A Patisserie Mystery 4: Crêpe Murder

Clémence Damour and her head baker, Sebastien Soulier, had just made another batch of their latest invention. It was a croissant, but not just any average buttery French croissant. This one had an American influence.

This was their third batch of the day. The first batch had been too sweet and overpowering. Clémence thought the second batch had promise until she took a bite and realized it was too crunchy. And now the third batch simply looked weird.

“They’re more like apple turnovers,” Sebastien continued. “It’s going to be a challenge to get the right balance of apples and cinnamon in a light-as-air croissant.”

Clémence took a bite. She liked the taste of the croissant, to her surprise. She had always enjoyed American-style pastries and desserts, since she was half American herself, but because their customers were mostly French, their products couldn’t be too greasy, dense, or sweet.

“You might as well try one,” Clémence said.

“Fine.” Reluctantly, Sebastien chewed. “The apples are a little too mushy. Are you sure you want to stick with Granny Smith apples? I’m thinking we can branch out with something more unique, like Pink Lady apples.”

“My grandmother in Boston always uses Granny Smith apples. In her apple pies, that is.”

“But we’re not making an American pastry here. We’re trying to come up with something to appeal to the French. Pink Lady apples are a good balance of sweet and tart. We might be able to cut down on some of the sugar in the recipe, too.”

Clémence took another bite, just to be sure. The apples were mushier than she would’ve liked. They had used too much cinnamon this time, too. It was close, but not quite right. Trying a different apple could help tweak the taste a bit.

“I’m open to trying different apples,” she said. “Why don’t I go to the open-air market tomorrow morning and pick up a few different tart apples? We’ll continue this experiment tomorrow.”

Clémence and Sebastien had a great working relationship, but sometimes they differed in taste. While they ultimately agreed on what made the cut and what didn’t, sometimes they had to make compromises in getting to the end product.

“We can also try cutting the apples into thinner slices,” Clémence said. “Maybe it’ll help cut down on the density.”

“Yes, I was just going to suggest that, too.”

Sebastien lifted the tray from the table to chuck the croissants in the garbage, but Clémence stopped him.

“Come on,” said Clémence. “They’re not that bad. They’re still good enough for the average person to consume.”

“Right.” Sebastien chuckled. “The average person.”

As bakers, they both had perfectionist tendencies in the kitchen. Anybody else would’ve thought that the croissants were delicious. Sebastien and Clémence held themselves to a much higher standard. Damour was, after all, one of the best patisseries in Paris.

Clémence looked at her watch. “It’s almost four. I’m off.”

“Where are you going so early in the work day?”

“I want to check out this painting class,” said Clémence. “My friend Ben recommended it. The teacher said I could drop by and see what they’re working on.”

“I thought you already have a degree in painting,” said Sebastien. “Why are you taking more classes?”

“That was for classical painting and art history. Sure, I learned the techniques, but I always feel confined when I paint in some old master’s style. It’s beautiful, but I’ve decided that it’s not the kind of style I want to pursue. The teacher is from Brazil, and I hear she’s more open minded and experimental. Maybe she’ll help me loosen up and find my own style.”

“Sounds good. You know, I haven’t seen any of your artwork. Is it online anywhere?”

“No,” said Clémence. “I haven’t done anything I’m that proud of yet, so I won’t show them until I start producing some good pieces.”

“That’s funny,” said Sebastien. “You’re always experimenting and open to trying new things in the kitchen, but you make it sound like you’re the opposite when you’re in front of the easel.”

“Ironic, isn’t it? It’s some sort of blockage. Maybe it’s just years of art teachers telling me I’m doing things all wrong.”

“Same here with culinary school. One of my teachers was terrifying.”

“Then how did you get to be so open?”

“Your parents really helped,” said Sebastien. “Observing how your mom and dad worked in the kitchen. I don’t know if you remember, but I was quite conventional in the kitchen when I first started. Your parents really encouraged me to experiment.”

Clémence beamed. “That’s good to hear. They’ve always been supportive. I think it helps that my mom had an American upbringing, where there’s an emphasis on encouragement rather than pointing out faults.”

“How are they by the way? Are they still in Japan?”

“That sounds amazing. It’d be so neat to go to a Damour in a different country. I wonder if it’ll be like a parallel universe, with different versions of ourselves.”

Clémence laughed. “Probably. I can imagine a Chinese version of you in the Hong Kong kitchen, intensely focused on making a jasmine tea macaron or something.”

She put the remaining six apple pie croissants in a plastic container.

“Feeding the homeless?” Sebastien asked.

“Something like that,” Clémence replied.

A cute girl with her brown hair cut in a pixie style caught her eye. She had big brown eyes, dimples, and looked to be in her mid-twenties. Short hair was hard to pull off, but it suited the girl’s feminine features.

There was also something familiar about her. Had Clémence met or seen her somewhere before? Maybe she was a celebrity. It wasn’t unusual to see celebrities eating at Damour. Just last week, Marion Cotillard and Guillaume Canet were spotted eating lunch there. Her friend Celine, one of the hostesses, had almost fainted. She was a huge fan of Guillaume Canet and had nearly been hysterical when she ran back into the kitchen to tell Clémence and Berenice who was in the salon.

She had been so distracted by the girl and her crêpe that she didn’t notice the man she was dining with until it was too late. He was also eating a dark chocolate crêpe. She looked up, inadvertently making eye contact with him.

Carlos. She knew him. Tall, dark haired, square jawed, a muscular build. He was as handsome as a prince, and certainly charming, especially when he spoke with such a sexy Spanish accent. She’d thought she would never see him again. What was he doing in Paris?