Christmas in London
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To my mother
Chapter One
LOUISA NUDGED OPEN THE INDUSTRIAL-SIZED oven and thought nothing smelled as wonderful as cinnamon and nutmeg nine days before Christmas. Everything about the bakery’s smooth wooden counters thrilled her: the buttery pie crusts waiting for crisp Granny Smith apple slices and scoops of whipped cream, the eggnog custard nestled in white cups, the cupcakes topped with cream cheese frosting and shaped liked Christmas trees. And she especially loved the croquembouche she had convinced Ellie, the bakery’s owner, to let her make on her own time.
She learned the recipe for croquembouche at a cooking course in Normandy and never forgot the cream-filled pastry puffs dipped in caramel and laced with spun sugar. She examined it now and thought the puffs were a little crooked and the cream may not be as rich as she used in Normandy, but when she popped one in her mouth she tasted vanilla and a crust so airy it was like a single fat snowflake drifting down from the sky.
That was one of the things people didn’t realize about being a pastry chef. It wasn’t just about baking a delicious cheesecake or whisking eggs and flour so a soufflé was firm and delicate at the same time. It was about exploring other cultures. She loved to make lamingtons from Australia with their gooey centers and coconut flakes and panettones from Italy topped with powdered sugar and citrus rinds and toffee pudding from England so thick it stuck to the roof of her mouth.
Her phone lit up with texts and she brushed aside a stray hair and picked it up. Her friends urged her to join them doing all the things twenty-something New Yorkers enjoyed a week before Christmas: ice-skating in Central Park or sipping champagne cobblers at the Monkey Bar or braving Christmas shoppers at Bloomingdale’s to pick out the perfect party dress.
But there was always the possibility of falling and spraining her wrist when she ice-skated and champagne gave her a headache and even though she loved Bloomingdale’s with its decorated Christmas tree and scents of expensive perfumes, she couldn’t afford a pair of silk stockings let alone a whole dress.
And besides, every extra hour she worked brought her closer to her goal. She had been saving for four years and by next Christmas she was determined to open her own restaurant specializing in homemade desserts. She’d already started scouting locations—roaming the trendy streets of Chelsea and venturing to the Upper West Side with its leafy sidewalks and elegant brownstones.
In the summer there would be blueberry tarts and upside-down cake with plums the color of lipstick and almond ice cream torte. And at the Christmas holidays! She would serve Baked Alaska and gingerbread trifle with cognac custard and sliced pears.
She stretched like a cat that had been sitting too long in front of the fire and noticed the rain drizzling on the pavement. If she had brought a proper raincoat she would almost look forward to the six blocks’ walk to her apartment.
She thought of all the things she planned to do when she got home: read the chapter on chocolate ganache in Gordon Ramsay’s new cookbook, try out a new recipe for key lime pie with limes she bought at the corner market, take a bath before her roommate prepared for a date and spent hours in the bathroom doing her hair and makeup.
Every day for the last week Louisa had staggered up the stairs to her apartment and unlocked the door. She’d flipped through the mail and brewed a cup of orange hibiscus tea. Then she’d lain down on her bed fully clothed just to close her eyes. Hours later she would wake with a crick in her neck and her jacket digging uncomfortably into her side.
A bell tinkled and Louisa realized she’d forgotten to lock the bakery door and change the sign to CLOSED. The kitchen door opened and a man of about thirty appeared. He wore a rain-splattered leather jacket and had short light-brown hair.
“I’m sorry, we’re closed.” She took the cinnamon rolls out of the oven and placed them on the island in the middle of the room.
“You’re not closed, actually.” He entered the kitchen. “The door of the bakery was unlocked and the red blinking sign said OPEN.”
“The sign is new and I always forget to unplug it,” Louisa said. “The cash register is empty and the desserts are put away. I’m afraid you’ll have to leave.”
“Are these cinnamon rolls any good?” He inspected the tray.
“I really couldn’t say,” she answered. “I just took them out of the oven.”
“They smell delicious.” He picked one up. “Do you mind if I try one?”
“You can’t just help yourself!” she protested, wiping her hands on her apron. “I spent hours baking them.”
The man inhaled deeply and took a small bite. He finished chewing and looked at Louisa.
“Excellent! Not too gooey and with just the right amount of sweetness,” he announced. “Possibly the best cinnamon roll I’ve ever tasted.”
“Do you think so?” she asked, suddenly happy despite herself. “I’ve been working on the recipe for ages. I use a secret ingredient I can’t tell anyone about. And the brown sugar has to have just the right amount of molasses.”
“Is that all there is?” He waved at the two trays of cinnamon rolls. “Or are there more in the oven?”
“That’s two dozen cinnamon rolls! It took me all afternoon.” She suddenly remembered that it was 7:00 p.m. and she’d been at the bakery since early morning.
“I’ll take the lot.” He picked up a tray. “Do you have any boxes? I can’t have them getting ruined in the rain.”
“Put that down!” she said hotly. “You can’t just waltz in here and help yourself to what’s on the counter.”
“I wasn’t going to help myself, I was going to pay you.” He reached into his pocket and took out a wallet. “How much are they?”
“They’re not for sale.” She shook her head.
“Of course they’re for sale,” he countered. “This is a bakery. You didn’t make twenty-four cinnamon rolls to eat before bed.”
“They’re not for sale now. They’re for the morning,” she clarified. “They’re our most popular item the week before Christmas. People love them with a cup of coffee or hot chocolate.”
“I need them now.” He riffled through his wallet. “Will one hundred dollars be enough? I can’t imagine you charge more than six dollars a cinnamon roll even if this is the East Village.”
“One hundred dollars for twenty-four cinnamon rolls!” Louisa gasped.
Ellie had asked Louisa what they should charge and Louisa suggested three dollars apiece. She was terrible at pricing her own desserts. It was a tug-of-war between being grateful people liked them enough to pay for them and wanting Ellie to make a profit. “I’m sorry, you can’t have them. I’m not the owner and I’m not allowed to sell the products after hours. I’d be happy to hold them for you when we open tomorrow morning, if you’d like to come back then.”
“Two hundred dollars, then.” He handed her two hundred-dollar bills. “And an extra fifty if you find me a box.”
“You have other pastries. They can buy Danish or croissants,” he suggested.
“Any other time of the year perhaps, but not now.” She shook her head. “People allow an extra fifteen minutes to get to work just so they can pick up a cinnamon roll. It’s the high point of their day.”
“Have you heard of the cooking show Baking with Bianca?” he asked. “We’re filming a Christmas special in a brownstone nearby and there was a small fire in the kitchen. The snowball cupcakes look like they were roasted over a campfire and the fig crumble bars are burnt to a crisp. There isn’t time to bake anything else and the other bakeries are closed. I need something for Bianca to hold in front of the camera.”
“It’s the most watched cooking show in New York.” She nodded. “At first I was a little put off by Bianca’s lipstick. How could you taste your own desserts without getting bright-red lipstick all over the spoon? But I’ve tried some of the recipes and the steamed gingerbread pudding is delicious.”
“Bianca wears waterproof lipstick, it wouldn’t come off during a monsoon,” he murmured.
Louisa noticed that the man’s eyes were blue and there was an ink smudge on his cheek. His cheeks were smooth and when he smiled crinkles formed around his mouth.
“I’m sorry, they’re not mine to sell,” she insisted. “Ellie, the owner, is at The Nutcracker with her daughter, Chloe, and I can’t interrupt her. You can try again tomorrow.”
“I’ve got a stylist and a lighting guy and a camera operator who will report this to the union if we go a minute overtime,” he pleaded. “And think of the viewers. They’re going to tune in to learn how to bake something special for Santa Claus or bring the perfect Christmas gift to Aunt Mary in the hospital and be disappointed.”
Christmas was Louisa’s favorite time of year because people were so nice to each other. All month the spirit of doing the right thing was intoxicating. People jostled to give up their seat on the subway and when she walked down Fifth Avenue she heard the sound of coins dropping into Salvation Army cans. She wanted to help him, and in exchange Bianca could mention the bakery on the show. It would be wonderful publicity and Ellie would be thrilled.
“I have an idea,” she suggested. “What if Bianca says on air that the bakery is one of her favorite spots in Manhattan? Ellie would get free publicity and you would get your cinnamon rolls.” She paused. “I will have to come in early and make more, but I don’t mind. I’ll do anything to help the bakery succeed.”
“You’re a lifesaver,” he said and kissed her on the cheek. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to do that but you’ve made me so happy.” He stepped back and grinned. “My job is to make everything on the set run smoothly and Bianca was roaming around like a lion with an injured paw. Even our producer, Kate, couldn’t placate her. Kate is usually as soothing as a warm brandy before bed.”
“That sounds perfect right about now,” she said with a sigh. “I arrived so early this morning the homeless man was still asleep. Every evening I give him a stack of blankets and every morning when he wakes up he returns them.”
“You give a homeless man blankets?” He stopped. “Doesn’t that encourage him to hang around? I’m sure your customers don’t want to see him when they’re ordering their morning cappuccino.”
“No one sees him, he sleeps in the covered alley in the back. Even Ellie doesn’t know he comes,” she said. “The shelters are so crowded, sometimes it’s hard to get a blanket at all. I give him a cup of leftover coffee and blankets I keep in the storeroom.” She paused. “No one knows, please don’t say anything.”
“My lips are sealed. I have to go, or I’ll be fired and looking for a handout.” He picked up the trays. “I’m Noah, it’s a pleasure doing business with you.”
“I’m Louisa.” She nodded. “I hope it all works out.”
He walked to the door and turned around. “You’ve saved my job, I don’t know how to thank you.”
Louisa watched Noah cross the street and thought she shouldn’t have said yes. Now she’d have to be back at the bakery at 5:00 a.m. Her shoes would barely have time to dry and she wouldn’t be able to wash her hair before work. But it was too late now. The cinnamon rolls were gone and she had to get home before the soft rain became a downpour.
She closed the front door and studied the white Christmas tree decorated with gumdrops and peppermints in the bakery window. The red sign still flashed OPEN and she laughed. She unlocked the door and unplugged it. Then she covered her head with her hands and hurried down the street.
Chapter Two
LOUISA POURED A CUP OF coffee from the bakery’s silver coffeepot and added cream and sugar. She took a sip and stared at the cup blankly. She had been there so long she couldn’t remember how many cups she’d already consumed.
There was the shot of espresso she gulped down when she arrived. The stone floor was freezing under her moccasins and the coffeepot took too long to heat up. She made an espresso in the espresso machine and drank it while she assembled brown sugar and cinnamon.
Then there had been the cup of coffee with a splash of vanilla she sipped after she handed the cinnamon rolls to Danielle, who worked the bakery’s counter. That was the best cup of the day. It was fresh and hot, and she could savor it slowly.
But then Danielle needed a tray of pecan crescent cookies and Louisa groaned and returned to work. Now it was early afternoon, and the coffee was so stale it needed a large dose of cream and two packets of sugar just to swallow it.
The kitchen door opened and Louisa looked up. Noah wore a long wool coat and blue jeans.
“Not you again!” she exclaimed. “Because of you I woke up so early, I banged my foot on the radiator in the dark. I had to hobble six blocks and when I arrived the bakery was like the inside of an igloo. I made two trays of cinnamon rolls and three cranberry logs and a persimmon pudding. If you have any designs on my pecan crescent cookies, you better think again. They’re for the evening rush, and I’m not going to make more.”
“They look excellent but I’m not hungry.” Noah glanced at the tray. “And I’m sorry you hurt your foot. I’m in a bit of trouble and need your help.”
“I’m a firm believer in helping others, especially at Christmas.” She poured the coffee in the sink. “But everyone has their limits. I was about to drink coffee that is so stiff you could put it behind a frame and hang it on the wall. I’m afraid this time you’ll have to solve your own problems.”
“The cinnamon rolls were a huge hit. The crew fought over who took them home and the producer, Kate, said they were the best she ever tasted,” he began. “Kate is very particular, she’s worked with Anthony Bourdain.”
“Anthony Bourdain!” Louisa’s eyes were wide. “Did she really say they were good?”
“Her exact words were ‘they are so rich and flaky they should be served at afternoon tea at the Waldorf.’” He paused. “Are you happy?”
“Very happy.” Louisa imagined getting a plug on national television for her restaurant when it opened. Then she studied Noah suspiciously. “But I’m exhausted. If you need more cinnamon rolls you’ll have to wait until tomorrow. As soon as I finish these crescent cookies I’m going home.”
“The only person who didn’t react favorably to the cinnamon rolls was Bianca.” He lifted the lid of the coffeepot and inhaled. “She took a few bites to show the camera how delicious they were and an hour later her lips blew up like a blowfish. Whatever you used, she was allergic.”
“It must have been the nutmeg, that’s my secret ingredient!” she gasped. “Some people are allergic. I should have told you. I’m sorry, it’s my fault.”
“Unfortunately she has an extreme case,” he finished. “Her doctor said she’d look like that for a week.”
“I feel terrible. Should I send an
apology note or a fruit basket?” She stopped. “But why do you need my help? I’m the last person Bianca wants to see.”
“Tonight the whole crew is flying to London to prepare to film Christmas Dinner at Claridge’s. Top chefs from around the world are going to prepare Christmas Eve dinner at one of the most famous hotel restaurants.” His eyes darkened. “Bianca was supposed to bake her layered fruitcake with crème fraîche frosting. Except now she’s going to be lying in a dark room watching Scandal and drinking milkshakes with a straw.”
Louisa’s cheeks paled and a shiver ran down her spine. “Oh, I see,” she breathed. “That does create a problem.”
He glanced at the clock above the oven. “In four hours and thirty-six minutes I have to be at the British Airways lounge at JFK. Before I hand over my boarding pass and receive my complimentary glass of champagne, you’re going to help me find Bianca’s replacement.”
“How would I do that?” Louisa demanded. “I’m a twenty-seven-year-old pastry chef at a bakery on the Lower East Side. I don’t know any famous chefs and I’ve never been invited to a restaurant opening.” She turned back to the crescent cookies. “I’m happy to write an apology, but I can’t find a replacement.”
“You don’t understand,” he urged. “I’m the one who brought the cinnamon rolls to the set. If I don’t show up with Bianca’s replacement, I’ll be fired.”
“Aren’t you overreacting?” she offered. “You didn’t mean to make Bianca’s lips blow up like a blowfish. She must have insurance for these situations.”
“Insurance doesn’t cover the press releases that have been sent out, and the promotional ads that have been filmed, and the fact that working alongside those chefs will be a huge boost for Bianca’s career,” he spluttered. “Someone has to take the blame, that’s how television works. It will be my head rolling around the network floor like a cabbage at Trader Joe’s.”
“If I could help you I would.” She opened the oven door. “But I have to finish these crescent cookies and then I’m going to go home and take a bath. My hair hasn’t seen a shampoo bottle since Tuesday and I’ve run out of clean shirts.”