“Some. Some in my bag to take back to the room so I don’t risk trying the hotel restaurant again.”
“Well, I wouldn’t want to subject you to that.” The ease of their banter stacked one more warm feeling on top of everything else that seemed to be going so surprisinglyright. Henry liked his rolls. Sure, maybe he was being flattering, but then again, maybe he wasn’t.
Tristan picked up his sheet pan of rolls, which was already cool enough to handle thanks to the wonderful AC in the studio, and headed over. But not before giving Henry a tiny glance, just to see the fake betrayal on his face.
Instead, Henry followed him up to the table and grabbed a roll as soon as Tristan set it down. “Go on and try the focaccia, then tell me I could still win this thing.”
He pointed to a textbook-perfect bread round: dimpled top, studded in bronze roasted garlic cloves and crisp flakes of prosciutto. Tristan poked it with a bread knife that had been left on the tabletop. It felt sublimely like focaccia. Thin and crisp with a firm middle and a bouncy recoil. And it sounded hollow. He sliced a hank of it to reveal a slightly yellow interior with a delicate structure, and the instant aroma of thyme and rosemary leaking from the hundred pockets, although no herbs speckled the bread itself.Infused oil?“Looks as good as yours.”
“Try it before you flatter me anymore.”
Tristan rolled his eyes and bit in, and all those flavors instantaneously exploded across his tongue: the sweet-but-bitter roasted garlic, the herbs coming from somewhere, the intense salt and umami from the prosciutto. They blossomed and mingled, everything held in check with the yeasty, dry bread.
Tristan swallowed, then glanced back at Henry. “Second’s not bad, right?”
“Second’s not bad at all if that’s what I’m coming second to.” Henry cut his own slice and crunched into it—because this focaccia crunched properly. “Third or fourth wouldn’t be bad against this. Hell, I’m pretty happy with not last when I’m making bread against that brilliant son of a bitch.”
“Well, I firmly believe you have ‘not last’ in the bag.”
“Oh, such glowing praise. I knew there was a reason I picked you.”
Tristan bit down a little harder than necessary on the bread. He missed his tongue and his teeth thankfully, but had to close his mouth fast before anything slipped out. He collected himself in spite of the churning heat in his belly. “You picked me, huh?”
“Whose hotel room have I been trying to get into every night lately?”
“And succeeding.”
Henry shrugged. “I guess you picked me right back, then, didn’t you?”
“Maybe I did.” And maybe Tristan suddenly wanted to shove something else in his face. He went for the nearest loaf of cinnamon raisin bread, already precut, and popped it in. It was better than talking further about that in public.
“So, you boys ready for tomorrow?” Bertha had trundled up and stopped with her hands on her hips. She smiled at them. “Early, early rising so we can get our bread... risen.” She chuckled and pushed her way to the table, where she grabbed one of Tristan’s rolls. “These things are good. I’d eat the hell out of them with some roast chicken.”
Tristan nodded. “Thank you. I, um, I don’t think I’ve gotten to try yours, yet. Unless I did without realizing it.”
“Oh, it’s nothing special, trust me. Tried-and-true recipes I’ve been making for years. Except that cinnamon raisin loaf. I hate raisins and I’ve never made anything like that before. Tried making a fruit cake for Christmas once. Never again.” She tore apart the roll and shoved some of it into her mouth, chewing and swallowing before continuing. “But I think I’ll get enough done to get by. Nothing wrong with a classic. Plus I might be sweet-talking Finn and Dorian for a helping hand. Hard for such nice young men to say goodbye to someone who could be their grandma.” She narrowed her eyes and grinned at the pair of them. “Don’t suppose I remind either of you of your grandmothers, do I?”
Tristan shifted uncomfortably, and from the way Henry moved his weight foot to foot, he wasn’t feeling it either. “My grandma was a tiny Salvadoran schoolteacher who could barely heat up leftovers. So no.”
Bertha laughed and winked. “Well, I guess I’ll try Willa again. Solidarity among decrepit old ladies, right?”
Filming day had come again. Henry had gotten so used to being on camera, he no longer struggled or felt jittery when they flipped on. He’d already baked his focaccia and cinnamon raisin bread, received good reviews on the focaccia flavors, and the judges had appreciated his use of sultanas and cardamom in the cinnamon raisin loaf. Now his rolls were coming out of the oven. They looked as perfect as he could have hoped, with the poppy seeds evenly distributed across deep, brassy rolls, all baked together on his sheet pans. He slid them off to cool and checked the clock above the café table. Seven minutes left. His rolls would still be warm when tasting rolled around, but not blazingly hot or so soft that the textures would be off. He tapped on top to check everything, and it seemed perfect. A tiny bit of give, but a hard enough crust to be a proper challah.
He’d even bitten the bullet and used margarine instead of butter. An older lady, Eva Rosenbaum, had worked for him early in the days of the shop, and she’d told him up and down that“Real challah uses margarine. Pareve margarine. Butter doesn’t taste right, and you won’t convince me different.”
Of course, the shop had never sold challah. Henry imagined she spouted that information off whenever there was a lull in conversation, in a kitchen or on the bus.
Maybe it was true, maybe it wasn’t—Henry had tried it both ways and never tasted a difference himself—but he wasn’t taking any chances. Any of the judges could have an opinionated little Eva Rosenbaum whispering in their ear about margarine.
Henry actually had time to clean up his station. Sure, the network staff would do it again no matter how good of a job he did, but it kept him from focusing too much on his singular niggling worry: Had he gone too simple? Not on his focaccia, and cinnamon raisin bread could only be stretched so far before it wasn’t what it claimed to be. But maybe he’d finished his rolls so early because he’d just done a basic challah topped with poppy seeds. It would have to be perfect, and maybe perfection would have taken the full three and a half hours instead of falling seven minutes short.
But cleaning kept that out of his mind. He wasn’t thinking about it at all. He definitely wasn’t thinking about Tristan, either. He wasn’t thinking about the possibility of Tristan having to go home. He wasn’t thinking about being left alone here again. He wasn’t concerned about Tristan’s fate in the competition alongside his own. No, the cleaning definitely keptallthose thoughts at bay.
When everything was clean and clear, Henry checked out his rolls one last time but saw nothing he could attempt to fix. They were baked, they smelled like wonderful eggy challah and poppy seeds. Now his fate was in the lap of the gods.
Tristan pulled his sheet pans out with a couple of minutes left. He tapped the rolls, pressed against them, then sighed contentedly and grabbed his butter and nigella seeds and finished off the bread, leaving them shiny.
“Looks good.” Henry leaned closer over his counter. “I have competition, I guess.”
