part of Paris she should visit. She almost wished she’d brought a notebook. By the time she finally stood up and said she must go and do some work, Marguerite knew all about her family and that she was staying in Sebastian’s flat. In turn, Nina now knew where the best boulangerie was in relation to the flat, the nearest good restaurant and the only supermarché she should frequent, if she must.

Marguerite rose to her feet and Marcel rushed over to help her shrug on her coat, escorting to her to the door, opening it for her and ushering her out.

Nina finished her second cup of coffee and decided to be helpful and take it over to the counter, to save Marcel a job. Despite standing in front of the counter, he carried on noisily slotting dirty coffee cups in the tiny under counter dishwasher. She waited until he finally looked up and acknowledged her.

‘You’re still here.’

‘I am,’ she agreed with a smile, which was tough to keep up under his stern glare. ‘And I’d like to see the kitchen.’

‘Be my guest,’ he said, going back to his coffee cups. The song from Beauty and the Beast took up a refrain in her head, despite the fact that Marcel was as far from welcoming as he was a singing candlestick.

For some reason she started humming the tune under her breath.

Marcel looked up, his face morphing into an expressionless mask and pointed to the back of the shop and then once again turned back to what he was doing.

So it was going to be like that, then?

For a minute she felt like an intruder stepping into the Beast’s castle as she entered the kitchen. Oh heck. It was spartan. And filthy. Nina shivered as she walked into the centre of the huge room. A layer of dust coated most of the surfaces and she was convinced that if she turned the taps on it would take a while for the water to groan and splutter its way out of the pipes. It was going to take her hours to clean this place up. Something that Sebastian had failed to mention.

The floor felt greasy beneath her feet as she walked on the slightly slippery surface to put her bag down on one of the industrial stainless-steel benches. From the size and scale of the place, it was clear that once upon a time, the kitchen would have produced all the baked goods sold in the shop. There were still all the ovens along the opposite wall as well as large scale fridges on another.

She opened one of the drawers under the benches, the stiff runners making a metallic groan, the jumble of utensils popping up and trying to burst free like an unruly Jack-in-the-box, as if they’d been crammed in hurriedly. There seemed to be no rhyme or reason as to the contents; whisks, wooden spoons, spatulas and rolling pins. Even rulers? None of which looked particularly clean. There were traces of ancient pastry and cream crusted on some items. A second drawer held more of the same, as well as a third.

Shelving under the benches held an assortment of bowls, glass, earthenware and stainless steel in a mind-boggling number of sizes, all tucked haphazardly into each other. Sauté pans, heavy-bottomed pans and frying pans were stacked in leaning Tower of Pisa piles, handles pointing every which way like a distorted spider’s legs.

How on earth was she ever going to get this lot sorted in time?

And there was no chance of appealing to Marcel’s better nature, she wasn’t sure he had one. He’d made it quite clear she was on the side of the enemy. She was on her own.

Really on her own. There was no one she could ask for help.

For a minute the panic threatened to swamp her.

No, she could do this. She needed to make lists, prioritise and get some labels to mark up all the shelves and drawers so that everything had a proper place to live.

When she returned to the café area, it was still deserted. Marcel didn’t even look up at her. Mischief prompted her to say. ‘Is Marguerite your only customer?’

‘There are few ladies like Madame du Fourge around. She is old school Paris. Genteel. Elegant. She comes here every day.’

‘She does?’ Again, Nina frowned.

‘It hasn’t always been like this,’ snapped Marcel.

‘Sorry, I didn’t mean…’

‘Yes. You did.’ Marcel’s eyes shimmered with sudden emotion. ‘Once, this was one of the best patisseries in Paris.’ He waved a dismissive hand towards the pale-blue, -painted panels on the wall under a pink-painted dado rail. ‘When I was a child, I grew up four streets away. We would come here for a Saturday morning treat. They made the best mille-feuilles. It was the speciality of the house.

‘But the owner passed it onto his children. They were not pastry chefs. Things changed. We stopped making patisseries here in the kitchen. Everything is delivered now. It is not the same. And soon we will close and your Monsieur Finlay will open his bistro.’ Marcel closed his eyes, as if in pain.

‘I guess if the patisserie isn’t making money…’ Nina gave a tiny lift of her shoulders, trying to be sympathetic.

Marcel glared at her. ‘If it was run properly, it could. No one has cared for fifteen years.’ With a sudden petulant pout, he added, ‘So why should I?’ With that, he flounced away to wipe one of the tables which didn’t even look as if it had been used.

Nina frowned after him. Why was he working here then? Clearly, he’d been at the top of his game once.

With a sigh she looked at her watch and decided that she would come back tomorrow. She had a few days to get prepared and hopefully Marcel would be in a better mood, although she wasn’t counting on it.