“It’s…” What could I say? That it pissed on almost anything else I’d ever eaten anywhere? That it was so good I felt like I wanted to almost cry? That I would never eat anything else as long as I lived? And it was still not even set.
“It’s very good,” I said finally. Frédéric glanced at Benoît, who shrugged. Just as the roaster in the corner was heating up the room uncomfortably, the air conditioner clicked on and a cooling hum began. Everything here was rickety, antiquated, and held together with tape. But there was absolutely no doubt that it worked. It worked beyond the wildest dreams of Braders, beyond the wildest dreams of every chocolate I’d ever eaten in my entire life.
“Eet ees better than very good, non?” Frédéric asked. He seemed insulted.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “It’s…le style anglais.”
He seemed happier about this. Typical British stiff upper lip couldn’t be passionate about anything, I suspected, as far as he was concerned. In truth, I didn’t want to tell him how impressed I was. It would make me sound like a rube, like I knew nothing about chocolate when in fact I’d been sent there to help. The gap between what I’d been making and what they were doing here was like the difference between a liquid dish soap bottle rocket and the NASA Mars mission. So I decided it was best to keep my mouth shut. At least, until I could fill it with more of that unbelievable chocolate. In secret.
So I stayed quiet as Frédéric, with some relish, showed me where the cleaning equipment was kept and what my duties were, got me to hammer pounds of cocoa beans until I stopped ruining their stock, showed me how to winnow for husks, and took me through the schedule of the shop. By the time we were finished, it was nearly 10:00 a.m. and the sun was shining strongly through the long planters of herbs, making it look more like a greenhouse than ever. I wondered if we were about to open, as Frédéric and Benoît glanced nervously at their watches, but as it turned out five minutes later, they were not. The door was unlocked, then thrown open with a spectacular clang. Benoît suddenly made himself completely invisible. The jolly puckish look on Frédéric’s features was replaced with a kind of servile watchfulness. I looked around behind me as the swing doors into the little factory swung heavily.
“ALLONS-Y!” LET’S GO! came a huge, booming voice.
Of all the surprises Claire had vouchsafed me, of all the confusions, this was by far the weirdest.
The way she had spoken, the way she had gone pink when she spoke of him, it was clear to me that this had been someone serious in her life, whereas whenever she mentioned her ex-husband, Richard, it was with pained courtesy.
You could still see in her the traces of the younger woman she had been; she’d been beautiful. She still was, in a certain light, when the years of pain weren’t so strongly etched on her brow.
I had fantasized, perhaps, of a suave, gray-haired type, perhaps with jet black eyebrows, wearing chef’s whites or maybe a very well-cut suit. Smart and stylish, just like her—chic and a little bit distant. Perhaps we would smile wryly when Claire’s name came up, or, perhaps sadly, he would barely remember her at all, just a girl from very long ago who had had a wild crush on him, a summer of his youth, but nothing to do with his real life at all. Romantic and handsome, obviously, perhaps a little sad…
None of these described Thierry Girard.
I don’t know if Thierry spoke any English. I couldn’t imagine how he made his trips to Australia and America, where he was feted and famous, if he couldn’t. But I never heard him speak a single word. He was huge; he never spent any time in the shop without making it look as if there wasn’t any room for anybody else. His belly, normally enswathed in a huge white apron, seemed to be a separate entity from himself, as it entered rooms before he did.
“Who is this?” he boomed as he entered the kitchen. “Frédéric, have you been bringing night girls home with you again?”
At this stage, my French was a beat behind what was actually being said, so it was too late to realize I was being horribly insulted till a moment or so later. Which was a relief because if I’d have shot my mouth off, I’d have been out of a job about two milliseconds later.
“This is AnNA Tron,” said Frédéric. “The new kitchen assistant.”
Thierry lowered his enormous face toward mine. He had a little beard, which was lucky as his face was so sunk in fat that without it, it would have been borderline featureless. His little black eyes were like raisins stuck in a huge muffin. His skin was doughy, and hair came out of his flat nostrils. He gazed at me.
“Women in among my chocolate,” he said. “I’m not sure.”
I was taken aback. You would never hear this type of thing in the UK. Just as I was about to get annoyed about it, his enormous meaty shoulders shook with a huge belly laugh.
“I am joking! I joke! I joke!”
He looked at me, then suddenly snapped his fingers.
“I know who you are!”
I wasn’t at all sure he would.
“You are Claire’s friend.”
I nodded.
“Ha! She spoke French like a dog eats salad.”
I bristled. “She was a wonderful teacher.”
His eyes blinked rapidly, twice. “Ah yes. I’m sure she was. I can imagine she was. Mind you, she was a terrible nanny…although, alors, perhaps that was my fault…”
He drifted off then and I shifted uncomfortably. I wasn’t at all sure how much he knew about Claire’s illness, nor how serious it was.
“And you were ill?”
“I’m fine,” I said stoutly. I wasn’t really in the mood for volunteering exactly what was wrong with me unless somebody absolutely had to ask.
“You are fine for working hard, yes?”
“Without a doubt,” I said, smiling as hard as I could.
“Bon. Bon.”
His face looked far away again.
“And Claire…she is also ill.”
I nodded, not quite trusting myself to speak. He looked as if he were about to ask more, then stopped himself.
“Alors. Welcome, welcome. Do you know your chocolate?”
I looked into his big friendly giant’s face sincerely. This I could answer.
“I do, sir. I’ve worked in chocolate for ten years.”