A/N: Hooray for the next chapter. Thank you to Bramblefox, BregoArodShadowfax, and Enjy-Glomper for the kind reviews. They're actually part of the only reason why I decided to continue with this after running into a horrid case of writer's block. Thank you also to everybody who checked the first chapter out, I hoped you liked it.
This is my favorite chapter so far and it was really fun to write. The recipe I'm using is one that I found on a website called . Sorry this chapter took so long, my internet was down for a couple of days and my computer's being kind of funky. Hope you like it! I'd really love some feedback.
Meanwhile, back at the Musain, Feuilly was valiantly struggling to make sense of the carefully printed note that Louison had left for the group.
"'One cupful of boiling water and half a cupful of butter in a large saucepan,'" he read aloud. Turning to the assortment of pots and pans that littered the table, he furrowed his brow and chose a likely looking candidate. "This looks sort of saucepannish, I suppose." After squinting at it for a moment, he banged it down on the scarred wooden counter and turned back to the scullery-maid's loopy handwriting. "'Turn in one pint of flour'. 'Turn in'? I wonder what that means," he mused, scratching his head with the heel of his palm.
"It means add it in, you lackwit." Bahorel came striding in; a small sack of flour cradled under one arm. He gently tossed the cargo onto the counter and moved to stand beside Feuilly, reading over his shoulder. "Have you boiled the water yet?" At the other man's blank stare, he grumbled and looked around for the water bucket. "What am I saying? Of course, you haven't."
With the swift, assured ease of practice, the big man dipped water into the tin measuring cup and dashed it into the same saucepan that Feuilly had set out, making sure that not a single drop escaped. "Have you at least been keeping the fire going?" He briefly glanced at the smaller man, who was regarding him with a mutinous scowl.
"Of course I have!" Feuilly replied indignantly. "What do you take me for?"
"Well certainly, not a baker," Bahorel teased, giving him a good-natured cuff as he passed by on his way to the fireplace. Carefully, he set the saucepan on the shelf above the fire before prodding at the logs with one booted toe. "Who on earth laid this fire?"
"It was already going when I got here," Feuilly said absently as he tried in vain to cram a stick of butter into the measuring cup.
Glancing up, Bahorel was hard-pressed to hide a smile as he watched his friend become increasingly frustrated. "Why don't you try cutting it up?"
"I was getting to that," Feuilly retorted, a lopsided grin ghosting across his narrow face.
After a few impatient minutes the water began to bubble and Feuilly tipped the butter into the pan, under Bahorel's watchful gaze.
Once the concoction had boiled up, Bahorel instructed his comrade to turn in the flour. "Now," he directed, his eyes skimming over Louison's note. "'Beat with a vegetable masher until smooth and velvety to the touch.'"
"Beat?" Feuilly repeated, his eyebrows climbing towards his hairline. "That sounds more like your domain."
"So it does," With a grin, Bahorel set to work, wielding the masher as if it were a weapon.
"Just who I wanted to find alone in a kitchen: an artist and a maniac." Laigle, bald and grinning, appeared in the doorway, bearing a basket of ingredients.
Bahorel paused in his mixing and rewarded him with the most manic grin he could muster. Beside him, Feuilly glanced up and smiled slightly. "Where's your other half?"
Bossuet chuckled good-naturedly, used to such wisecracks. After setting his basket down on the counter, he gestured towards the doorway behind him. "He's coming. Wanted to stop and check his tongue in the window."
Right on cue, Joly's reedy voice piped up from the hallway. "We have the things you asked—"He paused mid-sentence as his destination came into view, blinking at the near-empty kitchen. "Where's 'Ferre?"
"He went to go find Courfeyrac," responded Bahorel, whom Feuilly had filled in on the morning's events.
Laigle greeted this with a laugh. "What, did he get lost?"
"Something like that." Bahorel grinned, sharing in the bald man's mirth.
"He's taken over an hour on a twenty minute walk," Feuilly added dryly. "Combeferre decided to go and see what was keeping him."
"Typical," Joly sighed as he unpacked the basket and tucked several perishables into the ice-chest. "He's easily the most distractible fellow I've ever come across."
"Besides yourself, you mean?" That was Laigle, trying to hide a smile as he bent over the recipe.
"Why do you say these things you know will hurt me?" Joly shot back absently, already absorbed in checking the ice-box for expirations.
Bossuet sniggered quietly and went to check on Bahorel's progress. "Courfey had better hurry up with those eggs," he remarked. "We're going to need them very, very shortly."
The other man's grunt of agreement was drowned out by a loud crash, originating in the direction of the café proper. All four of the young men started and glanced at each other, Bahorel still vigorously stirring. "Well," Laigle remarked, voicing the conclusion at which they had unanimously arrived. "Either Louison has been concealing an elephant behind the bar or Grantaire has decided to join us."
A/N: Next on Let Them Eat Cake…Will Courfeyrac bring the eggs in time? Will Joly be able to overcome his fear of salmonella? Will Grantaire be any help whatsoever? Tune in next time for the exciting new chapter of: Let Them Eat Cake.