Jenny Oliver - The Most Wonderful Time Of The Year

There was a pause as she felt him watch her blush, and then she heard him say, ‘Who would have thought choosing just one little cake could be so difficult?’

‘Well, if it was me …’ She gazed over the rows and rows of treats that sat in front of her. Bright marzipan shapes, chocolate twists dusted with sugar, sticky millefeuille layers oozing with cream, tarts brimming with frangipani, coffee eclairs lined up like fat fingers, red berries piled high and tumbling off crème pâtisserie tarts. And on the shelf above were piles of glistening chocolates. Dark glossy liqueurs with cherry stalks poking out of the top, dusty truffles and striped caramels, fudge coated in ganache. Strawberry creams shaped like tiny fruits perched next to pralines wrapped like presents in gold.

But sitting perched on the tray to her left were Rachel’s all-time favourites. ‘I always like a Religieuse,’ she said, pointing to the tower of two round eclairs balanced with a ruff of cream piped around the neck. ‘They are my first choice whenever I get to come to France.’

‘The Religieuse—the little nun,’ he said and she watched him laugh through the glass. ‘Bon choix,’ he added, before glancing up and meeting her eyes. ‘You are here for Christmas?’ he asked.

Rachel nodded, caught off guard by the question. He tilted his head, as if processing the fact and mulling over another question, but said nothing more, just went back to studying the cake choices.

Then suddenly a shout from the doorway made her jolt upright, almost banging her head on the top lip of the counter. She heard a loud, angry voice shout, ‘What are you doing in my shop? Where is Françoise?’ and turned to see Chef standing, hands on hips, in the doorway.

At that moment Françoise came hurrying in, hair all over the place, pale-faced and terrified, mascara streaked down her cheeks.

As Françoise rushed past her Rachel grabbed her arm to hold her back and said to Chef as confidently as she could in the face of his scowl, ‘Françoise wasn’t feeling well. I said I’d help.’

The cosy warmth of the pâtisserie suddenly felt too hot as Chef looked between the two of them, disbelieving. ‘You are ill, Françoise, you come to me. Rachel—out. Françoise, serve the man.’

As Chef narrowed his eyes, waiting for her to leave, Rachel whispered, ‘Are you OK?’ to Françoise, who’d clearly caught a glimpse of herself in the mirrored wall behind them and started scrubbing the black off her face.

‘Yes, yes, it is always the same,’ she muttered under her breath as she retied her hair. Then smoothing down her apron and giving Rachel a quick little wink, she added, ‘We will make up later.’ Rachel rolled her eyes and as she started to leave turned to look apologetically at her customer. ‘I’m sorry about this.’

‘It’s nothing. Merci beaucoup for your choice, mademoiselle. ’ He tipped his head to her, his dark eyes crinkling with humour as he surveyed the scene. ‘I’m Philippe, by the way.’

‘Rachel,’ she said. She paused for a moment to smile at him and then, remembering where she was, turned and ducked away past a furious Chef to Abby, who was waiting, one brow raised, her arms folded tightly underneath her cleavage and her breath coming out in white clouds from the cold.

‘Even I could have told you that wouldn’t go well.’ Back at the workroom everyone was starting to prepare. There was a sense, as they plucked butter from the larder and scooped up flour from the bags, that they weren’t pretending any more.

‘You have an hour and a half. Everything here, it is for you. Use it. I don’t want to see some shitty nothing on a plate. Enjoy. I am here, having coffee.’ Chef took his seat at the front and surveyed them like a headmaster.

Rachel looked around; it seemed everyone was going sweet. Lacey was cutting figs and straining prunes from a jar. She could see a row of tiny moulds ready to be lined with filo. Marcel had told them on the way in that his chocolate tart never failed. The secret was Armagnac from his family’s distillery.

Rachel was dithering, her hand hovering over peaches. She watched George pick the fruits for a pear, apple and orange blossom tarte Tatin. Cheryl was asking Abby to confirm ingredient weights for a cherry and date Bakewell. And Ali had decided on a basil and white chocolate vol-au-vent, the idea of which had made Chef snort with disgust.

As she stood panicking, gazing at all the ingredients, her eyes landed on a lump of feta, hard and crumbling into the wooden cheese board on the side, and she had a brainwave. Almost kissed the air and said a prayer of thanks.

When she reached for the cheese she caught Lacey roll her eyes and mutter under her breath, ‘Oh, here we go. Trying to be different.’

But she ignored her. She wasn’t trying to be different at all. She was trying to do whatever it took not to be at the bottom. Being last wasn’t a feeling she was used to. And if she was going to cling on and prove she had some skill, then this recipe was tried and tested. She knew because it wasn’t just Ben’s taste buds that recommended it, it was generations. A recipe passed down from her Greek great-grandmother to her grandmother, her mother and her.

Tiny filo cheese pies so thin and delicate, brushed with glistening egg yolk and packed full of feta, ricotta, blue cheese and parmesan that cracked and burst on the top like volcanos when cooked. Baked till golden, they were the taste of summers in Greece sitting under vines, Coca-Cola for them, chilled retsina for the adults. Clinking ice cubes, steaming plates of cheese and spinach pies, sizzling prawns, pale pink taramasalata, olives warmed by the sun. Her gran in a hat fussing. Her great-grandmother in a chair, faded blue sundress and Scholl sandals. The waves rolling the pebbles. It was the taste of summer and sunshine and family.

It was the taste of a time that was perfect.

She still made the pies, every now and then, but she didn’t go to Greece any more.

As she rolled out her filo, Chef sat up at the front sipping his espresso, Lacey carved her figs into intricate flowers, Marcel dripped chocolate from up high so it would cool into stars on his baking parchment, Ali started whipping his basil with the blender to make a foam, and Tony cut his finger again—Abby said it needed stitches. Chef sighed. Rachel’s pies puffed and cracked in the oven.

Time ticked away and she ummed and ahhed about taking them out as she watched Lacey make the finishing touches to her tartlets, dusting icing sugar over a flowered cake stand she’d brought from home.

‘Five minutes,’ said Chef.

She needed six.

Abby was brushing down her counter. Rachel’s was a mess, the sieve poking out from a pan, a baking tray at an angle in the sink, spoonfuls of cheese splattered across the surface.

‘One minute,’ Chef yelled.

Rachel looked at her pies. Almost. Almost. She heard her great-grandmother: Patience, Rachel. Patience in the kitchen. Her timer ticked.

‘Fuck it,’ she said in the end as the others stood neatly by their creations. Fifteen seconds to go, she yanked open the oven door, her glasses misted with steam, and tipped her pies onto a white plate she’d found under her counter.

When the stopwatch beeped, Chef slowly unfurled himself from his chair and walked from stand to stand perusing the goods. Marcel had supplied a crystal glass of Armagnac, Abby had a model Santa and a sherry to go alongside her mince pies. Lacey’s beautiful tarts sat proud and decadent on their tiered platter, as good as anything Rachel had been served for her birthday tea at the Ritz. Slicing a sliver here and a chunk there, Chef announced his verdicts.

‘Délicieux.’ Lacey’s tartlets.