Stormed

« Frankly incredible. Here, a ‹ spoon ›. » Hortus produced une cuillère from his apron and clinked it down, rippling my coffee — or maybe that was from Alain’s booming laughter.

I sipped my drink without stirring as the older man said in English: “I couldn’t help myself, mon gars. Refreshments are on the house.” He gestured at the shell-shaped madeleines. “Try these. Taste them and say the recipe in French.”

I complied and popped one in my mouth. I chewed, and swallowed. Unfortunately, divine. “De la farine, des œufs, du sucre . . . des noix et du chocolat.”