Bon Appetit

213 Pages·2016·1.29 MB·English

by  Byrd Sandra

Praise for
Bon Appétit
“A wonderful follow-up to Let Them Eat Cake! I was caught up in Lexi’s tug-of-war between
her charmed life in France with its possibility of romance, and the pull to Seattle where her
family and a very special man long for her return. What a perfect story for an evening by the
fire or a day at the beach”.
—D R , author of Remember to Forget and Leaving November
EBORAH ANEY
“Paris, French culture, and pastries loom prominent in Bon Appétit by Sandra Byrd, who
writes with insight and authenticity about the life of an American student at a prestigious
pastry academy”.
—R A M , author of The Rogue’s Redemption, The Healing Season,
UTH XTELL ORREN
and Hearts in the Highlands
“Sandra Byrd does it again! If you want a book as sweet as caramelized sugar and as
intriguing as a handsome stranger, reach for Bon Appétit. Delicious and satisfying!”
—L C , author of the Texas: Star of Destinyseries
YN OTE
“Lexi is a delight, and one can’t help rooting for her as she struggles to achieve professional
success while seeking the perfect recipe for romantic bliss. Bon Appétit est très magnifique!”
—T P , author of Beach Dreams, Too Good to Be True, and The Guy I’m
RISH ERRY
Not Dating
“Bon Appétit captures the range of emotions and personal growth caused by cross-cultural
experiences. It’s a literary petit four—a tasty morsel that delights and makes you want another.
Fantastique!”
—M E , author of SAHM I Am
EREDITH FKEN
“Sandra Byrd’s Bon Appétit is a delicious tale to be savored. It will leave you wanting more.
More pastry … more café… more chocolat … but best of all, more novels by Sandra Byrd”.
—S G W author/speaker
TEPHANIE RACE HITSON,
“For a sumptuous taste of French culture without all the jet lag, get the next best thing by
reading Bon Appétit. Not only does Sandra Byrd vividly paint the French landscape with
loving detail, but the reader can’t help rooting for Lexi as she navigates the oh-so-tricky waters
of a new career, a burgeoning faith, and the trickiest endeavor of all, finding true love in the
midst of it all. You’ll enjoy every minute”.
—C A B , author of Around the World in 80 Dates and Blessed Are
HRISTA NN ANISTER
the Meddlers
“Bon Appétit had such a unique twist. I can’t wait for the third!”
—E M , author of Miss Match and Match Point
RYNN ANGUM

B A
ON PPÉTIT
P W P
UBLISHED BY ATERBROOK RESS
12265 Oracle Boulevard, Suite 200
Colorado Springs, Colorado 80921
A division of Random House Inc.
All Scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version®. NIV®. Copyright ©
1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan Publishing House. All
rights reserved.
The characters and events in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual persons or events is
coincidental.
Copyright © 2008 by Sandra Byrd
Published in association with the literary agency of Janet Kobobel Grant, Books & Such, 4788 Carissa
Avenue, Santa Rosa, CA 95405.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means,
electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval
system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Published in the United States by WaterBrook Multnomah, an imprint of The Doubleday Publishing Group,
a division of Random House Inc., New York.
W B and its deer design logo are registered trademarks of WaterBrook Press.
ATER ROOK
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Byrd, Sandra.
Bon appetit : a novel / Sandra Byrd. —1st ed.
p. cm.
eISBN: 978-0-307-76913-8
1. Young women—Fiction. 2. Americans—France—Fiction. 3. Bakers—Fiction. 4. France—Fiction. 5.
Chick lit. I. Title.
PS3552.Y678B66 2008
813’.54—dc22
2008013292
v3.1
For Anne and Malgwyn Elmer
For Ann and Kyle Lewis
De vrais amis en France with a true gift of Christian hospitality.
Merci!
Hunger savors every dish.
French proverb
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
One
How can a nation be great
if its bread tastes like Kleenex?
Julia Child
L
iving in France was my dream, and I was going to make it work. With that
goal in mind, I waited nearly two hours to get my autorisation provisoire de
travail, the temporary work permit that would allow me to take a job at the
Delacroix bakery while I attended pastry school.
A bored-looking woman behind the counter beckoned me forward with her
finger.
“I need to apply for the APT,” I said in fluent French, handing over my
paperwork. I had a letter from Luc’s uncle saying I would be working at two
family bakeries in a neighboring village and town, the student resident permit
Luc’s mother had acquired for me, and a letter from L’École du Pâtisserie stating
I was enrolled in their sixteen-week program from September through
December.
“If you are a citizen of a European Union nation, you don’t need this”. She
flicked the papers back at me but paused to look at my identity card. “Lexi
Stuart. What a strange name”.
“I’m an American”.
The room went quiet except for some muttering. I felt like shouting, Yes, an
American. You know, the ones who saved you in World War II.
Instead, I forced a polite smile onto my face.
“You speak French,” the woman said, as if noticing for the first time.
“Oui,” I answered. “My permit, please?”
She moved incredibly slowly. Finally, having assembled and stamped all of
my paperwork, she handed a card over the countertop. “You do know that you
cannot work in France once you complete your school program? You’ll have to
go home”.
I shook my head. “I read that foreign workers are welcome in France”. The
words dried up in my mouth.
“Welcome? Non. But they can be hired. If no one in the EU can be found to do
the same job, that is. Of course, we don’t have many bakers and pastry makers in
France, so I am sure they’ll make an exception for you”. She directed her
sarcastic laugh more at the woman next to her than toward me. The second
woman coughed out a laugh, but hers seemed halfhearted rather than truly cruel.
“Here, Lexi,” she said, drawing out my name to make it sound like “Leaksie”
before continuing. “Bon courage. I hope you enjoy your stay in France. This
permit expires in six months”.
I left, slowly walking to the Rambouillet city center, and stood by myself at
the train station, permit in my purse, shoulders drooping, sensible shoes on my
feet. I slumped onto a bench.
I heard the arriving train announced in French, and the suave melody of the
language reminded me. Lexi! You’re in France. You’re living in France. Your
dream has come true. One cranky, ill-informed government worker does not a
nation make.
In spite of everything, I was here. I was breathing French air, eating real
French bread, meeting French people. Kind of. I grinned, remembering a joke
I’d read before leaving Seattle a few weeks ago.
In European heaven, the British meet you at the door, the Germans orchestrate
your schedule, the Spanish plan your entertainment, and the French prepare your
food.
In European hell, however, the Spanish orchestrate your schedule, the
Germans plan your entertainment, the British prepare your food, and the French
will greet you at the door.
Considering my welcome thus far, I could assume I’d landed in European hell.
All I needed to confirm it was an unorganized siesta and a plate of fish and chips
followed by a lively reading of Goethe’s Faust.
I decided not to worry. I’d make it work.
Thirty minutes later I got off the train and lifted my chin toward the sun. My
village, Presque le Château, was perfect, a tiny jewel on the necklace of towns
that encircled Paris. Old houses, tidily kept, lined the streets. The air was
perfumed with the sweetness of orange blossoms and bitterness of orange zest. I
trailed my hand along the low stone wall fronting the sidewalk. My fingers and
heart tingled at the thought that hundreds of years before the United States was
even a nation, some other young woman may have trailed her fingertips along
this very wall, wondering what life held for her.
“Bonjour!” I called to a woman I passed on the street. She said, “Bonjour!”
back to me. Would that exact woman show up to buy her baguette from me in a
few days? In fact, that very woman may become a friend or end up buying
baguettes that I make in a few months. Or ordering a birthday cake from me in a
year! I loved that thought.
When Luc, my boss at the French bakery where I’d worked in Seattle, had
first approached me with the idea of swapping places with his sister, I felt both
excitement and anxiety. His family owned several bakeries in France and two in
Seattle. As they expanded their business, the family members went back and
forth between Seattle and France to get experience in both. Luc’s sister was
coming to the US to work in Seattle for six months or more. Would I be
interested in taking her place in France?
Mais oui!
I arrived at Luc’s maman’s house and pushed open the black wrought-iron
gate. Their big stone house was threaded with ivy, and the wooden shutters were
flung open, letting in the mid-July sun. As I walked by, I squinted at the
windows, unable to see in through the lace curtains. That’s how the French were.
Beautiful, stylish, but with a veil of privacy between you and the outside world.
Intimacy reserved. Since arriving a few days ago, I had not been invited into my
host’s house. I was starting to fear that what I’d heard was true: I’d never be
invited anywhere personal while here.
Come on, Lexi. It’s only been a few days.
I walked along the cobbled stone path that led to the cottage tucked behind the
house. In the old days, it had housed the bread ovens. Luc’s family had
transformed it into a perfectly petite cottage for his sister. Now it was my home.
I opened the door and walked in. The front room was a tiny kitchen, complete
with all appliances, and an eating area with a wooden table for two, painted
mustard yellow. Beyond that was the smallest living room I’d ever seen. A fairy
room, really, perfectly proportioned, with two soft needlepoint chairs and
footstools. I pushed open the windows and inhaled the pepper and spice of the
red geraniums spilling over the window box.
I opened my laptop and logged into my e-mail. One new one from my mom,
which made me laugh. She was getting ready to visit Italy and said she’d wave
when she flew over France. That was it for new e-mail.
My finger hovered for a moment, indecisive. Then I clicked on an older e-