Laurent caught me staring and gave me a half-smile. “Have you never seen a working kitchen before?” but I shook my head; I hadn’t. My Saturday job in the Honey Pot didn’t even compare; I’d never seen anything remotely like this. It was like a huge airfield, but once you got used to the size and the noise and the number of people bustling about and occasional bouts of steam, it seemed to make a lot of sense; it was organized, like ants, not the chaos it first appeared.
Laurent led me down to the far end of the room. Next to him, two men were kneading bread. They had huge muscular forearms and looked like miners or sailors, not bakers. An almost comically large man was opposite them, icing tiny pastries. The size of the man was completely at odds with the task he was undertaking.
Laurent’s station was by the window, which looked out onto the Seine. He had a huge copper pot bubbling on the stove on a very low flame, the chocolate melting very much like his father’s. But instead of oranges and mint, there was every manner of flavoring around his work bench. Tiny chilies were lined up in bright green and red; yellow marjoram and little pumpkin flowers jostled next to pine needles and sea salt.
“This looks like a mad person’s laboratory,” I said.
“I’m going to take that as a compliment,” he said gruffly. “Is there any more news? You seem to be the first to know about anything.”
“That’s not true,” I said quietly. “But I do need to ask you this favor.”
He checked on one of the smaller pots he was stirring. “Try this,” he said. I opened my mouth eagerly, and he smiled. “You are a proper chocolate girl. Okay, hang on.”
He blew on it to cool it down.
“What is it?”
He shook his head, then popped it in my mouth.
My first instinct was to spit it out. It was horrible, not sweet at all. It was sharp, bitter, and with an odd warm flavor that I couldn’t identify. Laurent was holding up his finger strongly, warning me not to spit it out.
“It’s new,” he said. “You have to give it some time.”
“It tastes like cat food,” I said, but then stopped talking as the warmth of the melting sweet gradually hit my tongue. It spread all around my mouth as the chocolate melted and was the most extraordinary, rich sensation on my tongue and around my mouth. It tasted like nothing I’d ever had before. It was also slightly horrible, but as soon as I’d finished it, I immediately wanted another one.
“Wow, what was that?” I said eventually, looking hopefully at his pot.
“Slow-roasted tomato chili chocolate,” Laurent announced proudly. “If you don’t use the very bitterest of beans, it makes you throw up. It’s a hard one to get right.”
“It’s not really a sweet at all,” I said.
“It’s not,” agreed Laurent. “Wait till you see what I do with it and the duck.”
I boggled to think.
“And your dad didn’t think this was cool?”
“He just wanted to do things his way.”
“And you don’t?”
He shrugged.
“Well, maybe it’s better for fathers and sons not to work with each other.”
A small man, quite young, had appeared before him and was now removing trays of quickly hardening chocolate to the enormous fridges. Laurent grimaced at him quickly and checked his watch.
“Alors, I need to get to the hospital. What do you need from me, exactly?”
I gave him a piece of the chocolate I’d made. He maneuvered it around his mouth exactly how his father did it. His face fell.
“Oh,” he said.
“The shop needs you to help me,” I said. “I can’t do it.”
“I have been thinking about this,” he said. “I don’t think it’s possible. I’ve changed my mind. No offense, but you worked in a mass-market factory. You don’t have the right genes, the right experience.”
“That’s nonsense,” I said crossly. “It’s just that I’ve only been here five minutes.”
“It’s pointless,” he said.
He started washing his hands, handing over the stove to another man—didn’t they have any women working here at all?—who carried on stirring.
“Yes. Yes, we need you,” I said. “I can’t. I can’t do it, not yet. I didn’t get to watch him do it often enough. But I’m a quick learner, I promise.”
He looked at me, then waved his hand around the room. “Do you know how long it’s taken me to work up to this?” he said. “How many kitchens I’ve worked in, how many people have shouted at me, how much crap I’ve taken off everyone, how much bullying I’ve gotten for who my father is? How much I’ve looked and concentrated and learned and observed? And you want me to, what, just give it all up and come back and put mint in milk chocolate? Is that what you want me to do?”
“It’s not what I want you to do,” I said. “It’s for the shop. It’s for your dad.”
Laurent blew his thick fringe out of his eyes. “Well, that’s interesting, because the last time we discussed it, he said he didn’t want me to cross the threshold anymore and that I was a total failure who’d never learned a thing.”
I put my arm out, but didn’t touch him. “That was before.”
“But if I come up, will you let me do my own styles, my own designs? No, of course not. Alice will insist on doing things the old way and I’ll be completely trapped again, acting as a slave to my dad, just like he’s always wanted his entire life. I will not cook there!”
It was only the general noise and clanging of the kitchen that stopped people turning to look at Laurent shouting. I was still pink anyway; I couldn’t bear it. I stared at the ground so he couldn’t see how furious I was. But he noticed anyway and didn’t give a toss.
“I have to go to the hospital,” he said. “And I can’t lose this job. Not at the moment. There are…there are no jobs like this. I’ve worked so long for this, and I’m already taking more time off than anyone else does, just out of kitchen respect for my father…”
I nodded. “I understand,” I said in a flat voice. He was walking me out now, grabbing his scooter helmet from the wall.
“He doesn’t want what I have to offer,” said Laurent. “He’s made that totally clear…I’ll be back for evening service,” he told the man at the door, clocking out.