let her go.
“Three,” she said with a wide smile. “This one here wants five, but he has moments of insanity. I blame it on all the yeast he inhales.”
“I’ll have to remember to use that excuse the next time I’m having a moment,” she said.
“Yeast is better than PMS,” Belle said with a glance at Andre. “I hate that line.”
“Me too,” she easily agreed. Howie had blamed her moods on PMS, and it had angered her to no end. In truth, his secret drug problem had not been the only fissure in their relationship. Evan would never say something so simplistic or unkind , she thought, surprised to realize she was comparing them.
The bell rang, and Andre pulled Belle in for another fast kiss. “We installed the bell so she can sneak back here and steal kisses from me when customers aren’t around.”
“Ingenious, no?” Belle asked Margie before disappearing through the door.
“Now,” Andre said, taking her hand. “Let me show you where we make the real magic.”
The stairs leading down to what was essentially a basement were steep, and like when she was using her hobbit bathroom door, she had to duck down to avoid hitting her head.
The heat in the room they entered poured over her body like a wave of molten fire. The ovens in the back were lit and baking row after row of golden brown baguettes. The thick smell of yeast hung in the air, and she inhaled deeply. Detecting a hint of something fruity and sour, she looked at the flour-dusted stainless steel counters for the source, but didn’t see it.
“This is Fabian and Ronan, my two assistants. Meet Margie from America.”
“Enchante,” they both said.
“Enchantee,” she replied.
“They don’t speak English,” Andre said. “You told me you have some French.”
She winced. “It’s really rusty, but I hope to practice while I’m here if you can stand to hear me bungle the words.”
“Speak away,” Andre said. “We will help you find the right words. But we will use English for instruction, I think, so you miss nothing.”
She nodded.
“Now, this is where we make the bread. We have a few signature breads everyone who visits us expects to see. But every once in a while, especially around a holiday or if I’m feeling inspired, we will make something special. I don’t use any starters like some bakers do. My people were farmers, and our recipes are done differently. Our farm loaf uses potato water from the yellow potatoes Belle buys in the market and boils before she closes the bakery for the night. The red bucket in the corner is for the water we drain from the cooked potatoes once they cool.”
He gestured to the wall opposite the wall of ovens. Sure enough, a couple of massive buckets stood on the stainless steel counter next to the huge industrial bread mixers.
“It is empty now,” he said, picking up the bucket and shaking it before setting it aside. “This bucket however—the green one—is almost always full. Our sourdough bread is made from the water of the apples and pears we cut up into quarters and leave for three days. The natural yeast forms on the top in white bubbles, and when it is ready, we discard the fruit and use the water to mix with the ingredients. The water we use is warm, not like the cold water used to make your San Francisco sourdough. Pretty simple, no? Our process here is not difficult. And while yours is very dense, ours is light and airy with a floral essence all its own.”
“I can’t wait to try it,” she said, intrigued. “I’ve researched bread starters, and honestly, I find them rather intimidating. I like the idea of using potato water or fruit water to give a bread flavor and leavening.”
“Here, try some.”
He grabbed a baguette resting in one of the many trays in a bakery rack that stood six feet tall. Breaking off a chunk, he handed the end to her. The other two bakers stopped cleaning the empty baking pans to watch her. She took her first bite and sighed. While she loved San
“Three,” she said with a wide smile. “This one here wants five, but he has moments of insanity. I blame it on all the yeast he inhales.”
“I’ll have to remember to use that excuse the next time I’m having a moment,” she said.
“Yeast is better than PMS,” Belle said with a glance at Andre. “I hate that line.”
“Me too,” she easily agreed. Howie had blamed her moods on PMS, and it had angered her to no end. In truth, his secret drug problem had not been the only fissure in their relationship. Evan would never say something so simplistic or unkind , she thought, surprised to realize she was comparing them.
The bell rang, and Andre pulled Belle in for another fast kiss. “We installed the bell so she can sneak back here and steal kisses from me when customers aren’t around.”
“Ingenious, no?” Belle asked Margie before disappearing through the door.
“Now,” Andre said, taking her hand. “Let me show you where we make the real magic.”
The stairs leading down to what was essentially a basement were steep, and like when she was using her hobbit bathroom door, she had to duck down to avoid hitting her head.
The heat in the room they entered poured over her body like a wave of molten fire. The ovens in the back were lit and baking row after row of golden brown baguettes. The thick smell of yeast hung in the air, and she inhaled deeply. Detecting a hint of something fruity and sour, she looked at the flour-dusted stainless steel counters for the source, but didn’t see it.
“This is Fabian and Ronan, my two assistants. Meet Margie from America.”
“Enchante,” they both said.
“Enchantee,” she replied.
“They don’t speak English,” Andre said. “You told me you have some French.”
She winced. “It’s really rusty, but I hope to practice while I’m here if you can stand to hear me bungle the words.”
“Speak away,” Andre said. “We will help you find the right words. But we will use English for instruction, I think, so you miss nothing.”
She nodded.
“Now, this is where we make the bread. We have a few signature breads everyone who visits us expects to see. But every once in a while, especially around a holiday or if I’m feeling inspired, we will make something special. I don’t use any starters like some bakers do. My people were farmers, and our recipes are done differently. Our farm loaf uses potato water from the yellow potatoes Belle buys in the market and boils before she closes the bakery for the night. The red bucket in the corner is for the water we drain from the cooked potatoes once they cool.”
He gestured to the wall opposite the wall of ovens. Sure enough, a couple of massive buckets stood on the stainless steel counter next to the huge industrial bread mixers.
“It is empty now,” he said, picking up the bucket and shaking it before setting it aside. “This bucket however—the green one—is almost always full. Our sourdough bread is made from the water of the apples and pears we cut up into quarters and leave for three days. The natural yeast forms on the top in white bubbles, and when it is ready, we discard the fruit and use the water to mix with the ingredients. The water we use is warm, not like the cold water used to make your San Francisco sourdough. Pretty simple, no? Our process here is not difficult. And while yours is very dense, ours is light and airy with a floral essence all its own.”
“I can’t wait to try it,” she said, intrigued. “I’ve researched bread starters, and honestly, I find them rather intimidating. I like the idea of using potato water or fruit water to give a bread flavor and leavening.”
“Here, try some.”
He grabbed a baguette resting in one of the many trays in a bakery rack that stood six feet tall. Breaking off a chunk, he handed the end to her. The other two bakers stopped cleaning the empty baking pans to watch her. She took her first bite and sighed. While she loved San
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