Page 1 of The Perfect Ingredient
1 Gram
I’m the fourth son of a wine magnate, which is to say: irrelevant. By the time I was born, the namede Rocheforthad already been poured into three far worthier glasses. My eldest brother is a politician. The second one runs the vineyard. The third married well and breeds horses near Bordeaux. And then there’s me, twenty-five and agenius—though in truth, I began burning soufflés at eleven and insisted it was divine inspiration.
Still, it was enough to get me into Le Cordon Bleu. God bless nepotism and the weight a name carries in a donor’s signature.
My parents agreed when I said I was leaving home to go live in a small village near Lyon. They nodded, vaguely supportive, perhaps hoping I’d open a quaint little shop, marry some village girl, and keep myeccentricitiesconfined to provincial air.
Instead, I bought a crumbling old bakery with ivy in the walls and mildew in the beams.
It crouches crooked on the corner of a cobbled alley like an old drunk made of medieval bones and creaking wood. For some reason, there’s a gargoyle carved into the lintel above the main entrance. His tongue’s been sticking out at me since I bought the place.
But I love him.
I love all of it.
I could’ve stayed in Paris. Sleek ovens, white marble counters, the decadent arrogance only a city like that cultivates. But I didn’t want to perfect éclairs. I wanted to taste somethingnew. I wanted to create pastries that felt like being kissed behind a church during Mass. Like fevered hands in the dark. Likesin.
So I bought a ruin.
The village is small. One of those places barely touched by time or the aftermath of war, save for the worn-out boys who never came back and the ones who did, with hollow eyes and crutches instead of limbs. Sometimes I think the wind here still carries the smell of gunpowder and mud. Sometimes I think it’s just my imagination, sweetened by too much absinthe.
The bakery hasn’t seen a customer since 1914. The front room is gutted: dirty stone, counters torn down, a half-collapsed ceiling revealing beams blackened with soot and rot. But I made sure the kitchen was first to be restored and modernized a little—thank God for the creation of refrigerators, and for the fortune that lets me own one. Now the place looks great with polished copper, imported enamel stove, and spices in labeled jars I refuse to alphabetize because I find chaos charming.
My little sanctum that, today, looks like a horrible mess.
There are bowls stacked on bowls, each with a different experiment, some still warm. Ganache has formed a thin skin while waiting too long. The smell of burnt sugar lingers, cloying. I have flour on my cheek, I think. Or it might be powdered rose petal. Either way, I haven’t looked in a mirror since dawn, and I doubt I’d like what I see.
I lick the back of a silver spoon.
Lemon, thyme, chocolate and yet,flat. Just a little too sweet, clinging to the tongue without seduction, like a needy lover with nothing new to say.
“Merde,” I mutter, and drop the spoon into the sink.
There’s a knock at the back door—three times. I glance up from the flat abomination I created, and want to scream in frustration. I wasn’t expecting anyone at this hour.
Still, I make my way to the door.
When I open it, the sun hits something golden.
Or rather,someone.
He’s so tall, he blocks half the morning with his shoulders alone. He’s balancing a sack of flour over one of them, arms bare and freckled under the rolled sleeves of a coarse work shirt. There’s a lazy blush on his cheeks—sun kissed for too long.
His hair’s a shag of dirty blond curls falling into soft brown eyes, a little tangled, a little damp with sweat. His cheeks are ruddy, his mouth soft, and he smells faintly of hay and sweat and the pure, clean scent of sun-warmed skin.
“Flour from the mill for… Louis de Rochefort?” he says. His accent is thick and rural, and his tone is deep and calm. I’m already obsessed.
“That’s me,” I say, and lean in the frame. “Bring it in. Kitchen’s through here.”
“I can leave it out here, if you want. Don’t want to mess anything up.”
I laugh.Mon Dieu,he’s adorable!
“Darling, it’s already beyond salvation. Come in.”
He follows me in, careful with his steps, eyes darting around. I gesture toward a clean corner of the kitchen, and he sets the sack down with a thud that puffs a cloud of flour into the air.
“What’s your name?”
