Dexter nodded. “That is an exciting flavor combination, isn’t it? I hope you’re not going to kill us with that pepper.”
“Yeah, I hope so too.”
Dexter cracked into the tower and passed two profiteroles to everyone. He bit in. A strange tableau, seeing a man of such impressive musculature delicately biting into that dark, crisp profiterole. It was apparent on the judges’ faces thatsomethingwas going on inside those tiny cream puffs. Dexter stopped chewing for a moment, and Rita’s and Eli’s eyes both closed.But is it a good thing or a bad thing?After all this, could Tristan be headed home? Could this little pocket of time—the pair of them, separated off from the world—end because of that tiny pause?
The fact was, Henry didn’twantto win the competition against anyone else. Sure, beating Willa would be impressive enough, and Katherine had proven herself remarkably talented in a way that, honestly, Henry was worried about. Their styles were so different that the judges’ personal tastes could decide a final showdown between the pair of them.
But Henry wanted to face off against Tristan, because Tristan was the kind of crazy bastard who would make... well, blood orange and red chili crème pâtisserie. Henry wanted to prove himself againstthat, and if he came up short, then what else could anyone expect? Somehow the idea of losing to Tristan was more palatable than that of losing to anyone else. Henry wouldn’t just be a gay boy getting run over by the world at that point. He would be part of a duo, first and second place gays against the world.
Finally, Dexter swallowed and broke the silence. “How did you get the blood orange flavor in the crème pat?”
“It’s blood orange juice reduced down with sugar, and I steeped the rind in the syrup to boost up the flavor that way too.”
“And the pepper?”
“It’s ground cayenne. Neutral flavor, and it sort of disappears in the crème pat once you get the color going from the blood orange.”
Dexter nodded. “You know, I thought your idea was interesting, but I was waiting for it to go wrong. Too much cayenne or, God forbid, a curdled pastry cream from all the acid. But it wasn’t. It was good.” Dexter reached across the table and clapped Tristan on the shoulder. “Nicely done, Tristan.”
Tristan nodded silently, and he was at the right angle that Henry could see the edge of his grin, wide and bright and pulling in the dimples on his cheeks. Henry smiled too. Tristan had gotten some credit for his ideas and innovations and, goddamn it, that made Henry happy to see.
Eli gestured to Tristan with a half-eaten cream puff. “I think the flavor really is something great. The chocolate has a good, strong presence, so it stands up well to the citrus and the bite from the pepper. But I think your dough was a bit tougher than I would expect from a cream puff, and my guess is that it’s because of the cocoa powder you used for the chocolate. It normally makes the dough stiffer, and it takes more work than a normal pâte à choux. More work means more gluten, all that stuff. It’s not bad, just notquitewhat I’m used to. But absolutely excellent flavors.”
“And flavors I love,” said Rita. “The cayenne I could take or leave, personally, but I understand it. It works, it makes sense, and it wouldn’t stop me from buying the cream puffs by themselves. And the croquembouche part was nicely put together. The silver for the caramel stood out against the dark dough, so it was really an eye-catching piece. Plus, I love anything that includes dragées. They’re cheap, but they make me feel like a princess all the same. But I do agree that the dough could be a little less tough. It would have given you a lighter shell. But that’s being super nitpicky, of course. I’m not convinced I could have done a better chocolate choux in the same amount of time.”
Sylvia nodded and smiled. “Thank you, Tristan.”
The critique had been good. Not perfect, but Henry hoped it was enough. Now he had his own hurdle to jump. His belly, already uncomfortable at the possibility of Tristan leaving, tightened further around the idea of going up there. So much was at stake. So much more than usual, even if choux pastry was part of his daily life at the shop. He didn’t know if this batch had turned out. He didn’t know how his pastry cream stacked up against everyone else’s, although he doubted it was up to snuff compared to Tristan’s. Blood orange pastry cream sounded good, and it had apparently performed well enough for the judges.
Sylvia locked eyes with him. “Henry, if you can come show us your tower?”
Henry lifted his croquembouche and carried it up the long, long aisle toward the front. He set it down and waited. Who was going to come out and judge him?
Rita. Right in order. She popped her spoon against the side and the caramel cracked cleanly. She nodded at the tower, then turned to face Henry. “It’s classic and pristine. Everything we’ve come to expect from you over these past weeks. What are your flavors?”
“It’s a vanilla bean pâte à choux with a raspberry diplomat cream filling, and then spun sugar all around the outside, with toasted hazelnut for a little more depth.”
She nodded, then casually broke his beautiful stack of profiteroles apart. It was still painful, after all that, to see it broken apart with such lack of care. But it had to happen eventually. No matter how painstaking to assemble or how much work and time went into the end product, even if it was really, truly the most beautiful food ever created, it was still food. And more important than anything else, food had to taste good, to feel perfect in the mouth.
His profiteroles were particularly dainty. Each judge had three, and they popped a whole one into their mouths. Henry stood by, waiting for a response.
Rita first, again. “The profiterole itself is crisp and delicate, and it tastes very strongly of vanilla, but it’s not overpowering. It stands up to the tartness of the raspberry cream in the middle. And your spun sugar is, honestly, some of the nicest I’ve seen that was made without a cotton candy machine. An even texture all the way through, delicate, and not so thick that it makes shards in the mouth.”
Dexter took a second profiterole in one bite. “Your caramel is good. Dark but not scorched, and there’s not so much of it on here that you ruin your texture.” He nodded. “I have no complaints.”
Jesus, no complaints from Dexter Wilson. That has to be worth something.
“If you don’t mind, I want to break one of these open.” Eli gently pulled apart a profiterole, then held the two halves open. A camera swooped in and shot it up close and personal for several seconds before Eli continued. “So the diplomat cream is an interesting choice.”
Henry nodded. “I wanted to lighten up that pastry cream a little.” Whipped cream hadn’t been holding up to the raspberry puree properly, and it had seemedwrongto have a raspberry-flavored crème pat all by itself.
“It’s a good call.” Eli stuck a tiny spoon in the cream and popped it into his mouth. “I mean, I’m a sucker for diplomat cream as it is. Nobody uses it, it’s incredibly underrated, and this is a good one. But it works beautifully with the raspberry. It’s not so thick and heavy that it kills the natural tartness of the berries, which I think you would have gotten only using a pastry cream. It’s almost like an old-fashioned fool: fruit and whipped cream, but with that extra bit of richness from your crème pat. I would honestly eat this out of, like, a crystal bowl and feel perfectly classy and at peace. If you’retryingto make something like croquembouche higher-end than it already is, then I think you’ve nailed it. I’m sure if you dipped the whole thing in chocolate and gold leaf, it could be classier, but that’s about all that’s coming to mind.”
Henry fought against the rise of heat in his cheeks. That was some high praise. Hard as Eli tried, he couldn’t findonenegative comment about it. And he seemed like he was a couple of steps away from having sex with that croquembouche, he liked it so much.And wouldn’t that just ensure us a primetime spot?
Sylvia beamed at him. “All right, thank you, Henry.”
He walked back, his croquembouche following swiftly behind him. The judges began their quiet deliberation, and Jacob slipped into sight. “Okay, prepare yourselves. We’re running a little longer today than intended, so the faster we can buzz through this, the better. The extras, we can catch up on tomorrow.”
