Ohh la la!

French Cake.  It’s the most scrumptious, decadent chocolate dessert on this side of the Eiffel Tower. Antoinette, Andre’s wife, makes it without fail for his birthday in December each year. It is, how shall we say?  “Magnifique!”

The recipe calls for five large eggs, one and a half cups of sugar, one and a half cups of cake flour, one tablespoon of creme of tartar, vanilla, and salt. After whipping these ingredients together, four cups of unsalted butter, one and a half cups of powdered sugar, and two squares of melted baking chocolate are required. After the eggs are added one at a time, they are beaten to a pulp at high speed until they’re emulsified.  

As usual, Antoinette lovingly purchased the requisite baking supplies shortly before Andre’s birthday.  For the past thirteen years, she never struck out.  The French Cake Antoinette creates always tastes delicious and looks spectacular.  Always!  Until this year.

“Andre, please forgive me!” Antoinette exclaimed.

“For what, my precious?” Andre requested.

“The cake.  It came out sooo lopsided.” Antoinette admitted.

“Lopsided?” Andre asked.

“Oui, lopsided!” Antoinette acknowledged.

“Oh, my sweetest most alluring, darling bouton d’or,” Andre softly uttered.  “It doesn’t matter. I’m sure it will taste splendid!”

“No, it won’t, Andre.  I’m sooo ashamed,” Antoinette confessed.

“There, there, my petite amante. I will love it, almost as much as I worship you, my dearest angel,” Andre reassured her.

“Are you sure?” Antoinette sheepishly inquired.

“Oui oui,” Andre replied.

“Merci, my beau mec,” Antoinette said.  “You are sooo sweet to me!”

After enjoying an elegant, romantic dinner that evening, it was time for the piece de resistance.  Out came the French Cake, with thirty-seven candles artfully placed on top.  However, at least twenty-two candles were a little higher than the others because the right side of the cake was at least four inches lower than the left side.  It appeared like a ski slope at La Belle Etoile.  

“Bon appetit, l’amour,” Antoinette said in her most seductive voice.

“Ooh la la!" Andre whispered. "This cake is to die for!”

"My big, strong, beau mari, you are sooo sweet to me," Antoinette said.

“Umm. It really is exquisite," Andre repeated.

"Even though it looks like a downhill run at the French Riviera?" Antoinette inquired.

"Even though it looks like a downhill run at the French Riviera,” Andre politely answered.

After enjoying three, back-to-back rounds of remarkable, unforgettable intimacy to top off the evening, Andre and Antoinette prepared for bed.  Just before climbing into his side, Andre slipped back into the kitchen.  He couldn't help himself.  Another piece of French Cake was all he needed to complete the day of celebration.  He wolfed it down in one bite. Feeling satisfied, he returned to the boudoir.    

The couple embraced one more time before succumbing to slumber.  Andre thanked Antoinette profusely.  Antoinette apologized again for the lopsided French Cake.  Andre quickly forgave her. And then they kissed passionately, turned off their bedside table lights, and drifted off.

Shortly after midnight, Andre was beside himself. He was in a rage. Without warning, he became his alter ego, "Jacques, the Ripper!"  

How could Antoinette have murdered the French Cake? Why did it look so awful? How could it have turned out so lopsided? Antoinette must pay dearly for her inferior baking skills. That was all there was to it, Andre reasoned.

After weighing his myriad options, Andre decided he could either smother Antoinette with a pillow or shoot her, point-blank, with a hunting rifle.  Rather than maintaining a modicum of peace and quiet in the villa in which they lived, he chose the latter. Besides, the last thing he wanted was to spoil the fresh aroma of a brand new, perfectly clean pillowcase.

Ah, the rifle was in the gun cabinet, Andre realized.  If he tiptoed down the steps, Antoinette would never hear him.  And so, that's exactly what he did.  After loading his deadly weapon with the best ammunition money could buy, Andre slowly made his way back up the steps, one by one.

When Andre returned to the bedroom, Antoinette was waiting for him at the door.  She appeared in the nude, except for a chocolate-colored beret strategically placed on top of her head. A huge musical instrument was in her hands.

Andre's eyes were as big as a cake plate. He took a nervous gulp and stammered, "Why Antoinette, my most treasured essaim d’abeilles, what are you doing up?”

"I heard you downstairs, you good-for-nothing piece of crap," Antoinette declared between clenched teeth.  "I know what you're up to.  You couldn't let it go, could you?  'There, there, my petite amante. I will love it, almost as much as I worship you, my dearest angel.' "That's exactly what you said about the French Cake, isn't it, Andre?" Antoinette reminded him.

"You!  You are a loser!" Andre yelled.

"And you! You are a BIG loser!" Antoinette screamed.

Before Andre could take dead aim with his rifle, Antoinette beat him to a pulp at high speed with a tenor saxophone until he was emulsified.