The Cat, the Ring, and the Cookie

Seventy-four thousand dollars. That was the only thing I could think about as I chased the stray cat down the alley. Mr. De Gondi’s engagement ring was worth seventy-four thousand dollars.

Nobody knew how the cat kept getting into the kitchen. Sure, there was a constant flurry of staff and vendors through the back door, but everyone was adamant that le chat had never followed them in or out. The small window far above the dishwashing station was kept open, but surely that was too high for him to jump, and it was screened besides. Maybe he came in through an air duct somewhere or up through the cellar? Perhaps there was a small crack in the foundation he was able to squeeze through. It was anyone’s guess. Nobody had ever actually witnessed Voleur’s entry.

Voleur. That’s what we called the furry little intruder because that is what our poissonier, Luc, shouted at him when he made off with a portion of halibut three weeks ago. He would reappear time and again, snatching a prawn off of an amuse bouche or happily licking at crème fraiche on an unsupervised mise en place before being unceremoniously chased out the back door. Voleur de nuit. Thief in the night. How apropos for a literal cat burglar. And now here I was, playing constable in the alley behind the kitchen of the prestigious La Litière, trying to chase down a cat with a cookie—and a highly priced piece of jewelry—in its mouth.

Four-carats. Fairly traded Botswana diamond in a six-prong platinum setting. Tiffany. Prized at seventy-four thousand. I knew because that’s what Mr. De Gondi bragged to me when he asked the sous chef and I to secret the little treasure into the madeleine à l'orange that would accompany Miss Paulmier’s chocolate mousse.

Hide the ring in the madeleine, the sous chef suggested, not the mousse. Better it be in the cookie, which would break apart cleanly when Miss Paulmier finds it, rather than emerge covered in unromantic brown stickiness. She would bite into the madeleine, gasp in delight upon discovery of the ring, say yes, and live happily ever after.

That was the plan anyway until Voleur sneaked into the kitchen like he does, pawed the madeleine in question off my pâtissier station while my back was turned, and spirited off with Mr. De Gondi’s hopes and dreams. 

I turned just in time to see him do it. I made a move for him, and he bounded toward the door. I hurried after him into the alley, and then watched him slink under the dumpster, madeleine still in his mouth.

Seventy-four thousand dollars. Almost two years’ worth of salary for a lowly pastry chef like me. Even if Mr. De Gondi had the ring insured, everyone would assume I stole it. Either I catch this cat or I look forward to a future working the cafeteria in Sing Sing with the other inmates.

 I lay down on the asphalt, stretching my arm out to him where he crouched just exactly a few inches out of reach.

“Voleur, give me that madeleine.” I pleaded, as I struggled to reach him. He bristled and backed further away under the dumpster.

Just then, Luc came out of the back entrance and lit a cigarette. He picked up two black bags of kitchen trash by the doorway and headed over.

“What are you doing?” he asked when he saw me on the ground. “You better get back or your souffles will burn, no?”

“Voleur!” I whispered, as sternly as I could. “You give me that cookie right now.”

My demands were met with hissing and an arched back. “I’m trying to get a ring back from Voleur,” I answered Luc.

“What ring? Not Mr. De Gondi’s ring for the big proposal?” Luc began to lift the lid of the dumpster to toss the bags in, but I stopped him.

“No, no, no! You’ll scare him away!” I said.

Why couldn’t Mr. De Gondi just keep the damn ring in a box and propose down on one knee like a normal human being? Or if he really insisted on the dramatic, why couldn’t he be content with the ring at the bottom of Miss Paulmier’s champagne flute with a raspberry like I’d suggested? Then, all of this could have been avoided.

Luc placed the bags onto the ground and took a drag of his cigarette, crouching down to look at the cat under the dumpster.

“Yes, that ring,” I sighed. “It’s hidden in that madeleine.”

Luc and I contemplated the cat.

“What does a cat want with a cookie, anyway?” Luc wondered aloud.

“I don’t know. Cats eat funny stuff. I had a girlfriend whose cat liked French fries.”

“French fries. The are not even French.” Luc said, blowing cigarette smoke out the side of his mouth.

“Whatever. Frites, then. But apparently, this one likes madeleines. See, he won’t even drop it.”

Luc extended his hand out to the cat, calling to it. “Minou, minou, minou….”

Voleur simply stayed in his little crouch, yellow eyes reflecting the light from Luc’s cigarette. Voleur responded to Luc’s calls with a tiny vibrating growl.

“Voleur does not want to give up the ring, eh? Maybe we call him Frodo instead,” Luc mused. “Like in Le Seigneur des Anneaux. Lord of the Hobbits.”

I couldn’t help but laugh at that, but Luc was right. This was a stray alley cat who’d captured a tasty little meal. No way was he going to relinquish his little triumph, unless…. of course!

“Luc!” I said, remembering the cat’s first pillage of our kitchen. “Go get me a piece of that halibut! Maybe Voleur will accept a trade for it?”

“No way, mon ami. I have only six left and it is not even nine o’clock. I’ll have to 86 them as it is. Besides,” he said, eyeing the cat. “He still owes me one from three weeks ago. Don’t you, Voleur?”

Voleur only stared back with those yellow eyes.

“So, if you’re 86-ing them anyway, what does it matter? C’mon, I’ll even pay for it.” I said. Whatever the market price, it was sure to be far less than seventy-four thousand. Then I thought I’d sweeten the deal. “I’ll clean your station tonight. After.”

Luc thought that over for a moment and then stubbed out his cigarette on the ground. “No,” he said. “No, that’s ok. I’ll bring you a halibut for the little morveux.”

Luc stood and jogged back to the kitchen, and I was left to supervise Voleur. I sighed. My souffles probably were burning.

“He didn’t mean that, Voleur. You’re a good kitty,” I said to him. “You’re just a little cat in a Big Apple, aren’t you? Just trying to make it here like everybody else.”

Luc returned with a small piece of halibut in a napkin.

“Merci! Merci beaucoup!” I said, taking it from him. I laid the napkin out flat near a corner of the dumpster and placed the halibut on top of it.

“Your French is shit,” Luc said, tapping another cigarette out of his pack.

“Your bouillabaisse is shit,” I retorted.

“Yes, but the customers like it,” Luc said, crouching down next to me. “Look, look!”

I was looking. Voleur set the madeleine down and cautiously moved a step closer to the halibut. Luc and I moved back to give him some room.

“Go on, Voleur. That’s all yours.”

The cat took a few more courageous steps toward the halibut and stretched out to sniff it. Luc and I watched and waited. Eventually, he gave the halibut a few test licks, and then picked it up. I shifted my weight, crunching some gravel underfoot. This startled Voleur, who darted down the alley and around the corner, halibut in mouth.

“Bon appetit!” Luc shouted after him.

“Ok! Help me move this dumpster!” I said.

Luc and I wheeled the dumpster away from the wall, and there was the madeleine sitting on the ground. I snatched it up and broke it open to retrieve the ring. I’ll have to bake a new one. Hopefully there was enough time.

The ring wasn’t there. I crumbled the madeleine completely in my hand. No ring.

“No! Where is it?” I panicked, searching the ground under and around the dumpster. Still no ring.

I ran back into the kitchen to my station and started breaking open madeleines. The ring was in none of them. Now I was in a real panic. I frantically searched around my station, my mise en place, around the ovens. Where the hell was it?

My search was interrupted by a burst of muffled applause from the front of house. What was that all about? I walked over to the dining room doors and peeked through the porthole. There was Mr. De Gondi, champagne glass held high in a toast, his other arm around Miss Paulmier who herself was showing off her left hand. The tiny silver glint on her finger was unmistakable.

What the hell? I was bewildered.

“Don’t worry. I took care of it,” said a voice behind me.

It was the sous chef.

“I found the ring on the floor by your station. You really should be more careful. I gave it a rinse, tucked it into one of the madeleines, and put it up for service while you were out smoking with Luc.”

“I don’t smoke….” I responded, still in a daze.

“Twenty seconds on those souffles or they’re going to burn,” he said with finality before moving on to the saucier station.

“Yes, chef,” I said.

I couldn’t believe it. How had I missed it? The ring must have fallen out as Voleur grabbed the madeleine and in my haste to chase him down, I hadn’t even noticed.

I returned to my station and pulled the souffles out of the oven. Astounding. They were perfect. I felt myself suddenly breathe easy. Easier than I had in an age, it seemed. The ring was found. There would be no prison. Miss Paulmier said yes. All was right with the world. Even my souffles survived.

I turned around to retrieve my confectioner’s sugar to dust the souffles and there was Voleur, helping himself to the butter on my mise en place. I burst out laughing. Luc must have heard me. He looked over from his fish and shook his head.

“I thought you’d be far away in Jersey by now,” I said, scratching Voleur under his chin.

“You little chat.”