Au Paris

by Rachel Spencer

  The sun shone bright the next morning. I woke the kids for a change, since they woke me most mornings, got them dressed, and we all left the house. It was a morning for a bakery celebration; Sarah was coming today.

  Ruddy Cheeks hollered orders and spat in faces with vigor; it was as if she knew today was a more exciting day than usual. The kids chose pains au chocolat, I chose a croissant. After all, few days remained of my time in Paris. I thought it best to savor the quintessential Parisian boulangerie, le croissant, considering nowhere else on earth made them as well as Ruddy Cheeks and her crew.

  We sat on the bench outside the bakery entrance and gobbled our treats. I watched the line grow and curve around the sidewalk. I listened to Ruddy Cheeks yelling orders. Crotchety, crusty Frenchmen walked by with their mangy mutts. Persnickety, preppy Frenchwomen walked by with their toy poodles. The cheese shop on the corner advertised a special discount on Camembert. The produce stand down the street spilled over with a fresh display of melon. The dogs barked. The trash in the street stank. I smelled the medley of aromas and odors, stenches and fragrances, baking together under the warmth of the sun. Paris, as it turned out, was a beautiful thing. But I’d never doubted that—just doubted myself in it.

  I bought the day’s supply of rétrodors and one more pain au chocolat before we left the vicinity. Sarah loved pain au chocolat and it was the least I could to welcome her. It was mid-morning when we returned home, and not too early to start lunch for Sarah. I was anxious to impress her with my new culinary skills, and to pass the time until her arrival.

  The menu for lunch, as written by Estelle in the nanny book, listed lamb chops with potatoes and carrots. I’d make the carrots just as I’d seen Alex do it—with nothing more than a little olive oil and sea salt. And I would add to Estelle’s menu a green leaf salad to show Sarah how I’d been trained in making good sauce. Alex left Pavarotti in the new flat-surface BeoSound stereo so I turned it on to conduct my own grand orchestra of gourmet. Cooking alone in the spacious Vladesco kitchen, I felt inspired, full of possibility. I covered the lamb with fragrant provencal herbs, loving the aroma and dreaming of my own trip to Provence, just days away. With liberation, I coated each chop in sea salt and crushed pepper. I had dressed in all black for Sarah’s grandiose arrival—black flared pants, black sleeveless shell, black strappy stilettos, and I draped a slate blue silk wrap around me for dramatic flair. In the old-money, newspaper-society-pages way, I felt elegant, rich, and famous dressed as I was, listening to opera and cooking lamb.

  I started with the carrots, broiling them with olive oil just as I’d seen Alex do. They sizzled until just soft and the oil caramelized on top. Next, I started on a new dessert, one that did not involve flour or sugar. I baked peaches sprinkled with cinnamon and glazed with a maraschino kirsch. I’d bought the peaches fresh from the market the day before. In all my life—even growing up in Texas where Fredericksburg peaches were famous—I had never tasted a peach so succulent or sweet. When the lamb chops were ready, it was twelve noon. Léonie had set the table with care, Constantin sat down with a slice of rétrodor in his mouth. I could hardly wait for the buzz at the front door.

  By 1 p.m., Constantin and Léonie had eaten all the slices of rétrodor I’d set in the breadbasket on the table. Rather than spoil their appetite with more fillers, I served them lunch. I, though, would wait for Sarah. Where was she? At 2 p.m. I had cleared the table and the kids’ plates. I tried to ignore the hunger pangs in my stomach and felt sad that the lamb, potatoes, and carrots had turned cold and unappetizing.

  The kids retreated to the TV room after much begging, tugging, and questioning in regard to Sarah’s arrival. They were almost as anxious as I was for her to come, but not quite. Thinking back to my first day in Paris, I decided we should meet her at the bus stop rather than have her walk home alone. After all, it’s a long walk when pulling heavy luggage and the sun is hot. I called the kids to the door and we left the house to wait at the bus stop. I knew exactly which bus she would take because she was the one who’d told me the route when I arrived. We arrived at the bus station just as line 92—the one from l’Étoile—pulled to a stop. I felt strange meeting my sister out in the middle of Paris with two kids, kids she’d first introduced to me. Everything in life, I supposed, really did come full circle. Léonie and Constantin beamed with excitement. I squeezed their hands as we watched passengers climb off the bus.

  “I see her!” Constantin shouted.

  “That’s not her,” Léonie said.

  “Okay!” Constantin said. He had enough confidence to be wrong and maintain his excitement. He picked out another passenger and pointed. “Is that her?” Léonie rolled her eyes in irritation.

  Then I saw Sarah climbing down the back steps of the bus. I knew I had been lonely, but I didn’t realize how much until I saw my big sister right there in front of me in Paris. Without motioning to the kids, I ran. There she was. I wasn’t alone anymore.

  Sarah looked exhausted. She tugged bags off the bus and readjusted her clothes before she noticed me. “What?!” she said.

  “We couldn’t wait!” I said. “Hey!”

  We hugged and I took her luggage and walked on, back toward home, letting her ooh and ahh over how much Constantin and Léonie had grown since she saw them last. The three hugged, Constantin and Léonie fighting for her attention and for her hands to hold. I was glad. They needed someone to be more concerned and attentive than I had been. And I was glad for Sarah. She loved it here so much. So did I, of course, just not in the same way. Sarah’s confidence allowed her to travel alone, to adapt to new environments, to not be affected by circumstances. I was still growing my backbone. I wanted to fit, I just didn’t know where. Paris was beautiful, everyone knew that. So of course I loved it. Of course I knew I was living out a great opportunity. But I didn’t quite believe I deserved it. I felt like a fraud, or like I was trying to be someone like Sarah—someone who knew how to be herself no matter where she went. Except that I couldn’t even figure out who I was supposed to be, no matter where I was. But I still tried to create the identity I thought fit Paris best, trying to make it something it wasn’t to me. I was trying too hard to be something I wasn’t, wishing I could be someone I wasn’t. I was still learning how to just be.

  We ate a cold lunch and did very little to pass the day. Sarah was more vigilant than I had been about staying awake to reschedule her body on Paris time. I hadn’t even been on the flight and all I wanted to do was sleep. My body wanted that rest. I was ready for that rest.

  So Sarah occupied herself enjoying time with the kids, like a good nanny, and I went to my cool, quiet nanny bedroom to take a nap after a quick e-mail to my mom. She was dying to have as much correspondence as possible while Sarah and I were together in France. I’d already e-mailed her to reassure her that Sarah arrived safely, but I wanted to make sure she got it. A mother never sleeps, of course, and I wanted to make sure her mind was at ease. She had already replied—I should have known. Ever since I’d written her SOS messages from Beaune and one letter from the deepest part of the country, Melay, she’d been worried sick about me. I scanned through her note, smiling at the sweet words of my mother. And there it was—the answer to my future. I had completely forgotten about it after my trip to hell (the country) and the anticipation of heaven (Sarah’s arrival/ticket out of here).

  Dear Rachel,

  It’s nice that our little song bird is singing again (that’s you) since you got back to Paris and since Sarah arrived and since it’s getting close to time to return to America. Good on ya! AND yesterday you got a letter of acceptance to graduate school. There is a form you have to fill out and return, but I guess it will have to wait till you return. Hopefully, that will work out OK.

  OK, must get busy.

  I love you. Love to Sarah too.

  Huh. So I was in. Interesting. I’d been waiting for the confirmation for so long, but I didn’t know what to do now that I had it. I should have felt good, of cours
e. My plan had succeeded. I was going to grad school.

  Oh, but plans can be so daunting.

  And the form—could it really wait? It had to, I thought. After all, I was in Paris, working in a very busy, highly time-consuming, demanding job. These admissions people needed to practice some patience. I couldn’t handle all their paperwork at once, and especially not from a foreign country! So I dismissed the obligation from my mind and decided it was a much better thing to go spend quality time with the kids like my good sister Sarah was doing. There was no time for naps in this job, what was I thinking? The kids were, after all, the purpose of my being there.

  I left the computer on, left the e-mail open, just sort of staring into the open space of the nanny room, and I climbed up the stairs to join the fun.

  We would go to all the wonderful touristy places tomorrow. I couldn’t wait to take the kids and I told them all about it. When bedtime finally came, I went to sleep dreaming of Ladurée and shopping in the original Hermès store. 24, rue Faubourg-Saint Honoré. There’s a perfume named after it, for crying out loud; we had to go.

  Sarah hated shopping. And really, she didn’t overflow with excitement at the thought of visiting a tea room. But I did. I hadn’t had anyone here all summer with whom to enjoy these things. We would go, I made us go, and the kids would enjoy it as a fine educational experience. Ladurée, and Hermès, for that matter, were hugely historic icons of Paris.

  So off we went, two nannies and two kids. Sarah insisted if we were going the route of l’Opéra, we would first stop at the Louvre. Immediately assuming her role as “good” nanny, she urged the kids to bring their sketchbooks so that they could practice their own versions of the masterpieces inside. I feigned interest, but I was far too concerned with French pastry and this fabulous place called Ladurée. I’d also worn three-inch, open-toed heels and was not breezing along down the Champs as easily as everyone else. I made it all the way to the Jardin des Tuileries before I could not stand anymore dirt in my shoes. I asked Sarah to give me a piggy-back ride, but she just laughed. I think she thought I was kidding.

  By that time it was 1 p.m., and I was willing to bet I wasn’t the only one with aching feet and growling stomach. I suggested oh-so-sweetly to Sarah that perhaps we should skip the Louvre and go straight to Ladurée. After all, as a thoughtful, compassionate nanny, I didn’t want the kids to go hungry. Sarah smirked. She saw right through me, though she indulged me anyway, the way she has been giving in to my persuasion all our lives together. Such is the nature of sisters.

  So we left the Jardin des Tuileries and walked the length of rue Royale from the Place de la Concorde, I with my shortcomings, Sarah with hers, and both of us with a kid on our backs. We talked and laughed our way to the ever-posh and poshly priced heartbeat of déjeuner à Paris. “Macarons!” Constantin yelled. We walked inside to a parlor colored in romantic hues of pistachio and gold. The setting made the atmosphere decadent.

  Ladurée was the salon du thé credited with making famous les macarons. Personally, I didn’t care for macaroons, but fortunately Ladurée has made famous many other sumptuous delights since the house was founded in 1862. Though there were four locations in Paris, it didn’t occur to me to visit any besides the original, at 16, rue Royale.

  “Bonjour, madame,” the hostess said.

  “Bonjour!” Constantin said.

  “Quatre?” she said.

  “Bon!” I said.

  Oui would have been a better reply, but I had accepted by now that correct French evaded me when my emotions were in any way heightened. I glided along behind the hostess as she led us up the stairs to our table. I felt a sharp tug on the back of my skirt. Sarah. What had I already done wrong?

  “She’s seating us for lunch, Rachel,” Sarah said.

  “I know! Aren’t you excited?” I said.

  “Umm, it’s expensive. I thought we were just having tea and a pastry,” Sarah said.

  “Oh,” I said. “Oops.”

  It was easy for me to forget I was essentially unemployed and did not have a Donald Trump–size checking account. Sarah was only doing her big-sisterly duty and trying to keep me grounded, but I wasn’t going to let her steal my fun. Today we were at Laduree and I’d hardly spent any money since coming to Paris. I was determined to feel like a comtesse whether or not Sarah wanted to play along.

  The waiter met us at out table. He had a striking face and a charming, elegant manner. And even though he was probably trained to be so, I batted my eyes at him as he delivered the menus, colored in trademark pistachio green with gold filigree. When he walked away, I sighed, looked around me, and smiled. This was the good life. Then I opened the menu and, with one glance at the double-digit numbers next to the entrees, my fantasies of being la comtesse Spencer abruptly departed, and I was just Rachel again. Sarah stared at me from across the table. I hated how she was always right about these things.

  “Well,” I whispered to Sarah. “Is it too late to just ask for tea and pastries?”

  She shot me a look that said “yes” without question. “Rachel, don’t even think about it,” she said. “That would be totally inappropriate.” Truthfully, if I’d been there alone, I wouldn’t have thought twice about it. But I’m always surprised at what embarrasses my sister. I swallowed the thought of reserving my cash, and reinvented the comtesse inside me. And what a fair. I never knew one could take a religieuse in any form besides pastry, but indeed I ordered one with tomates, fromage, and basil. I actually discovered that day that the religieuse, made of two squatty balls of dough, was inspired by fat nuns. If there were another country that used food to make a mockery of its own national religion, I hadn’t yet visited there. Sarah and the kids both took sandwiches of the most elegant style, one named after Les Champs-Élysées. We talked and laughed and had a ball in the elegant atmosphere. At the other tables, business lunch goers drifted in and out. Mothers and daughters of all ages sat lingering over their own royal gourmet.

  Though I am nothing but an ordinary person, little pleases me more than fine dining. If I could afford it, I would take at least one six-course, three-hour meal a week. Back in the day when my credit card said “Rachel S Spencer” but the bills went elsewhere (read: to my parents’ house), I was a little more frivolous. My best friend and I would dress up in our favorite black pants and curl our hair for hours before we sped off “downtown” in our dads’ cars to whatever Italian restaurant we desired. In those days, I used to regularly judge the quality of a restaurant by the way hot tea was served. If they brought me hot water in a cup with a Lipton tea bag on the saucer, they weren’t worth it. If they served hot water in a separate pot and offered me a selection of teas from a charming wooden box, they were clearly a quality establishment, worthy of my continuing patronage. Ladurée understood the importance of such details, hospitality, and astute service, and I was pleased at both the vast selection and presentation of the tea.

  On the menu, the teas were listed by flavor with a description of what spices blended to create each unique selection, as though the teas were little entrees themselves. Charmant. I ordered the Earl Grey. No one else wanted tea, but I have never had a problem drinking alone. Plus, I couldn’t bear the thought of ending our time at Ladurée without tea. I wanted to drink in every ounce from that place—every ounce of Paris. I felt a twinge of sadness knowing few days remained, which drew into an overwhelming sense of remorse the more I thought about it—that I had not lived and breathed every sight and sound of the city every waking moment I had been there. That I had ever complained—about anything, anywhere, anyone—shamed me.

  Unaware that Paris didn’t last forever for everyone, Léonie and Constantin squirmed in their seats and whined a little, ready to leave. To avoid teary eyes, I resumed the shallow but opulent role of Comtesse Spencer and shushed them with a patronizing, sugary sweet smile. Sarah shot me the same eye I’d seen when I’d asked if we should skip lunch and just order pastry.

  “You guys want to draw?” Sa
rah asked the kids. “Here, take your drawing pads and sketch.”

  I was appalled. She had no qualms with kids sitting in the center of Ladurée, drawing pads and pencils in hand, but I couldn’t ask the waiter a simple question. There was a difference in what she expected of me and what she expected of the kids, I supposed. This had never really occurred to me until now.

  Not to be outdone, I suggested dessert while I waited for my pot of tea.

  “Macarons!” Constantin yelled. “I can take the macarons!”

  “Of course you can, bébé,” I said. But the selection was not so simple. Dessert consumed at least five written pages of the menu and the selections ranged from macarons to glaces to pastries of every taste. There were about twenty-five different flavors of macarons at Ladurée. Our handsome waiter stood patiently while Constantin read every one.

  “Hmm. I do not know,” Constantin said.

  So the waiter was kind to suggest a sampling platter for our little sir. When four flavors were chosen, all four of the waiter’s suggestions, Constantin was beamingly proud to have completed the task. He was so satisfied that when the waiter reached to take Constantin’s menu, Constantin instead reached out and shook the waiter’s hand. This, I saw, had become a trademark of Constantin’s when in exchange with men of authority. The waiter laughed, but gracefully shook hands and smiled. When the rest of us had stopped laughing, we ordered such delights as une millefeuille framboise, un éclair café, and a Ladurée patisserie traditionelle: Saint Honoré, which I ordered. It was a prelude to the shops of Faubourg I planned to visit next on my list of things to do with Sarah. The waiter served me a silver pot of hot water, accompanied by a silver canister of sugar cubes, both brown and white. When the waiter poured my Earl Grey it was the perfect color and the perfect temperature. I had to request du lait, but I didn’t mark it against him. Milk with tea was, after all, British.