Au Paris

by Rachel Spencer

  Bon ouiquend.

  Chapitre Cinq

  I woke to a small hand petting my face in short, paw-like strokes. When I opened my eyes, Constantin was standing over me with a wide smile, batting his adorable eyelashes. I’d come to recognize this expression as his look of approval, of pleasure, of satisfaction. He was happy with his sleeping nanny. Happy with his Saturday morning.

  I grinned back at him and patted the tiny hand cupping my face. I knew by the way the sun beat on the sidewalk and filtered in strong rays through my window that I’d slept until at least mid-morning. The rest of the family was probably already gone, to Beaune and to scuba. From the looks of him, Constantin had not woken long ago, as he was still clad in blue-and-white-striped pajamas, his face still puffy from sleep.

  “We can look a film?” he inquired, tilting his head slightly and drawing out the word film. He stood, persuading me, affectionately patting my head. He was a flirt, and he’d had enough nannies to know which of his tricks worked the best. How could I possibly say no to such a cherub?

  “Good morning, bébé,” I said. “You want to watch a film? Why don’t we have breakfast first, hmm?” I ruffled his messy, slept-on, little-boy hair and led him by the hand out of my room, up the steps, and into the kitchen. I punched buttons on the espresso machine, anxious for its familiar singsong wake up call. Constantin took his place at the table. He sat upright, his hands clasped astutely in front of him, patiently waiting service as though he were a member of the royal family.

  “Chocolat chaud,” he said. Chocolat chaud, or hot chocolate, was his breakfast of choice and quite simple too for me to make, thank goodness. It was merely Nesquik stirred up with milk and heated in the microwave. Once I’d prepared both our morning brews, we sat together at the table in companionable silence, Constantin happily drinking his chocolat chaud while I savored the quietness of the house at mid-morning.

  Next, we retreated to my room, indulging ourselves in a film and the laziness of Saturday morning. I picked the film, My Dog Skip, and played it in English with no subtitles, much to the dismay of my petit boss. After all, he had to learn English somehow, and I couldn’t be bothered with reading French subtitles so early in the morning.

  We watched until we heard Alex calling down the steps, “Hello-ooo?” His voice was friendly and as full of weekend relief as mine was, and I was glad to greet him upstairs and put the unfortunate skylight incident behind us. He carried several bags, all bursting at the seams.

  “You have to see what I bought—it’s fantastique,” he said with confidence not unlike his son’s, and I wondered at how alike they were. There was something so arrogant, so self-obsessed, and self-assured about Alex that my first instinct was to keep away from him entirely. But there was something more, something in the way he derived great enjoyment from little things, and wanted to share them with others that endeared him to me.

  “Have you been to La Grande Épicerie? You have to go,” he said, pulling bottles and jars out of the sacs. “Okay, so look at this new sauce—you’ve never tried anything like it. Okay—bon. We have jam . . . some new wine glasses—did you break one last week?” he asked, but his tone was more assuming than inquisitive. I hadn’t broken one last week, in fact, he did, but this wasn’t the point. He continued showcasing his purchases without looking up for an answer.

  “And this is a . . . what do you call it? A nectar. Yes, it’s a pear nectar. I mean, it is perfect—the juice from the fruit, you know? Au naturel. You have to try it.”

  He poured some for me and began slicing breads and slathering them with pastes and sauces and compotes for me to try.

  “This one you have to try with cheese,” he said, wielding yet another jar of jam. Then, out of a different sac that read Alléosse, he retrieved several bundles wrapped in wax paper. He sliced a small chunk of stinky, creamy white cheese and poured some of the dark thick jam—black currant, perhaps—on top and held it out to me. “Okay, eat that,” he insisted, and I obliged, trying to keep a pleasant smile on my face and chew at the same time.

  I’d hardly tasted a thing before he said, “Can you believe it? I mean, it’s fantastique, right?

  “Mmmm. Mpfff,” was about all I could get out before he handed me another taste. And another. And another, until we tasted our way through all of his fantastique finds. Judging from all of the food spread on the counter, Alex preferred gourmet over scuba. I asked him when the girls would be finished with their lesson.

  “Oh please—it’s insane,” Alex answered. “They do this thing like all day, you know? I don’t even know what they do. It’s ridiculous.” He tossed his head back without one hair of his gelled coif falling out of place. “I’ll pick them up in a couple of hours. You want to come?”

  I could only imagine him breaching speed limits on the autoroute, daughters in tow, in his brand-new silver Audi A8. He possessed a daring confidence, humorous and sickening at the same time. I couldn’t help but laugh.

  “I better stay here with Constantin,” I replied.

  Constantin and I spent the latter half of the day at the parc, and we returned home just in time to congratulate Diane and Léonie on passing their scuba tests that morning. They were studying to become trained professional divers in preparation for the family vacation to the Caribbean that December. I was having trouble keeping all of the Vladesco family vacations straight in my head: sailing along the Amalfi coast in August; diving into the Caribbean in December. Bien sûr.

  Alex double-kissed each daughter on each cheek, then went back to his food, calling out the various items on the dinner menu to everyone in the house and no one in particular. In a few hours, we would dine with Alex’s parents, whom the children have lovingly titled Mounie et Mip. Mounie is the grandpère. Mip, the grandmère. It would be one of my first forays into French dining, and I was truly excited for the experience.

  The doorbell rang around dix-huit heures et demi. I was learning that in Paris, no one ever arrived at the appointed time, but usually a demi of an hour later, at least. In America, this would have been considered fashionably late by some, rude by others. In Paris, it was practically de rigueur. I greeted Mounie et Mip at the door, and was instantly drawn to their expressive smiles and abundant greetings. They immediately inquired of Sarah, whom they’d met three years ago and loved—of course. We hugged and kissed like old friends, and Mounie kept his arm around my shoulder as we walked up the entry steps and into the living area.

  I relieved Mip of the cake she was carrying.

  “Un gâteau,” she informed me.

  “Ah oui,” I replied. “C’est beau! Merci.”

  I brought the cake to Alex, who greeted it with a hearty “Bon!” and went back to his preparations.

  I joined Mounie et Mip in the dining room, ready to play hostess. “Champagne?” I said, pleased with my pronunciation.

  “Bien sûr!” Mounie confirmed for the both of them without hesitation. We would get along just fine. I poured two glasses of bubbly for the guests, and one well-deserved glass for myself.

  Mounie began firing questions at me—en français—regarding what I did for a living, what my plans were upon returning to the States, where I lived and how I liked it. I took a large sip of champagne for courage and tried, in my most poised French tone, to provide intelligent replies. But these were difficult questions for me to answer in English, let alone French.

  The truth was, beyond my tour of duty with the Vladesco family, I had no idea about my plans for the future. I dreaded the thought of going back to the world of office politics and cubicles, not that I even had a job to go back to. I had grad school of course, but I still didn’t know if I was even accepted—though I was sure if I emailed my mom, she’d write back to tell me the letter of acceptance had arrived. I sort of left the U.S. banking on getting in, but quite a bit of time had elapsed, and I was starting to get nervous. If I did get accepted (I better have gotten accepted), I needed to register for classes soon. That was probably an important
thing to do before, say, August. And yet, it didn’t feel especially important. Or urgent. But I was hardly going to admit to Mounie that I wasn’t officially a graduate studies student, or that I wasn’t sure I even wanted to be. Trying to express those thoughts in French would have just translated poorly, and trying to translate my feelings on the matter in any language was just impossible.

  Thankfully, I was saved from elaborating further by Constantin, Léonie, and Diane, who burst into the room at the same time, ecstatic to see their grandparents. During their flurry of greetings, I excused myself to the kitchen to see if Alex needed a sous chef.

  “Bon,” he said. “You can do the sauce, and if you like, set the table.” Sauce was his word for salad dressing, but I’d never made it from scratch before, having previously subscribed to the bottled dressing school of thought, and I fumbled with the ingredients, unsure of what to do. Alex sighed in exasperation and took over, mixing together the proper ratios of oil, vinegar, and mustard while I stood aside and watched, thinking that if I were able to complete at least one task during my time in Paris without screwing it up, I’d call the entire trip a success.

  I was able to set the table without any instruction from the chef, however. The same plates, wineglasses, cheese plates, sets of silverware, and white cloth napkins were used for every meal no matter the occasion. Once I had seven of each arranged, I filled carafes of water and ventured to the cellar, or “cave,” as the French call it, for an ample supply of wine. The cave was a room easily as large as the kitchen upstairs, filled wall to wall with so many bottles of wine I couldn’t begin to count. Picking several bottles out of such an impressive collection was harder than I thought, but it was the one detail Alex was fairly lax on.

  “They’re all fantastique, okay? Just pick a few,” he had hollered at me as I left the kitchen to begin the search as he instructed. Most of them were from Chanson, but I was feeling adventurous, so I choose three bottles from Bordeaux instead.

  “Bon,” Alex noted in approval of my selection. Then he called out, “À table,” and beckoned all of us to the table to commence the feast.

  We began with a first course of grilled chicken skewers coated in a savory peanut sauce while Alex grilled his rack of lamb. I stood to retrieve the salad and sauce from the kitchen until I remembered that in French dining, the salad is the last course.

  The meal was long, leisurely, and delicious—one of the best of my life. Alex’s menu was simple, yet utterly fulfilling: medium rare grilled lamb, carrots roasted with olive oil and sea salt, thinly sliced cucumbers tossed in vinegar and sunflower oil, and rounds of crusty French bread. All throughout dinner, the conversation was warm and pleasant, and I felt myself grow more and more relaxed with each new course, each sip of wine. The kids begged for tastes of wine every few minutes, and Alex regaled us with stories of growing up in Romania, and how their small family fled to France when he was fifteen to escape the Communists. He talked of how they had nothing save for the clothes on their backs, and of the hardships Mounie et Mip endured in order to take care of their family. The conversation gave me an entirely new respect for Alex. Suddenly his sense of entitlement and self-congratulation made more sense. His life was the product of hard-earned success, and he did not waste a moment of it. He enjoyed both work and play, and throughout the course of the evening, he embraced his children just as often as he picked up his glass of wine.

  When Alex finally served the green leaf salad at the end of the meal, he insisted that I had prepared the dressing. I started to protest, then stopped myself. My first week on the job had taught me never to argue with Alex, especially when it came to food. So I gratefully accepted the credit.

  As the sleepy children filed off to bed, he beckoned to Diane to bring the cheese plate and the espresso. She did so without any fuss or complaint, surprising me with her obedience. Even though she had matured quite a bit in the few years since I’d last seen her, around her parents, Diane was young, innocent, and respectful. Alex served the cheese, explaining each type, where it originated, how it was prepared, and how the cheese shop owner favored him over all the other customers.

  I nibbled my cheese and sipped my espresso, wondering at this family, with all of their history, all of their stories, all of their adventures and triumphs and disappointments. And I wondered what types of stories I would tell my own family someday. Surely my trip to Paris would be among them—but what would I tell? How would it end? I didn’t speak. I just ate my stinky cheese, sipped my espresso, laughed when they laughed, and stared into the black sky that had become the warm Paris night.

  On Monday, Alex and Estelle left for their trip to Normandy. And on Tuesday, the first official day of summer vacation, the nanny book was beautifully empty. Though school was out for the little ones, Diane still had end of school exams, and was staying with a friend while she finished them. Even though I was looking forward to spending quality time with her once school was out, I was greatly relieved not to be responsible for her while her parents were away.

  Léonie and Constantin, on the other hand, were free from all care and the most elated I’d ever seen them.

  I knew just the way to commence the season of leisurely indulgence and had no trouble convincing the kids to join me for a trip to the premier rétro spot in town. I rounded the children up, got them dressed, and we headed out into the warm Parisian morning and toward the best bakery in the city. It won premier in various awards year after year, and not just for the bread. I wondered why it wasn’t bigger or more commercialized, but that’s the wonderful thing about Paris—you don’t have to be big and commercialized to be good or famous. In fact, if you are big and commercialized, you’re probably not nearly as good as the humble places. When we arrived at the bakery, which was completely nameless to the passing pedestrian except for the lettering that read “Boulangerie-Patisserie” on the window, I felt my stomach rumble. Despite my daily cravings, I had partaken only minimally in the buttery bakery delights available on every street corner. This was partly due to my new espresso diet, which curbed all of my cravings, and partly due to the sheer stress of getting through my days without any major catastrophes.

  By the time we got to the front of the line, my appetite was in full swing, birthing a gastronomical love affair between me and the rows of pain au chocolat lining the glass case. Léonie and Constantin ordered pepites, a chocolate chip–speckled sweet bread that was enormous in size. It deceived tourists like me into believing one could eat it and stay as fit as the rest of the skinny Parisians standing in line. But I had a secret suspicion that every Parisian buying pastries was really buying them to feed to their fat American houseguests. Léonie and Constantin didn’t quite count in my case study because their little metabolisms were still too young to be affected by the evil of fats and sugars. Once I got the two petits settled down with their two pepites, I watched them turn from civilized little Frenchies to rudimentary rugrats with chocolate-smeared mouths while I devoured my pain au chocolat with frightening speed.

  I was still smiling when Léonie looked at me and said, “Did you already finish yours?”

  “Oh, I guess I have,” I said, licking my fingers shamelessly.

  “Hmm,” she said, turning back into a civilized Frenchie. “I like to enjoy mine.”

  Great. Mere hours into summer vacation, and already my behavior was being tallied and marked by an 11-year-old girl. So much for relaxing. I wanted to tell Léonie my pastry was like half the size of hers but I realized if I did I would (a) be arguing with an eleven-year-old about my diet, and (b) remain unjustified because despite her pastry being larger, her rear end was not just half the size of mine, but one-fourth at most.

  I felt the sudden need to return to the miracle-working espresso machine at the house, but instead coerced the kids into a long walk, as much to keep them amused as to burn off the bakery calories. So on we walked. I already sported a grease spot on my shirt as evidence of my love affair with the pastry, Léonie boasted her pin
t-sized derriere, and Constantin smacked his lips together as indication that he’d found his breakfast pleasurable.

  Surviving the streets in Paris was a medal-worthy accomplishment, especially for a girl who is used to tooling around the Houston suburbs in a car. When braving the streets alone, I was always a little nervous getting from one crosswalk to the next. When I added Léonie, who often bolted ahead to prove her independence, and Constantin, who liked to stop in between passing cars for a smile or conversation, I was downright terrified. So my maternal instincts kicked in and I took to yelling, “Attention! Faites attention!!” every time we neared a crosswalk and grabbing Constantin’s hand if not scooping him up altogether before stepping out into the crazy madness that is Paris traffic. I wondered if they offered classes in offensive driving, particularly around l’Étoile, rather than the defensive driving that is proactively taught in the U.S. Although driving in Paris was probably quite a rush, just getting the two children safely through the streets was enough to satisfy the thrill seeker in me.

  As we walked, we made our way around the place toward Avenue Niel, my route of choice for daily produce shopping, and also the street that turns to Avenue MacMahon, one of the twelve vessels leading out from l’Étoile at l’Arc de Triomphe. The produce stands occupied most of the alleys between the marketplace streets. Bins of fresh apricots, plums, and kiwis formed a wall of fruit separating one stand from the next. Tables piled with cantaloupe and mango lined the edges of the street. Buckets and baskets of fresh strawberries and raspberries, of a size and beauty the likes of which I had never seen before were artfully arranged in between large displays of melon. The vegetable stands intermingled with the fruit stands, piled with products like my old friends courgettes and aubergines, as well as myriad cabbages, lettuces, and greens.

  We walked down the aisles from one stand to the next, sniffing for the best choices. The locals hand-selected every item, squeezing to verify ripeness, proper texture, ample juice, and all-around best in show. In America this would be considered rude; in France the farmers stood by prospective buyers with great pride, waiting for approval of their display. If the prospective buyer did not award the farmer’s stock a passing grade, the farmer would then join in the search, performing squeeze, sniff, and even taste tests of his own until he sent the customer away as if they were old friends with not one but two bushels of whatever item had undergone scrutiny.