The Confectioner's Tale

Roses and violets from summer gardens, sun-drenched Sicilian lemons squeezed of their juice and mingled with juniper from the frozen north. Saffron threads and gold leaf from the Indies waited to be turned into something magical. And contained deep within all of this was a smile that flooded him with warmth, a pair of blue eyes, and the scent of chocolate...

A rich steam rose and he took a sip. Sweetness flooded his tongue, followed by cream, sugar, spices, chocolate finer than anything he had ever tasted, dark and bitter and delicious.

Mahogany shelves lined the counters, stacked with glass bottles and jars, like something from a fairy tale. There were whole, plump roses steeping in honey; purple-stained sugar, thick with lavender, tiny jars of crimson threads, cherries and peaches suspended in syrup as if they had fallen there from the trees. The luxurious scents wrapped around him. 'Butter,' his nose relayed, 'cream, nuts, brandy, chocolate...

Obediently, I squash into a corner with a glass of cider. A chalkboard menu declares that the special of the day is stargazy pie. I gulp my drink, envisaging withered fish heads gazing plaintively at the ceiling. In the end, I'm presented with a cheese and pickle sandwich the size of my head and a pile of crisps.

The towering stacks of profiteroles, the mille-feuille and champagne creams were banished in favor of the sweet and the simple; pans of clafoutis with preserved cherries, slices of tarte tatin and cups of hot chocolate.

I suggest some of this broth that Cook made for Mademoiselle,' came Patrice's muffled voice. 'A little Toulouse sausage, some cheese perhaps...' Gui wolfed down whatever was put in front of him, hunger a gnawing pit in his stomach. Fresh bread and butter, a savory broth made from chicken, then sausage and a slab of cheese, cake made with pears, milk to drink.

He tended to the ovens, but was allowed to help the other chefs for a few hours, warming butter and measuring out orange blossom water to create trays of rich, buttery brioche.

As soon as he was out of sight, Gui pulled the macaron mixture towards him, and took a deep breath. He whipped it back and forth, beads of sweat springing on his forehead as his arm muscles released and contracted. When it was almost ready, he reached up for the shelf where the spices and colors were kept. Carefully, he brought down the bottle of 'creme de violette,' the jar of delicate, dried violets, their petals sparkling with sugar. In tiny drops, he measured the purple liqueur into the mixture. He was acting on impulse, yet at the same time he felt certain, as though his first teacher, Monsieur Careme, was with him, guiding his steps. The scent reached up as he stirred, heady and sweet as a meadow, deep as lingering perfume in a midnight room. Hands shaking, he piped the mixture onto a tray in tiny rounds, enough to make six, one for each day that he and Jeanne would have to make it through before they could be together for the rest of their lives. Maurice was delayed talking to Josef, and by the time he returned, Gui was putting the finishing touches to his creations, filling them with a vanilla cream from the cold room, balancing one, tiny, sugar-frosted violet flower upon each.

Squeezed into a corner, elbow to elbow, they drank cheap red wine and feasted on bread and oysters, straight from the paper. The food was glorious; it was as if the essence of the world had been captured into this one meal, for this one hour, in this one square of Paris. The boy wondered why it had never tasted this good before. Watching the girl drain her glass, he realized he already knew the answer.

There were a thousand noises: spoons clattering, liquid being poured in glugs, a deep, unctuous bubbling from the stove. Heat blasted him in a roar as someone opened an oven. It carried the glorious smell of fresh baking.