The Novice

This evening's cravat is a lovely offering of Wegwood and egg custard stripes, the latter in a rope pattern.  She cowered in her apron, wishing she could hide behind the huge stainless steel counters.  At the front of the room, she could hear Madame's sharp voice denouncing the failures.  "Non!  Non!  Rien!  Rien!  Quelle horreur!  Qu'est-ce que c'est?"  A moment later, it was her turn.  The knotty and flawlessly manicured finger lifted the meringue off the crust, revealing a small puddle.  "Non!," Madame cried.  She then stuck her finger into the soft golden filling, scraping the crust below.  Her finger came up with raw dough.  "Rien!  Rien!" she said, shaking it at her before moving on.  The cook buried her face in her novice's blue apron and silently wept.