The Last Phone Booth in Manhattan(66)
Gabe reached for his phone again, typing as he spoke aloud. “Moll-eee-yuhz . . . fluffy? Did he say more fluffy? How am I supposed to fluff this thing any more than it already is?”
“I . . . I don’t know. Like I warned, the sugar was too heavy when you poured it in all at once. I don’t know if you can undo it now.”
“Well, I certainly can’t undo it now that it’s already in there. Ugh, I’m sure it will be fine. We should just pour the mixture into the bowls and get cracking.”
“I think they’re called ramekins,” I corrected.
Gabe glanced at the clock on the wall and huffed. “Well, let’s get whatever they’re called into the oven. I think I’m starting to feel a bit done with this.”
Yeah, five and a half hours when you don’t know what you’re doing is not as fun as one would imagine. And it was clearly starting to get to Gabe, who seemed to be growing more impatient by the second. We were getting snappy at one another, and I could sense a very noticeable shift in mood. Our afternoon was somehow deflating faster than our half-assed soufflé.
When we pulled the ramekins out of the oven thirty minutes later, the sweet smell of dark chocolate cut some of the bitterness left behind from our baking battle royale, but unfortunately, our saggy soufflé still left much to be desired. The sunken top was split by a deep crevasse that should have been towering high with delectable molten raspberry filling bubbling underneath. Instead, it looked like a blob, wholly unappetizing and burned around the edges. We each took a bite, and though it was hard to believe, it tasted worse than it looked, and sadly, we ended up tossing the whole mess into the nearby trash can.
When the class finally came to a close, Gabe and I were mentally and physically exhausted. As we exited the school and strolled back in the direction of Le Marais, the sun was already setting and thick clouds shadowed the sky. In the close distance, the Eiffel Tower stood majestically lit, sparkling like a beacon for all of Paris to see. Gabe flagged down a taxi, and we zipped through the streets of Paris awash in the glow of the setting sun and were back at our B and B in under twenty minutes.
Gabe climbed out of the cab and turned to me to offer me a hand, looking as if he’d been through a few rounds in the ring. “I’m beat. Want to head back to the room and chill out for a bit before dinner? I think the restaurant where I made our reservations is pretty close to here.”
I scanned the city, still bustling with life. For as much fun as cooking class had been, it had been a lot of time inside, and I wanted to just take a moment to drink in the sights and sounds of the city I’d dreamed of visiting my whole life. “You know what, I think I’m going to take a walk before I head back. But you go, relax. I’ll be right behind you.”
“Want me to come with you? I’m sure I can muster up a second wind,” he said, even though his eyes looked heavy and his posture a bit droopy.
“Don’t muster anything. Go back and relax. You look exhausted. I’ll probably just grab a coffee myself and walk along the Seine for a bit. We’ve been cooped up in that hot kitchen all day. I could use some fresh air and maybe some time to run my lines for the final audition.”
A look of relief washed over him. “Okay, well, you have your key, right? I’ll see you when you get back. Call or text me if you change your mind, I swear I can rally.”
We headed off in opposite directions, him back to our hotel and me down the narrow cobbled streets of fourth arrondissement until I reached the Pont Neuf, which arched ornamentally over the lazy, flowing Seine below. Black iron lampposts twinkled in the water’s still reflection, and I spotted a quaint corner brasserie with a smattering of a few patrons iconically seated around the café’s exterior under a wide-hanging awning. I signaled with a finger in the air that I was looking for a table for one, and the ma?tre d’ called, “Installez-vous,” and gestured to a few open tables, allowing me to choose one of my liking.
When a young waiter approached, I quickly debated whether or not to try my hand at the limited amount of French I tried to cram into my brain on the plane on the way over. I focused mainly on the most necessary things I’d need: thank you, please, where is the bathroom?, and can I have a glass of wine? You know, the essentials!
The waiter flipped over my water glass and handed me a set of silverware from a tray he was holding. “Bon soir, mademoiselle. Vous avez choisi?”
My heart started to race, and I so badly wanted to default to English. But I tried to remind myself that it was polite to at least try, so I stammered out, “Oh, uh, yeah. Um . . . je voo-dray une verr de van, see voo play?”
The waiter barely missed a beat but responded in English. “Ah, oui. Red or white?”
“Oh, yes, right . . . um . . . rooj, see voo play. Mare see!”
I knew I’d butchered it, but at least I’d tried. And maybe after trying a few small, uncomfortable, out-of-character things, taking a step out on the ledge would not always be such a difficult task. I pulled the Marley Is Dead script pages out of my bag, slid my AirPods into my ears, and armed with the glass of red wine I’d proudly ordered myself, I dove in deep into some prep work, practically losing all sense of time until the waiter asked me if I would like a third glass of Beaujolais.
I glanced down at my watch, incredulous that it had been almost three hours since I’d left Gabe, and shot him a quick text letting him know I was on my way back. I signaled for the check as I scooped my things into my bag and rushed off in the direction of our B and B.