La Mie goes up almost overnight, crowding the store's previous occupants out in a fashionable spill of sleek furniture, warm lighting, gleaming hardwood floors, and glass so clean it's either a miracle or new.
One day, it's an out-of-business millinery; a few days later, a glossy avant-garde bakery has sprung up in its place.
The owner is a mystery. No one knows who he is, where he came from, or why he came there. It's not the worst neighborhood in the city, but it's hardly a prime location for such an ostentatious trade. The millinery, at least, was useful. A bakery is not.
This, apparently, is lost on everyone else.
Illya passes the place at least twice every day, and it's always annoyingly full. The rise and fall of two dozen cheerful voices is muted through the glass but not nearly enough, and it's just so glitz that Illya can't stop his lip from curling when he goes by.
He has a real job to do. He makes more of a difference in this thankless city than some soft dough boy, yet he is invisible; ignored on the sidewalks and overlooked in favor of the cityscape whose very existence he is — at least in part — responsible for.
On the one hand, it's unreasonable to despise a man he doesn't know and stubbornly deny him business on the grounds that bakeries are ridiculous. On the other hand, that's exactly what he intends to do.
Except, well.
Intention doesn't always carry through, is the problem. Because sometimes—
No, that's not even the real problem.
The real problem is that those croissants are—
No, wait, the actual real problem is that Napoleon Solo—
Damn it.
Let's take this back a bit.
Two years ago, Illya came to the United States and found himself, as people do, in New York City. Not that he found himself in some deep, metaphorical sense, but one morning he simply woke up and realized he'd forgotten to leave the city five months ago when he'd planned to. After that, it was best just to accept that this was where he'd be living for the foreseeable future and to go about his business.
It was strange business, and varied, but there weren't many people willing to hire a Russian expat so he took what he could get and made sure to be properly grateful. He'd learned a great deal by necessity back home, so he worked in all sorts of repair-related jobs: plumbing, automobiles, drywall. He'd been a painter last summer, too, following an awful stint as a cook in a diner which had put a (possibly permanent) damper on his enjoyment of any food he doesn't cook himself.
Currently, he's working construction in Tribeca, renovating old buildings in the hopes of attracting a wave of new money. That's the company owner's plan, anyway, and whether or not it's an effective use of his money he's paying his workers well.
Well enough, anyway. Illya can afford to eat and sleep in relative safety (which is more than would have been true for him back in Russia) and send a small portion of his earnings back to his mother.
And he doesn't feel the need to throw his money away on entirely useless pastries. That would be wasteful.
Living in America has its ups and downs, of course. For one thing, everyone is obnoxious and ostentatious, but their own self-involvement provides him a sort of anonymity that is welcome after everything the last several years have held. The others in his building barely acknowledge his presence, and his co-workers don't seem to give much more of a damn. It's the height, probably. Or the accent. One alone is enough to make people wary of him, and both combined… Well.
The Vanlians are the only exception, but they're the Vanlians: intimidated by nothing and no one. A pipe burst in their apartment during his first New York blizzard (which was, by comparison, quite pitiful) and Illya had woken up to the sounds of Mrs. Vanlian cursing the weather, the plumbing, the building, capitalism, and communism in a colorful mixture of Armenian, Russian, and English. He'd fixed the pipe, of course — this was not his first experience with the incredible power of a small, angry woman, and it was certainly not his last — and in return he received a standing invitation to join the family at Sunday dinner for, as he understood it, the rest of his natural life.
But for the most part, he embraces the solitude that the city offers; he has never felt the drive to move beyond 'getting along' and start actively making friends. He doesn't expect to be here long enough for that to matter.
Anyway, Illya's been in New York for just over two years, watching the millinery go from staid to sparse to downright sad, but its dark windows still come as a shock when he passes them for the first time. The next morning, he does a double-take in front of the effortlessly suave storefront that has taken its place, and swears on his Russian honor that he will not participate in this display of capitalist excess.
That's in April, and the contrast between the honey-slick interior and the cold, drizzling gray of the street outside only drives the proverbial nail into the proverbial coffin.
La Mie is dead to him.
Except for that whole bit about intentions. And croissants. And Napoleon Solo.
Damn.
In all fairness, the Vanlians are at least partially to blame. His standing invitation to Sunday dinner is not kept out of desire for company — although he does enjoy theirs, and they seem to enjoy his, which is particularly unexpected in the case of the four children, who seem to consider him some kind of long-lost uncle — but because the food is incredible.
(The Vanlians are also the only exception to his stance against eating food prepared by others.)
He's stopped even asking the names of the dishes and now just accepts whatever they put in front of him and makes the appropriate expressions of satisfaction. He's also stopped trying to reciprocate, which is probably for the best since his budget is more designed for subsistence than enjoyment and if his invitation were ever accepted he would be in an uncomfortable position. But for lack of a better word, dinner with the Vanlians is...fun. He can't always follow the conversation, because the children don't speak any Russian and the parents don't speak much English and he had never heard Armenian before, let alone learned it, but their family is in many ways everything his wasn't: liberal with their affections, raucous in their laughter, and to all appearances quite happy.
It's nice. Safe. Something he's come to look forward to and maybe even treasure a little bit.
So it is very unexpected to duck into their kitchen one Sunday in May and find a white box labelled La Mie in fanciful curling script sitting on the table.
"What is that?" he asks in English, the words stiff and clipped.
"Bread!" says seven-year-old Davit in Russian, beaming with such pride and enthusiasm that Illya actually startles a little.
"Very good," he says in Armenian, taken aback, and touches off a full-scale linguistic riot. By the time that's quelled and everyone has been firmly relegated to the table, he has learned — with the help of three languages, six interpreters, and a good deal of context — that Gor (the baker) was sick this weekend, Mrs. Vanlian couldn't pick up her usual order of matnakash, Mariam had gone to "that lovely new bakery on Murray Street" (the abomination) to find a suitable replacement, and had come home with a box of brioches, which are — "of course" — nothing like matnakash but which will probably suffice because "they look like choreg" and Mariam has it on good authority that La Mie makes "the best croissants in New York" (clearly a lie).
But.
That part about the croissants?
That will certainly need to be addressed, because the brioche is incredible.
The next day, Illya leaves for work seven minutes earlier than usual with a carefully crafted scenario in mind:
He looms over the counter, the angle of the sun through the front windows throwing his shadow across the man standing behind it. "I am told," he says through gritted teeth, aware that his hands are curled into fists at his side, "that you make the best croissants in New York."
The baker raises an eyebrow, expression innocent, open, and completely unfazed. "I'm certainly pleased to have garnered such an excellent reputation," he says after a moment. His voice, like a snake, is cool and smooth, friendly and untrustworthy. He gestures to the offending pastry through the glass of the display case without breaking eye contact. "Sample?"
What actually happens is more like this:
There is an enormous line.
Illya steps inside, takes one look, steps back out, and goes to work.
He tries again in the afternoon; there is still an enormous line.
The morning after that, he leaves a full fifteen minutes early; there is still an enormous line.
At that point he resigns himself to interminable waiting no matter when he arrives, and so is unprepared to find the place almost empty when he passes by on the way home. He opens the door, and it's quiet enough inside to hear the tiny bell at the top. A dark-haired man wearing an apron over a suit is standing behind the counter, wiping down the marble with single-minded determination.
"You missed a spot," Illya says, because he's never coming back and he doesn't care what people think of him. The man looks up and goes still for a moment before relaxing into a smile.
"Finally decided to give it a try, did you?" he asks, and although his voice is smooth it's also surprisingly warm. "I was wondering when you'd give in. I've seen you glaring twice a day for the past month," he adds lightly, as if an afterthought, or an explanation. The cloth is tucked away behind the counter, and the gloves are stripped off with the ease of long practice. "So. What can I do for you, Mr….?"
"Kuryakin," Illya tells him, chin up just enough to be defiant. "Illya Kuryakin."
He usually gets a suspicious second consideration, at that. Narrowed eyes, a careful once-over, and chilly withdrawal.
"Damn," he gets instead, and the smile turns wry. "I was hoping to get away with only telling you my last name, but now I suppose I have to introduce myself as Napoleon Solo."
Illya blinks. Americans have very odd names. "You are the owner?" he hazards.
"Owner, manager, principal baker, accountant, and janitorial staff, to name but a few."
"Impressive," Illya admits, glancing around at the spotless glass, well-polished floors, and ceiling-high shelves behind the counter, loaded neatly with labelled baskets. "Do you also make coffee?"
The look he gets is unbridled disgust. "My good man, this is a boulangerie-pâtisserie, not a café."
Illya scoffs. "You are not remotely French." His shoulders are too broad, what's visible of his tie shows signs of the same problem, and his accent is almost exaggeratedly American.
"Does a man — or a woman, for that matter — need to be French to own a bakery?" Solo asks mildly. "I am, in fact, remotely French, but I hardly think that's important. Now, to return to the matter at hand, what can I do for you, Mr. Illya Kuryakin?"
"I want to try your croissants," Illya says, almost before Solo has finished over-pronouncing his name. "Mariam Vanlian says they are best in New York, but I do not believe her because she is twelve and also she thinks that choreg and brioche are the same."
"Fair enough," Solo says in easy agreement. "I'd hate for you to have to take the word of someone who would confuse the two." He gestures to the porcelain cake stand on the counter, displaying a spiraled array of golden-brown croissants. "Take your pick."
Illya stalks up to the counter and selects one from the outer ring. It still holds the faintest traces of warmth — it can't have come out of the oven more than half an hour ago.
"Can I offer you any—"
"No," Illya says shortly, and takes a bite.
The layers are light and soft, but in the mouth they become dense and flavorful, almost sweet.
He hums, and takes another bite.
Solo leans against the display case and watches with one eyebrow raised infinitesimally above the other, looking somewhere between perplexed and bored.
"How many times do you roll the dough?" Illya asks halfway through.
"Three," Solo says slowly. "Why do you—"
"I suspected as much," Illya says, and polishes off the rest. "You must roll at least five, and let the dough rest longer in between. It's not bad," he allows, and snags a napkin from the stack next to the cake stand to wipe his fingers. "But could be better."
Solo blinks a few times, but other than that shows no surprise. "'Continuous improvement is better than delayed perfection,'" he says, and pushes himself back from the counter. "Next time, try it avec de la confiture." A chime goes off somewhere in the building; probably a timer in the kitchen, hidden from view of the customers. Solo glances at the clock on the far wall. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a batch of tartelettes that I really shouldn't neglect." He pats the counter next the croissant stand and grins. "That one's on the house." With that, he slips around the shelves and disappears — partial wall, then, and a good optical illusion.
"What makes you think there will be a next time?" Illya asks the wall, and drops two quarters next to the napkins.
There won't be a next time, he'll make sure of it.
Except.
Those croissants.
And Napoleon Solo.
Damn, damn, damn.
A/N: I know nothing about anything. I'm not Armenian. I'm not a baker. I've never even been to New York City. I did so much unnecessary research for this and I'm sure I've still gotten things wrong. If this is the case, or if you have questions about anything, please let me know!
Matnakash - a leavened Armenian flatbread similar to naan
Choreg - a braided Armenian sweet bread often eaten on Easter
Thank you for reading!
ETA: Do not attempt to roll croissant dough seven times. Even five is pushing it, but apparently the key is to add extra gluten to the flour and/or refrigerate the dough for about an hour in between rollings. If you roll it too often, the dough will tear, the layers will gloop together, and when you bake it the butter will melt, run out, and burn (fun fact brought to you by recent experimentation). Three fold-and-rolls is the accepted French style, but variations abound. Why am I writing about croissants in my end notes when I could be writing about them elsewhere? the world may never know