Jean, the Pastry Master (also and otherwise known as the 'Bread Artist') scrambled about in his kitchen for the confectioner's sugar. It was not in its place. You see, everything had "it's place" in Jean's kitchen - meticulously organized spice racks (alphabetical order), strategically placed pans (the heavier pans on the lower shelves), and methodically structured oven times (muffins and scones in the morning; cakes and tarts in the afternoon). But his system was is utter disarray now. The confectioner's sugar was not in its place.
"Rose!" Jean snapped to his understudy, "I am missing zee confectionah's sugar! Whuh izz eet?!?!"
"I have not seen it today, Pastry Master (Jean made all employees refer to him as that). Is it not in its place?" Rose responded elegantly.
"NO! Eet izz not in eet's place!"
Jean was now bustling about in haste, turning over pans of scrambling eggs, sweeping off entire table tops, and knocking over a full stock pot of bubbling stew (he also dabbled in soups, stews, and stoups in addition to pastries) trying to find his very much needed confectioner's sugar. "WHUH IZZ EET?!?!?!?!?!"
Jean was in the middle of preparations for his famous lemon bars. He was at the last and most crucial step in the process - a gentle dusting of confectioner's sugar. But without the confectioner's sugar, there would be gentle dusting.
It was 3 o'clock in the afternoon. Jean knew that the after-school-crowd was like clockwork: Every day at 3:30, his quaint pastry shoppe ("Ye Quaint Pastry Shoppe") filled up with students fresh out of school and freshly in need of lemon bars. In fact, he kept his entire shoppe financially stable due to the lemon bar sales alone. And with thirty minutes (actually twenty-nine now) counting down, he had no lemon bars.
In utter desperation, Jean surveyed his kitchen for a back up plan. He could, of course, whip up a batch of his cherry tarts, but alas, those need a good 3 hours to cool before serving. He could, on the other hand, throw together a few eclairs, but alas, he had not made any custard that morning. And then it hit him. It hit him like someone had thrown a rock through his window and it smashed into his cranium. It hit him like someone taking a baseball bat and swinging with all of their might into his rib cage.
French Fries. Of course.
Jean and Rose quickly chopped up some potatoes (they had plenty on hand from today's Potato and Tomato Stoup), sprinkled them with salt and paprika, and immersed them in the deep fryer. With only a few minutes to spare, Jean removed the piping hot fries ("chips" in Britain), packaged them appropriately, and waited for the after-school-crowd.
At 3:30, the door swung open and in poured the excited, sugar-dependent pack of hungry students. But their looks of excitement quickly vanished and were even quicker replaced with looks of disgust when Jean, the Pastry Master, was not waiting for them with a plate of lemon bars, but rather a few grease-stained bags of french fries. Sensing their frustration, he bellowed, "Surprise!!! French Fry Day!!!"
They were not amused.
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