Amidst The Stars

In Which Tarts Are Eaten

  On Sunday, Vicente woke up at six o'clock, trying to massage away a cramp in his shoulder, to make the tarts. Baking them was already second nature; making the custard filling and preparing the tart shells felt so familiar that he could probably do it in his sleep. By half-past six, twelve egg tarts were baking away in the oven.

  Once they were done, Vicente put them into a plastic box and went off to the bus station alone. He was careful not to tilt the box even the slightest bit, lest the tarts tip over and the delicate pastry break. When he lived in Hong Kong, his father had once bought a big box of egg tarts for Yao's birthday. The box proceeded to be jostled around during the drive home, and apparently, the crumbly tart shells couldn't hold up to such a bumpy journey. Yao had opened the box to see a mess of cracked, broken tarts and spilt filling. Not one of them had been intact.

  He was determined not to let that happen.

  All throughout the bus ride, he held the box steady and made sure that the rumbling of the bus didn't make the egg tarts move around. He couldn't disappoint Madeline with a box of what used to be tarts but had somehow turned into a mess of pastry and egg custard. Thankfully, Vicente got off at the station by the city hall with the tarts perfectly all right.

  This time, Madeline was waiting for him at the counter. She waved, eyeing the box that he was holding carefully. "Good morning, Vicente."

  "Morning." He set the box down on the counter, looking around at the bakery. A pavlova, which Madeline had talked about so passionately last week, was on display, its crackly white surface drizzled with raspberry sauce and topped with fresh strawberries. Next to it was a beautiful mille crêpe, every thin, delicate crêpe sandwiching a layer of pale beige cream. Then he realised he was spacing out and looked back at Madeline.

  "In case you're wondering, I made the pavlova." Madeline smiled. "Hopefully it won't sink, or that'll be quite a lot of ingredients wasted. And Lucien made the mille crêpe."

  "It looks amazing."

  "He's the only one who can make crêpes successfully. Every time I try, they're not perfectly round or end up too thick." She giggled, just a little bit. "Lucien always calls them Satan's pancakes, and that's one of the few things I agree with him on."

  For a hasty dinner, Yao had once made an egg pancake and wrapped it with lots of cabbage, pork floss and sun choi. He'd called it jian bing, which apparently was a popular street food in Beijing. Vicente wondered if that counted as a sort of crêpe. "I've never tried crêpes before, but they look hard to make."

  "Oh, they're a nightmare," Madeline lamented. "If you put too much batter onto the pan, they'll pretty much be pancakes, and if you put too little, they'll most likely rip or burn. Once, I burned a crêpe so badly that the entire thing turned black."

  He couldn't help the snort that escaped him but quickly stopped it from turning into laughs. "Sorry," Vicente said, trying to keep a straight face. The story was barely funny; why was he holding back laughter?

  Madeline ignored his apology and turned towards the box of egg tarts. "So these are the tarts you make for your brother's restaurant?"

  "Yeah." He took the cover off and let the still-lingering smell of custard and vanilla join the symphony of scents already there inside the Boulangerie. "They're not much, especially compared to the stuff you make every day."

  "Nonsense, they look amazing." She peered into the box, pushing her glasses up. "I'd have one here and now, but standing at a counter's no way to enjoy a nice tart." Madeline took off her apron and put it into a drawer behind the counter, then brushed stray patches of flour off the burgundy blouse she wore underneath. She stepped out from behind the counter while scooping up the box, and placed it onto one of the tables at the side of the Boulangerie.