Alain called again. “I did not hear a response about the tart and the cake. Felix? Charlie?”
“Oui, Chef!” Felix shouted, already on his way to the pantry to gather the gold leaf garnish for the palet d’or. I reached into the cool storage and removed the only rhubarb tart that remained after the first seating and slid it onto a fresh plate. A minute later, after a very light garnish of powdered sugar on the tart and the gold flakes shimmering on the ganache of the palet, Felix delivered both desserts to the pass.
Alain arched over the plates and, after a cursory inspection, nodded. “Beautiful. Good and fast work, Felix.”
Felix bowed slightly. “Thank you, Chef. It is a difficult work, teaching these chefs from another generation. They want all this glory, all the media, the interviews, but they lack the skills to be parfait in the kitchen.” He was talking so loudly, his voice had no trouble cutting through the cacophony of pots and pans and the general chaos of the large kitchen. The man had a stage voice. “But I am happy to be able to guide young people through this laziness. It is a calling.”
I caught Carlo’s eye from the other side of the kitchen. He made a motion as if he were vomiting.
Felix was halfway to our station when Alain’s call came again.
“Fire three rum walnut cakes and one brioche butter pudding!”
I veered to the refrigerator instead of continuing with the tarts. In my years of commercial cooking, I’d found that shouting a loud response to an order inspired confidence in a girl and temporarily distracted her superiors. So I pretty much hollered my reply.
“Yes! Chef!”
Four hours later, I sat on a small stool in the corner of the pastry kitchen. My feet throbbed, and my head was in my hands. I let my neck muscles relax and felt sure my head weighed at least sixty-five pounds. Maybe sixty-eight if I included my hair. I reached up to pull my ponytail out of its prison. My hair fell in a limp spray down my neck.
Carlo stood at the threshold to the pastry area, his apron slung over one shoulder.
“Char, you look a little rough.”
“Shut up.” My words seemed a bit slurred, though I was far too tired to think of drinking anything more dangerous than warm milk.
“Tough night?”
“Not particularly,” I said, wiping away a spot of drool making an escape out of the corner of my mouth. “Felix was a little loopier than usual, but I got it all done.”
“Report the douche to Alain,” Carlo said in a hushed voice. “Why do you put up with him?”
I lifted my head. “Because Alain already knows, and, for now, that’s enough. I’m putting in my time, just like you.” I stood and rolled my head in a half-circle, willing the kinks out. “Alain has said from the day he hired me that I am to become the next head of pastry at L’Ombre.” I felt my insides quivering, both from exhaustion and from the frustration that bubbled every time I remembered Alain’s unfulfilled promises, now slipping into their sixth year of impotence.
Carlo clucked his disapproval, just like a disbelieving Latina grandma. “Felix has announced his retirement four times during the last two years. And he just keeps coming back. Like the resurrection nobody prayed for.”
I shook my head. “Eventually Felix will retire or lose his mind entirely, and Alain will need a new head pastry chef. And just like that.” I tried snapping for emphasis, but after trimming twenty-four tart shells, my fingers were Jell-O. “Just like that, I’ll be executive pastry chef at one of Manhattan’s premiere restaurants.”
Carlo rolled his eyes. “Just like that, eh? You’ve got five years in already, sis, nine years out of culinary school, and not to be critical, but you’re not looking any younger.”
Felix rounded the corner, his Crocs squeaking on the newly mopped floor. His gaze passed briefly over Carlo and then narrowed at the juncture of countertop and stove. He pointed, wrinkling his nose in disgust.
“Charles, you have become soft in your cleaning. Look at this congealed butter. A clean workspace produces clean thinking, and clean thinking produces clean baking. You are aware of this, non?”
Carlo coughed and then retreated to the safer confines of the savory world.
I moved as quickly as I could to the offensive spot and had to squint to locate the offending droplet of hardened butter. I quickly scoured and scrubbed, far more than a transgression of that proportion required, and then stepped back for Felix to evaluate. He sniffed, which, in Felix vernacular, meant, “I will not kill you … this time.”
“Chef Garrett, Chef Bouchard.” Alain cleared his throat. He stood at the edge of the pastry section, rocking backward slightly on his heels as if our floor were made of quicksand and he feared being pulled under. “Nice job tonight.”
Felix rustled up a smarmy smile.
I blinked and said, “Thank you, Chef.”
“You have an admirer, it seems,” Alain continued. “He is waiting at a two-top by the orchid wall. He has asked to meet the pastry chef.”