Sweet Love (15 page)

Michael is waiting for me.

Perhaps that’s merely my imagination but . . . no. There he is lingering by the front door of the Boston Cooking School, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his navy North Face jacket as the rain that was gentle moments ago turns into a downpour. I am drenched.

“Here.” Whipping off his jacket, he tosses it to me as I dash toward him to reach the safety of the green awning. I catch it before it can fall to the wet sidewalk, an amazing feat in itself considering my coordination quotient.

“Too late. I’m soaked through.” Under the awning, I wiggle between the smoking students and return his coat. “Thanks for the gesture. You’re very sweet.”

Michael takes me in with the kind of approval women crave—if they are looking for that sort of affirmation. Having abandoned
The Little House on the Prairie
fashion statement of last week, I’m in a black-and-white sleeveless sundress with strappy black sandals and a matching patent leather belt cinched tight at the waist. It violates all of D’Ours’s rules, but I don’t care.

You might say I’m in a rule-breaking mood.

“I was waiting for you,” he says.

I’m flattered, really, though I say, “Either that or you’ve taken up smoking.”

We move away from the crowd to some fresher air. What is it with cooking school students and their love of cigarettes? I can’t understand why they’d ingest something that kills taste buds.

“Read that bit about you in the
Globe
this week,” he starts.

I pretend as if I can’t quite remember that. “Oh! You meant that blurb about Mom. Yeah. That was odd, wasn’t it?”

“I didn’t think so. In fact, I was very glad to see you took our conversation to heart.” He’s grinning ear to ear, he’s so pleased with himself. “It’s a step in the right direction for you, Julie.”

“You mean up the evolutionary ladder?” Brushing water off my skirt, I say, “It was nice to shed the scales and crawl out of the primordial ooze to join you warm-blooded types.”

He laughs. “You were never that bad. I always suspected a softie inside your hardened shell.”

“And like a softshell crab, I’m suddenly edible. Talk radio’s been eating me alive and my station, too, for the cobbler. They’re none too happy with me at WBOS.”

“Oh, come on. They don’t care about that at the station, do they? Isn’t that free publicity or something?”

“Absolutely. Most serious news stations love to be mocked for employing journalists who wheedle their way into interviews with dessert.”

Michael’s not grinning anymore. He’s starting to worry. “But you didn’t do an interview, did you?”

“Which only goes to show how much of a girly-girl I really am. I bring my elderly mother. I bring a cobbler.
And
I forget to interview the mother of the murdered girl. I am a regular Nellie Bly.”

"But ...”

“That’s not all. Add to that the rumor you and I had a relationship while I was covering the FitzWilliams campaign—by the way, thanks for telling Kirk to shove that question up his ass, did me a world of good— and I’ve lost the national election team post along with all credibility.”

He’s crestfallen, shock etched in his dropped jaw and furrowed brow. “That’s outrageous. You shouldn’t be penalized for a flip remark I made.”

I shrug. “Well, I was. Turns out bureau chiefs don’t like to be told to piss off when they’re doing background checks. Who knew?”

“Michael?” It’s Carol at the door in a thin red sheath that hangs over her collection of bones. “What are you doing out here? We’ve already started.”

But he can’t tear himself away. “I’m sorry, Julie. I had no idea.”

“Forget it. You didn’t do anything wrong and neither did I. It’s them. They’re the Neanderthals for being so thickheaded.” Scraping my toe against a dropped butt, I turn my attention to the dirty sidewalk. “My bosses will cool down and I’ll be sprung from my obit duty in the basement before long. Maybe by fall? It would be nice to see the colors this year.”

“Shit,” he says softly.

“Michael!” Carol says again as her owlish gaze drifts from him to me, her lips slowly turning upward into a knowing smirk. “Now‚ don’t tell me your mother made
that
dress.”

“No. This one I stole.”

Which is kind of true since I took it from Liza’s closet. Anyway, it sounds better than buying it on sale at Filene’s.

Chapter Twelve

...
he can speak French; and therefore he is a traitor.

I am so ready for this class.

Last time, I was ill prepared in both dress and skill. But this week, with a reduced work schedule and lots of anxiety to whittle away, I cheated and looked ahead in D’Ours’s cookbook. I know my tarte Tatin hands down. I even have a faint grasp of tiramisu.

D’Ours is going to be blown away, I think, gliding past Michael and Carol into the classroom, already perfumed by the wonderful smells of roasting nuts and spices for the spiced pear and Roquefort flan.

We know the drill: Wash hands, grab an apron plus a glass of champagne or sparkling cider, and gather around the long steel counter. Angela’s back, her purple bangs now a kinky shade of midnight blue, along with D’Ours, who goes out of his way to sit me front and center. I swear he is giving me the eye.

And I’m not the only one who thinks so. As Michael takes the seat next to me, he whispers, “Seems as though your cobbler gained you another admirer.”

Another
admirer? Hmm. I’ll have to think about that.

“I might have told you last class that in France we end our meals satisfied, but not full, with a wedge of Camembert on homemade crusty bread or a slice of apple to satisfy the palate,” our fearless froggie French leader says, deftly slicing off a chunk of Granny Smith. “Or perhaps, in summer, one perfect strawberry and a sip of champagne.”

“Is he crazy?” I murmur to Michael. “One strawberry does not a dessert make!”

“And
one
sip of champagne?” he scoffs. “It’s hard enough to stop at a whole bottle.”

“That is how I came to create my spiced pear and Roquefort flan.” From the refrigerator, D’Ours pulls a pot in which five dark red peeled pears sit perfectly upright in their syrup of red wine, sugar, cinnamon, allspice, vanilla bean, star anise, and cloves that D’Ours informs us Angela stewed the night before.

Angela registers this with a quick wave, the tips of her fingers still stained. It can’t be easy serving as D’Ours’s sous-chef, especially when, in Angela’s case, you’d much rather spend your nights roaming the streets sucking the blood of innocents than making sure the Bartletts don’t turn mushy.

D’Ours slices the pears thinly. “My flan has all the essence of a perfect French dessert. Pears, cheese, nuts, and bread, along with sweet wine— except for the Moroccan spices. French cuisine eschews spices, aside from those grown fresh on our hillsides such as parsley, sage, rosemary, thyme . . .”

Michael begins softly humming the tune to “Scarborough Fair” and I have to stifle a giggle. I’d forgotten about his wonky Simon and Garfunkel period when he used to wile away the nights in my brother’s room, strumming his guitar and torturing me with “I Am a Rock.” Later, there was a point in my life when if one more egotistical man quoted me that song by explaining he was an island and “an island never cries,” I was going to have to deck him.

“You’re so sensitive,” I whisper.

“Shhh.” He frowns at D’Ours with feigned sincerity. “Pay attention.”

Chris the redhead shoots up her hand to interrupt the flan instructions. “I have a recipe for doing pears in the Crock-Pot four hours on high.”

I’m not quite sure, but I do believe D’Ours just staggered slightly upon hearing the word “Crock-Pot” uttered in his kitchen.

“Yes, well,” he says, darting a glance at Angela. “I suppose if one were to own a ‘Crock-Pot’ and one weren’t making Swedish meatballs at the moment or, say, potluck chicken wings, one could conceivably”—he gulps—“spice pears.”

Chris says to me, “I’ll never do pears any other way.”

In a ready crust of crushed walnuts, flour, and butter, D’Ours lays the pear slices in a pinwheel design. Because they’ve soaked up the red wine, their edges are etched in burgundy while their centers are white, giving them a candy cane appearance. A perfect Christmas dessert.

Next, he crumbles the Roquefort over the pears, noting the irony of fruit desserts. Pairing fruit with sweet ingredients such as honey or sugar brings out the fruit’s tartness while tangy cheese can make the fruit seem sweeter. Which might explain why my grandfather salted his grapefruit.

“Roquefort has an intriguing history,” he says while whipping a traditional flan filling of cream, sugar, and eggs. “You might be surprised to learn . . .”

I stick up my hand and before D’Ours can object, I explain how Roquefort, like most blue cheeses, attributes its blue veins to penicillin mold and that in the past, Roquefort makers (there are only, like, nine in the world), used to put wrapped cheese next to humongous moldy rye bread in caves and let the spores from the rye bread seep into the cheese.

“Someone’s been doing her homework,” he says, smiling. “By the way, I’d like to see you after class.”

There is a sharp pain in my rib cage and I look down to find Michael’s elbow there. “Teacher’s pet,” he says under his breath.

The pear and Roquefort flan in the oven, D’Ours moves on to our next dish, a gingerbread that’s so easy I’ll tell Mom never to buy a mix again. The lemon sauce to drizzle over it is even more divine, a puckery combination of water, sugar, cornstarch, butter, lemon juice, and zest poured over the hot gingerbread so it seeps into the cake, perfectly crystallizing the outside.

We take a break to go to the bathroom and get some air while Angela and her lackey clean up the mess. When we come back, we taste test the tart and the gingerbread before regrouping for the tarte Tatin and the almond biscotti tiramisu.

Michael, the woman I’ve dubbed Lilly Pulitzer, and Carol are in a neat circle, talking and eating, so I float over to Chris, who’s eagerly passing Crock-Pot tips to the nuns. Every once in a while I look over at Michael, trying to read his body language with Carol. They’re side by side, but not close in a girlfriend-boyfriend kind of way. For the life of me, I can’t figure out their relationship.

Champagne refilled, plates whisked away, we’re back at the counter to learn about what I like to think of as upside-down apple pie. This time I’m wedged between Lilly Pulitzer and Chris, whose husband is next to Michael and Carol.

Odd. It’s not nearly as much fun without Michael here.

“And now, the famous
tarte des demoiselles Tatin
,” D’Ours declares, melting butter in a thick iron skillet, “created by the inventive Tatin sisters for their hotel in France around 1889. Quite by accident, by the way. It seems that during hunting season—”

“The sisters were preparing to make apple pie and left the apples cooking in the skillet too long and they were caramelized,” I pipe up. “Though, honestly, who cooks apples before putting them in a pie?”

My fellow classmates laugh in agreement at such an absurd idea. These are my people, I’m thinking. We may be foodies; we are also savvy.

“Actually,” D’Ours corrects, slightly peeved, “that’s the flaw in the myth you just told. Stéphanie Tatin accidentally baked a tart upside down and this was the result.”

“I see.” Bull. That’s even worse. Only an utter moron would bake a tart upside down.

Nevertheless, this is D’Ours’s show, and I—who can barely make boxed macaroni and cheese—have no business taking him to the mat. Though it’s killing me, the upside-down tart thing. Why can’t he see that, clearly, she was making apple pie?

He gives me a warning look and goes on. “At any rate, the one rule is that tarte Tatin must be served hot straight from the oven with whipped cream or crème fraîche.”

D’Ours cheats by using a prepared puff pastry sheet instead of making his own. Nice to know he’s mortal. After melting sugar with butter and cramming apples into the skillet until it overflows, he bakes it at 425 degrees and then tops it with a chilled circle of the pastry. More baking, additional cooling, and then he inverts it precisely onto a platter.

We gasp at the delicious sight of baked apples and cinnamon in gooey golden caramel. D’Ours cuts it up right away and we pass around a bowl of fresh whipped cream to dollop on the side. If I am fired, I will make this every day until I’m too fat to care.

“The trick is firm apples,” D’Ours says, after sipping his champagne. “In America you will have to make do with Golden Delicious.” He sighs as if this is a great tragedy.

Since we are running out of time, he again separates the class. Half will make the warm cherry crisp with Vermont maple cream and the other half will make almond biscotti tiramisu.

Please oh please may I get almond biscotti tiramisu
, I pray.

Yes. Everyone who did cobbler last week is on biscotti tiramisu duty.

Everyone who did ginger ice cream is on cherry crisp. Ipso facto, they get D’Ours and we get Angela.

Angela is all business. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned from reading D’Ours’s cookbook, it’s that tiramisu is anything but business. So many flavors to play with—rum, coffee, chocolate, almond—and textures, too. From the rock-hard biscotti that turns chewy during the “setting” phase to the creamy mascarpone lightened by whipped cream.

“Translated, tiramisu means ‘pick me up’ in Italian,” Sister Martha, one of the nuns, tells me, though I’m unsure whether she means “pick me up” as in a singles bar or “pick me up” like someone who wants to guess your weight, until she adds, “And it is a pick-me-up, isn’t it? What with that strong coffee and chocolate.”

Not with Angela at the controls, I think. Like an automaton, she shows us how to achieve the perfect pale yellow ribbons of the custard by whisking egg yolks and sugar that magically triples in volume when it’s heated in a double boiler. When we ask her why it does that, she replies, “It just does.”