(AN: Back to short pieces, this one silly. Pie was not a big thing in nineteenth-century France, so this prompt bothered me for a while.)
"I am going to make a pie," Jehan announced grandly, to the back room at large. The general laughter and conversation quieted a bit as everyone turned around to look at him.
"A pie?" Joly asked. "Like…some sort of tart?"
"You bake?" queried Combeferre, a little suspiciously. Jehan's absent-minded nature was obviously a concern to him.
"Sometimes," said Jehan, proudly, raising his chin. "And today, I am going to bake a pie. For Christmas."
"Splendid idea!" cried Courfeyrac, leaping up. "A pie is a thing of beauty and a joy forever—well, at least until it is eaten. I had them when I was in England last year, and they simply must be introduced to France. Citizen Prouvaire, may I join you in this endeavor? I even have a battle plan—one of the charming English girls I dined with provided me with her very best pie recipes."
Jehan grinned. "Marvelous. We shall examine the possible battle plans, purchase supplies, secure a location, and then mount the attack. My landlady likes me as long as I am not asking her to look after my cat, which I haven't done in quite a while, so I think she will allow us the use of her kitchen."
Combeferre raised his eyebrows in the manner which indicated he thought they were facing a disaster. Courfeyrac swung an arm around his shoulders.
"Have a little more faith, my dear Combeferre," he said. "We shall produce a masterpiece which will convince you that even the world of pastry is in the hands of Progress."
Combeferre shook his head. "With the two of you, it is more likely to see a fiery and tumultuous revolution."