A Bakery in Paris, page 1
Dedication
To my Jeremy,
who planted the seeds for this book in the earliest days of our relationship.
I couldn’t ask for a better partner, a better road trip captain, or a better friend.
Here’s to many more years of snuggle-reading on the couch.
I love you.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter One: Lisette
Chapter Two: Micheline
Chapter Three: Lisette
Chapter Four: Micheline
Chapter Five: Lisette
Chapter Six: Micheline
Chapter Seven: Lisette
Chapter Eight: Micheline
Sablés
Chapter Nine: Lisette
Chapter Ten: Lisette
Crème pâtissière
Chapter Eleven: Micheline
Chapter Twelve: Lisette
Tarte aux pommes
Chapter Thirteen: Micheline
Chapter Fourteen: Lisette
Madeleines au citron
Chapter Fifteen: Micheline
Chapter Sixteen: Lisette
Chapter Seventeen: Lisette
Brioche: Théo’s Mother’s Recipe
Chapter Eighteen: Micheline
Chapter Nineteen: Lisette
Chapter Twenty: Micheline
Chapter Twenty-One: Lisette
Clafoutis aux fruits
Chapter Twenty-Two: Micheline
Chapter Twenty-Three: Lisette
Croissants
Chapter Twenty-Four: Micheline
Chapter Twenty-Five: Lisette
Chocolat chaud
Chapter Twenty-Six: Micheline
Chapter Twenty-Seven: Lisette
Small Duchess Cakes
Chapter Twenty-Eight: Micheline
Chapter Twenty-Nine: Lisette
Mille-feuille à l’ancienne
Chapter Thirty: Micheline
Chapter Thirty-One: Lisette
Croquembouche
Chapter Thirty-Two: Micheline
Chapter Thirty-Three: Lisette
Chapter Thirty-Four: Micheline
Chapter Thirty-Five: Lisette
Chapter Thirty-Six: Micheline
Confiture aux roses à la Micheline
Chapter Thirty-Seven: Lisette
Chapter Thirty-Eight: Micheline
Chapter Thirty-Nine: Lisette
Pain français
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Praise for A Bakery in Paris
Also by Aimie K. Runyan
Copyright
About the Publisher
Chapter One
Lisette
September 2, 1870
“Come away from the window, Lisette. I don’t want anyone knowing we’re up here.”
Maman sat in her chair, needlework in hand since breakfast, though I doubt she’d made more than a dozen stitches in the three hours since, but it gave her hands company as she fretted. We lived on the Place Royale, one of the oldest neighborhoods in the heart of the city. After the Revolution, it was known as the Place des Vosges, but with the reinstatement of the monarchy, it was the Place Royale once more. Some of the oldest and wealthiest families in Paris lived here, and Maman was certain that if the Prussians took Paris, our neighborhood would be a prime target for their cruelty, while I thought she attributed more importance to our neighborhood than it deserved. There was no strategic advantage to invading our peaceful little corner of Paris, aside from the riches they could plunder. It didn’t seem enough to me, but Maman was convinced that if they breached the walls of Paris it would mean our heads. Despite Maman’s concerns, Papa would not retreat to the country as our neighbors had done. For weeks, he refused to think the Prussians would succeed in getting as far as Paris. Now that it seemed likely that they would, he said he would not abandon our home to the invaders, even if it meant risking our lives.
Our manservants, Gustave and Philippe . . . would they defend us against the mob when the Prussians invaded? More likely they would betray us if they thought they could save themselves. For this reason, Papa distrusted them and anyone else of the working class. The defeat at Sedan and the rumored displacement of the emperor made this possibility, once seemingly absurd, now entirely probable.
“Are you worried, Papa?” little Gislène asked from Maman’s side.
“Not in the least. The emperor will have the Prussians well in hand before long, mark my words,” Papa said as he paced the floor.
Antoine, my little brother, nodded enthusiastically from his chair where he’d spent the last hour reading one of our father’s favorite tomes. He longed to follow in Papa’s footsteps so badly, I wondered he didn’t stitch himself permanently to Papa’s side. Gislène, the baby, was curled up next to Maman on her settee. Maman’s precious little poppet, complete with gold ringlets. It wasn’t hard to understand Maman’s preference for her, and she was sweet enough I couldn’t begrudge her the attentions that preferment afforded.
I was the oldest. Born a girl when they had so desperately wanted an heir, and too strong-willed to be a pet to Maman. At first, I think they viewed me as a bit of an experiment in child-rearing. They practiced their parenting skills on me—with much help from a string of governesses, of course. But it was ten long, disappointing years before their precious boy was born. I think they rather grew to resent me during that time. Once Antoine was born, followed soon after by Gislène, that resentment grew into a usually comfortable indifference. In Antoine they had an heir, and in Gislène they had their sweet, biddable beauty. I was pretty enough, though red-haired and freckled, which made Maman lament for my marriage prospects. It was lonely at times, being the overlooked child, but it had the chief virtue of affording me a measure of independence that more attentive parents wouldn’t have given a young woman of twenty-one.
“I’m going to take a nap,” I announced, rather than claiming my usual spot on the side chair with one of the dry tomes of which Maman approved. Books on decorum and the running of a house, mainly.
“Is that the best use of your time?” Maman asked, always keen to exude more interest in my goings-on than she felt.
“Give her some peace, woman. These are trying times,” Papa chided. My lips parted in surprise for a fraction of a second. He was rarely one to use his breath to come to my defense.
“A sudden headache, Maman. I’ll be right as rain come suppertime, I’m sure.”
She breathed a disappointed sigh as though a midday nap were somehow a moral failing. If it were, it was one she succumbed to at least once a week, but it wasn’t worth the grief to mention it.
“Take this list to Marie for the marketing before you go up then,” Maman said, handing me a scrap of paper marked with her elaborate script. “I hope Nanette has shown her how to do it properly. I don’t want the shopkeepers swindling us any more than they already are.”
Our newest kitchen maid had just been hired on a few months before, but Maman had taken little interest in training her up, so the job had largely fallen to our elderly cook and myself. Thankfully, Marie was smart and willing, and all too happy to take orders from me instead of my parents.
I refrained from shaking my head and left, the slip of paper in hand, without another acknowledgment.
The kitchen always felt like a completely different country to me, the way it contrasted with the rest of the house. It was bright and airy, owing to the doors that opened onto the back courtyard. Unlike the rest of the house, which was littered with fussy, expensive knickknacks of Maman’s choosing, each item in the efficient kitchen had a place and purpose. Each spoon, knife, and mixing bowl had a designated spot on a hook, shelf, or drawer and anyone privileged enough to gain admittance to Nanette’s kitchen risked inciting her wrath if a single utensil was mislaid. Gleaming copper pots hung from the walls, or else sat bubbling on the massive cast iron stove that dominated the room, most often laden with soups and stews. As a child, I used to pretend the massive stockpot was a witch’s cauldron and the rows of spice canisters were secret ingredients the benevolent witch—sweet Nanette—had spent a lifetime collecting and preserving. Coriander wasn’t simple coriander, but rather the trimmings of fur from a very rare species of bat collected on a full moon. Oregano was moss of a yew tree blessed by benevolent fairies, and so on.
Nanette enjoyed the novelty of my presence in the kitchens at first. When my curiosity grew into a serious interest, she didn’t shoo me away, but taught me her trade as she would have her own daughter. I learned at her elbow, my little red journal with gilded pages in hand, constantly taking notes. I gave the excuse I was reviewing my lessons in the privacy of my room, and it seemed she was happy enough to believe the fib. On the rare occasion Maman wondered where I was, Nanette and I enacted a plan. The maids were regularly bribed with biscuits and cakes, often of my own making, to come to the kitchens and alert me so I could sneak up the back stairs to my room and come down to her summons from the main staircase after brushing off a healthy coating of flour from my dress. But when I became old enough to go out in public with Maman, my presence wasn’t reliable enough for me to be a consistent help in the kitchen. As Nanette grew older, it had become clear to me that she needed a dedicated assistant, and so it came to be that Marie was taken on.
Marie was already working on preparations for the evening meal. She moved with a practiced efficiency that betrayed the hard truth tha
“Maman has marketing for you,” I said, placing the list on a clean area on the worktable.
“Of course she has,” she said, wiping her cheek with her hand before turning her attention back to the simmering pot. She realized the breach of etiquette and looked at me wide-eyed. “I mean, of course, Mademoiselle Lisette. Right away.”
I waved dismissively at the faux pas. Maman probably was entitled to any abuse poor Marie could throw her way. “Is everything all right?” I asked. “You don’t seem yourself.” Her face looked paler than usual, and there were beads of sweat on her brow, presumably from the effort of working through some sort of injury.
“It’s nothing, mademoiselle. Don’t worry about it.” She took a step toward the simmering pot on the stove and her face betrayed that she was in pain.
“Nonsense, I insist you tell me. I can fetch a doctor for you.”
“No need for that. I twisted my ankle this morning. I slipped on the moss in the courtyard. It hurts something fierce, but it’ll be well enough in a few days. I’ve bound it as tight as I can with a rag. No doctor would be able to do more.”
Nanette joined us from the opposite end of the kitchen. “That’s what that clatter was this morning? I thought you told me an alley cat had knocked over the washboard I’d left out to dry. Why would you make up stories?”
“I didn’t want to get sacked. I got back to work as soon as I could stand.”
“Child, I don’t know how many times I have to tell you, I won’t send you packing for a trifle like that. If I did, I’d be back to doing the job of two until I could convince Monsieur Vigneau to hire a new girl. It took me twenty years to convince him the first time. And that was with our little Kitchen Mouse here badgering him at every turn for the last five.”
“I’m sorry, Nanette, I won’t do it again.”
“Well, you can’t do the marketing in such a state. I’ll have to do it for you.” Since the war broke out, we’d trimmed the staff back to its barest levels and there was really no one to spare for the task aside from me.
“Your parents will have my hide if I allow it,” she said. “I’ll make do, really.”
“They’ll never know I was gone,” I pressed. I could almost feel the warm September sun against my face and would have gladly traded the sooty air from town for the stagnant air of the house for any price. I was nearly mad to be confined there, no matter how fine the carpets or how lavish the furniture and trappings.
“It’s not safe for a well-born girl such as yourself to be out in public unescorted just now, mademoiselle. You’d be risking your life.”
“So, you’ll lend me a dress. That way I won’t be conspicuous at the market. Marie will take a rest in my room. We’re not too far from the same size. They expect me to be napping until dinner, which is exactly what you should be doing.”
“I haven’t a spare,” Marie explained. “I’ve been saving for another, but I’ve only been here two months . . .”
“Never mind that. You can wear one of my nightgowns and I’ll wear what you have on, if you don’t mind.”
Marie looked as though she wanted to object but restrained her reluctance behind clenched teeth. She was clearly using every bit of her will to manage her pain and she hadn’t the strength to argue. She moved the soup to the cooler side of the stove and wiped her hands on her apron in resolution.
I let her lean against me as we took the back stairs up to my room. Mine was the closest to the stairs and thankfully the easiest for her to retreat from if someone were to come looking. I fervently hoped no one would take an uncharacteristic interest in my whereabouts.
As we exchanged clothes, she spewed advice about which shops to frequent and how much to haggle at each. Though having provisions delivered had been the custom, the war with the Prussians had sent everything into a tailspin. We had to go in search of what we needed, hoping to find the ingredients to cobble together meals. I prayed I would remember the details Marie prattled off, but it seemed unlikely. I’d just have to do my best and hope I didn’t pay so much for the weekly supplies that Maman would accuse poor Marie of malfeasance.
Marie’s dress smelled of sweat, grease, and stale flour. I was glad I’d had cause to lend her a nightgown so the smell of it wouldn’t permeate my sheets. The nightgown could be laundered before I needed it again, but the sheets would have to wait another week. I’d have to sprinkle them with a bit of my jasmine perfume before I slept that night. It would be all I could do to bear the smell on the dress as I walked in the great outdoors, let alone on my sheets in the confines of my bedchamber as I tried to sleep. Impulsively, I took the bee bottle from my vanity, and put a dab of the scent behind each ear. It wouldn’t cover the smell, but it would be enough to distract me from it. I gathered a few coins and banknotes from my own cache in case I had to visit a shop where Papa didn’t have an account.
I looked at my reflection in the glass and winced. The smell aside, Marie’s dress was stained and shabby and I felt as though I looked as worn and wan as the fabric that had seen more use than it should have been called to. I snuck out the back courtyard exit as quickly and quietly as I could. Officially, since the siege, I was only allowed one daily constitutional in the Place Royale, preferably in the shade of the arcade so as not to exacerbate my freckles. The grassy square was transected by Stabilise walkways; a mixture of sand, gravel, and whitewash just like in the gardens at Versailles. I’d traversed each footpath a million times in the past month, and each time I heard the grating crunch-crunch-crunch of the coarse soil under the soles of my kid boots, I feared I was one step closer to madness. It was with a breath of relief that I escaped onto the cobblestones of the rue de Rivoli and the rest of Paris.
Before the upheaval, I loved to sneak away and lose myself in the bustle of the city. It likely wasn’t the safest thing for a young woman to do alone, but I had usually been able to persuade a housemaid to accompany me and give me a wide berth. I loved to ramble about the long winding avenues, made even wider and more accommodating during the recent tenure of Baron Haussmann as prefect. Papa despised Haussmann’s grand apartments, along with so many of the changes made since the emperor began renovating Paris with the zeal of a discontented housewife, but I recognized the charms of the wrought-iron balconies and the convenience of having roads wide enough for carriages to pass one another.
Despite the temptation, I wouldn’t let myself wander aimlessly that afternoon, no matter how much my soul yearned for it. I managed to procure most of what Marie was meant to buy at the butcher, though the supply looked scarce compared to the months before the war. The fromagerie had barely any stock at all, and Maman would have to do without her favorite camembert from Normandy. Papa would simply remind her, in his less-than-diplomatic way, that war called us all to make sacrifices and that hers was comparatively easy to bear. The shelves at the dry goods store were sparse, but not entirely empty.
I gave my list to the shopkeeper, who looked from it to me and gave me a once-over. He said nothing but set about gathering up the goods Maman had requested. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Some coffee and flour, a few odds and ends. He was able to gather the entirety of the list in a few minutes’ time and brought the items to the counter where I waited.
“Who d’you work for?” he asked, head cocked to the side, as though still assessing me.
“The Vigneau family on the Place Royale,” I said. “You can add this to their account.”
“You’re not the regular girl,” he said, now crossing his arms over his chest.
“No, Marie turned her ankle and I’ve come in her place,” I explained. “She wasn’t in any condition to walk so far.”
“And how am I supposed to know that you’re not trying to get free food and charge it to one of my best clients’ accounts?” The color in his face was rising and I knew his temper must be close to the boiling point. It would be for me to diffuse it.
“If it’s a problem, sir, I can settle the bill in cash this once. I can have them send you a note if I have to come in the future.” I reached into Marie’s pocket where I’d stuffed a few bank notes. “Will this do?”
“A hundred francs? Are you mad? How in God’s name would a kitchen maid come across a hundred francs?” I felt my stomach sink. I hadn’t thought about how it would look for a servant to be carrying such a sum.
