Pierre the Pastry Chef

I woke up this morning thinking about an encounter last week. Here’s the story…

Despite my predominant German, Irish, and British heritage, evidence seems to suggest I might also claim one little teensy-weensy French gene – one occupied by a French bakery chef named Pierre.

Yes, genes are like that. They’re a good place for mutant invasions.

So I suppose I should tell you a little about Pierre. He’s a stout fellow with short legs, mischievous, sparkly eyes, and a waxed handlebar moustache. Every day he wears a flawlessly clean double-breasted white coat with a stand-up collar, and a droopy white chef’s hat. He speaks by yelling with a deep, booming voice, and spits saliva from between wide-spaced teeth with every word. His specialty is mini-cream-puffs (petite choux) stuffed with thick egg custard and drizzled with only the very best French chocolate. Oooo-la-la.

He’s a crafty salesman, and well-versed in psychology, for he seems to peddle he wares or drop suggestive invitations only when I am my weakest.

“Alors! Mon cherie! Comment-allez-vous?” How am I? He knows all too well I’m about to the end of the proverbial rope - !

He bows from the waist as if to honor me, but his motives are skewed. Like most true-blue salesmen, Pierre is a domineering sort, and tends to be insistent. He also is manipulative, a bit of a braggart and stuck on himself. The result is tyranny.

Nutrition and health are important to me. I had been cruising along, eating a diverse array of fruits, salads, nuts and dehydrated crackers (this is not from any genetic heritage, but rather comes from spiritual awakening), feeling very healthy-wealthy-and-wise, and quite satisfied and whole. Eating to live rather than living to eat. But then, in a moment of emotional stress, Pierre recognizes a port of entry – exhaustion – and decides to hit below the belt with an invitation to fail.

“Madame! Voulez-vous du shock-oh-lah (phonetic French for chocolate)?”

He wants to know if I’d like some chocolate, and asks the question with just a touch of meanness and one eyebrow cocked, as if I can’t say afford to say no. I shrivel inside, knowing my weakness. Of course I would like chocolate right now – I’m American and female, and stressed to the max.

First mistake: don’t EVER listen to Pierre.

I shrug him off. “Oh Pierre, get lost.”

But he doesn’t get lost. Instead, he squirms around, pushes all the red-flashing addiction-buttons at once, and invites me to a pity-party. Then I’m really uncomfortable as well as consumed from within, and CAN’T forget him.

“Vous deserve a little treat, non?” He says this so coyly. I hate his wiles.

I sigh, knowing I should tape his pursed mouth shut with duct tape, but I’m too civilized for that. So instead, I don’t do anything.

Second mistake: don’t even attempt to combat Pierre with my own strength. Pierre is totally beyond me. I need to remember that vengence is mine, sayeth the LORD.

Anyway, at the exact moment Pierre spouts off about the chocolate, I happen to be walking through Menards with a variety of paint cans in my cart, preoccupied with a sore back and visions of more sweat and dirty paint rollers awaiting me at home. A rather large display of candies seems to stretch for miles down the length of one entire aisle. I can smell the sugar in the air and feel my saliva flowing like at the dentist’s around my teeth.

I walk right by, nose in the air, denying my appetites, proud to be exempt from the addictive pull by virtue of sheer (brute) intellectual override. But alas, at the other end of the store I turn around like a mechanical toy and march right back to the candy display.

“Voila!” Pierre points at the candy, jabbing with both forefingers and nodding with eyes as big as saucers. “VOILA!”

I stare at all the choices right there within my grasp (the third mistake), and sheepishly pick up a smallish, theater-sized box of chocolate-covered peanuts on sale for a dollar.

“Bon, bon…mais oui!” shouts Pierre. “Day-lee-schuses (phonetic French for delicious)!”

“Stuff it, Pierre,” I mumble under my breath. “You’re such a pain in the neck.”

“Madame! Quelle surprise!” He seems truly shocked. But in reality he knows different. I’m constantly reminding him I’d like to cram him in a pastry tube and squeeze him into little star-shapes, once and for all.

In the car, I consume the entire box before I get to the first stoplight, and then check my teeth in the rear-view mirror for any tell-tale brown blobs.

“I really do hate you, Pierre.” I say it without sparing any malice.

“Je suis desole,” He says, with downcast eyes. But I know he’s NOT sorry. He loves being in charge. He loves WINNING, and will retreat to his little kitchenette where he will gleefully rub his hands together and plot the next enticement.

Someday, with God’s help, I’m getting rid of him – for good. Someday I will not have to deal with his guerilla intimidation. I mean he IS an imposter, after all – I have no true French blood in me that I know of.