Chocolate Macaroons and a Dead Groom (Poppy Peters Mysteries Book 2) (2 page)

"Macarons or macaroons?" I ask. There's quite a difference between the two. The main one being the addition of shredded coconut.

"Please tell me you know the difference." Marta shakes her head. "We make both here so it's important that you don't get confused."

I'm not sure if she's serving me a dish of subtle insults, or she's really that uptight. The difference between shredded coconut and almond meal are obvious to anyone. I keep a solid grin on my face and wade through her concerns as best as I can.

"Yes," I reply. "I know the difference. I was just making sure you mean the almond sandwich cookies, not a sweetened ball of coconut."

"French macarons," Chef Gautier clarifies.

"Yes Chef, I'm anxious to learn all your tips and tricks."

"No." He almost smiles. "You make them for me. Right now."

I've only known Jean Pierre for five minutes, and already I have to prove myself to him. It isn't enough that I won this spot by beating out all my classmates with my grandma's prize-winning
brigadiero
. I have to show him
and
all the kitchen staff that I know pastry. It doesn't help any that one of them hates Americans, one of them wants to sleep with me, and one of them is using this moment to sneak madeleines off of the cooling racks while no one is looking.

"You want me to make French macarons…
now
?"

"Oui." Jean Pierre's speech doesn't waver. "Pistachio, please."

"Yes, Chef Gautier."

I gulp as I turn my back to put on my chef's jacket. I take off my heels, glancing out the window at the potted plants in the garden. I haven't even gotten a tour of the kitchen yet. I see a giant bowl of peeled and blanched almonds and another bowl of pistachios. This must be a rite of passage for all newbies, along with a macarons versus macaroons test. I retreat to the nearest sink to wash my hands, taking longer than I need to.

I've made French macarons before, but I haven't made them as many times as the people in this kitchen. The ingredients are very basic. All I need is almond flour, sugar, and egg whites. The technique is what makes the nutty sandwich cookies so hard to get right. The tops of the cookies need to be rounded with a crisp shell, and the insides need to be perfectly chewy. Each shell should rise upward in the oven, creating a rim around the base of the cookie that is commonly referred to as the feet. If my macarons don't have
feet
, I'm screwed.

I gently touch the bowl of almonds and look around the kitchen for some sort of food processor to grind them down to a fine powder. Destin tilts his head slightly, helping me out. Marta rolls her eyes and leaves the bunch to resume her duties. I bring the bowl of almonds to an industrial sized food processor and begin grinding them, adding in some pistachios. I focus on the machine. The food. My hands. Anything but the people watching me.

I imagine that Grandma Liz is standing right beside me giving me step-by-step instructions like she used to when I was little. She always offered words of encouragement, even when I burnt a batch of her double chocolate chip cookies. When my grandma cooked, she was never in a hurry.

I mix the almond and pistachio flour with powdered sugar and sift it all together. My heart rate calms down a bit when I whip my egg whites with granulated sugar until they form stiff peaks. I take my time folding all the ingredients together and dying my cookie batter mint green. I grab a tray lined with parchment paper and scoop my batter into a piping bag. The batter spreads onto the baking sheet in perfect circles. I keep my head down, concentrating on making each one flawless. After I tap the tray a couple of times to let any air pockets settle, I look and realize that everyone went back to work. Everyone except the Head Pastry Chef, Jean Pierre Gautier. His eyes are directed at the nimble movements of my hands.

"Buttercream or ganache?" I ask. The macaron filling is just as important as the cookie.

"You pick," Jean Pierre replies. Still no smile. Not even a slight grin or nod acknowledging that I'm doing a good job. I slowly wipe my hands, taking time to think about my decision. Jean Pierre is analyzing my every move. I have no doubt that whatever I choose will tell him all he needs to know about me.

Traditionally, a pistachio French macaron is filled with buttercream. I eye blocks of butter sitting on a prep table behind him. But sticking with traditional ingredients might make me seem like I'm trying too hard to earn his approval. Of course, I want Jean Pierre to like me. He's one of the top pastry chefs in Europe. I don't want to him to remember me as the clumsy American suck-up who stupidly wore high heels to her first day of work. I want him to see me as Poppy, the woman who once made him a dang good French macaron.

I think of making a ganache—a chocolaty center that would give my macarons an extra kick. But the taste would be a gamble. I've never tried a pistachio French macaron with chocolate. What if it falls flat?
Now you're over-analyzing this. What would Grandma Liz pick?

A breeze floats through the kitchen, drawing my eyes to the green, leafy vegetation out back. My grandma used to say that the best foods were the ones that reminded you what season it was. On the prep table there are crates of fresh produce. Jean Pierre eagerly watches as I look through ingredients. I pick up a fat, juicy blackberry.

"May I?" I ask him. He nods. It's the most he has communicated with me since I began his baking challenge. I take the crate of blackberries and set it next to the stove. I wash and mash a good handful in a saucepan and slowly start to heat it. I stir in some sugar and citrus, and a chunky basil leaf from an herb plant on the windowsill. By the time I've blended together my blackberry jam, my cookies are ready to be baked. I put them in the oven and scoop my jam into a jar. I let the jam cool in the refrigerator.

As I clean up my station, Jean Pierre looks puzzled. He takes a few steps forward and crosses his arms. I smile at him and continue wiping away the mess I made. Jean Pierre sighs and discreetly scratches his pointy chin. Now that he's standing closer I can see that I am slightly taller than him.

"Blackberry jam?" he asks. "
Pourquoi
?
Why
?"

"I don't know?" I shrug.

"Hmmm." Jean Pierre's expression looks as if he's eaten a piece of sour candy. He turns his head and walks away, leaving me unsure if I did the right thing. Was blackberry too bold of a flavor to pair with pistachio? Did I overthink this when I should've done the normal thing and made a vanilla buttercream? I rub the side of my forehead.

"He does that a lot," Destin says as he brings me a clean hand towel. His English is surprisingly clear.

"I figured it was an intern thing?"

"Oui," he answers, nodding his head. "Mostly to
interns
."

"You don't by chance remember the last intern who was here, do you?"

Destin wrinkles his nose and stares closely at my lips.

"Last intern?" I repeat.

"Oh, him." Destin chuckles. "He taught me lots of American words.
Hey, girl.
"

"How thoughtful of him," I reply. I try not to bust out laughing when Destin places his hands on his hips and pouts as if it's sexy.

"Destin, you're crazy but I like it. It'll keep me sane around here."

"Oui." He nods.

When my cookies are finished and my jam is cooled, I assemble them into small cookie sandwiches. Before anyone else has the chance, I take a bite of one, relieved that I've achieved a batch with
feet
. The blackberry and the nutty cookie blend together better than I'd hoped. The mint green shells and deep purple filling is also an eye-catching mix of colors. I plate my macarons and sprinkle a bit of crushed pistachio on top. Destin and Dandre immediately come over to taste them. Dandre's eyes widen as he pops a whole one in his mouth.

Marta sticks her nose up when she studies my plate. She taps on the shell of a cookie and holds it up to observe the layer of jam in between. She takes a small bite like she's expecting it to taste too savory.

"Not as airy as it should be," she critiques. "But not horrible."

Marta stands aside when Jean Pierre steps forward. He examines the plate like Marta did, even crushing the center of a macaron in his hand to assess its crunch. He opens a macaron and feels the texture of the jam, and then he studies the look on my face. My stomach churns and I nervously twiddle my fingers.
When is he going to just eat it?

I rub my sweaty palms on my shirt as he finally takes a bite. I wait for him to make eye contact, my hand slightly shaking. He doesn't. Instead he chews and places the rest of his cookie on the counter. He glances toward the other end of the kitchen where Dandre has been mixing and rolling croissant dough.

"Croissants," Jean Pierre says, looking at Marta. Marta nods in agreement.

"Come with me, Poppy." Marta escorts me to the croissant counter, pushing Dandre out of the way. "You'll start out here making croissant dough."

"Is that a good thing or a bad thing?" I watch the others focus on their individual tasks. Destin is preparing brunch orders while Dandre returns to managing the breads and cakes waiting to go into the oven. Marta's workspace is next to Jean Pierre's. She seems to be in charge of putting the finishing touches on the more elaborate desserts.
Mille-fueilles
.
Religieuses
. Petit fours.

"You've made croissants before, right?" She ignores my question and jumps straight to business.

"Yes."

"Well here we work the dough for three days before we bake it," Marta informs me. I glance over at Jean Pierre. He is examining a piece of the quiche that Destin made earlier. "You'll need to roll…hello?" Marta snaps her fingers to grab my attention. "Are you listening?"

"I'll need to roll what?" I reply, biting my tongue.

"All this dough over here needs rolling. Unfortunately, we don't have a machine for that. Chef Gautier likes to do it the old-fashioned way." She opens the fridge and points to a stack of pastry dough labeled with dates. "When you're finished with that, move on to yesterday's batch. Can you handle that?"

"And after that?" I question. "Can I move on to something a little more challenging?" I look around the room, my gaze resting on a tray of assorted cookies on a cooling rack. "Like say…madeleines?"

"No," she snaps. "Don't even ask about madeleines. Chef Gautier handles those. Besides, you should take pride in the job that you've been assigned. After all,
Le Croissant
is the name of the bakery." She raises her eyebrows and heads back to her station. I pull the first bundle of dough from the stack and start rolling it in a rectangular shape. Croissant dough is wrapped around a large disc of butter, and rolled quite a few times to create a good amount of butter layers throughout. The butter makes the croissant flaky. The ones I made at Calle Pastry Academy only took me a day because the school has a machine that rolls the dough really thin. After folding the dough a few times and running it through the machine, it was ready to be shaped into croissants. Rolling the dough over and over again by hand is something I've never done before. The layers in Jean Pierre's croissants must be exquisite.

I roll and roll, take a few breaks, and roll some more. Just as I predicted, my feet are already hurting from standing all day. Before I know it, hours have passed. I finish working all the croissant dough and stop to take a few breaths.

My eyes dart again to the open window. While the others are cleaning their stations and grabbing coffees, I step outside. I breathe in the scent of fresh flowers and fertilizer and smile when I see that there are a good amount of flowers in the garden. It's not all just herbs and fruit trees.

"Berries," a voice says behind me. "Lots of berries." I turn and see Destin pointing to a nearby shrub that is overflowing with wild berries. He leans in the doorway holding a small parcel. He lifts it up. "For you."

"What?"

"Oui." He gestures for me to come back inside. I follow him. He and Dandre both study the wrapping trying to guess what it might be.

"Is this from you?" I ask, holding the small package out in front of me.

"It came with the post," Marta chimes in from the corner of the kitchen. She's holding a clipboard and stopping to jot down notes as she looks through the fridge. Jean Pierre is nowhere to be seen. "Were you expecting something?"

"No." I shake my head and slowly open the parcel. Marta watches out of the corner of her eye. Destin and Dandre wait eagerly as I hold up a royal blue box small enough to house an engagement ring. My heart starts to pound.

"Eh," Destin scoffs, throwing his hands in the air. "She has boyfriend."

"No." I
did
have a boyfriend, but we ended things once and for all at my parents' disastrous holiday party last year.

"
Èpoux
?" Dandre guesses.

"Husband," Marta translates.

"Nope." I open the box and gasp when I see something glitter beneath the lid. My eyes expand like puff pastry as I pull out a shiny diamond pendant with a small, silver, oval-shaped charm that says
Kräm
hooked on the clasp.

"Oh my—" Marta covers her mouth with her hand. Destin and Dandre take a step closer and gawk at the valuable jewel in my hand. I gulp, hesitant to put it on.

"Beautiful," Destin mutters.

"You've been in France for what, less than a day?" Marta rolls her eyes and resumes her duties. At the bottom of the jewelry box is a folded piece of paper. My heart pounds as I carefully open it, desperate to see if this glittery piece of jewelry is really meant for me and not some French model named Camilla who lives next door.

The note is typed, and it's short and sweet.

I hope your first day went better than this morning. Sorry about your blouse.—Sam

I raise my eyebrows, thinking back to the suave Englishman who accidentally spilled his coffee on me. I smile and put on the necklace. Destin taps his foot impatiently.