We left the house that day as usual at 4 P.M., to pick up Joe from school, and Monsieur Taverne was slouching his way through the yard with an empty wagon. My blood started to boil, but I told myself to forget it, we’d figure out something.
When we returned the following morning to our surprise every plant, leaf, tree, and wagon was off the property. I was impressed. Monsieur Taverne had resisted, but when pushed had erased the habit of thirty years in a mere twenty-four hours. Of course the temperature had dropped a few more degrees when I walked past the shop later that week, but though we didn’t like the situation there was no alternative. I would have liked to have walked up to the florists, shaken their hands, and thanked them, but in truth I would have died rather than attempt it. Besides, it would have been useless. Time would, I hoped, ease the situation.
About two weeks later we had friends—Parisian restaurateurs who had just moved to a new country house near us—over for Thanksgiving dinner. They firmly believe in contributing to the communities they live in, and during the meal they regaled us with stories about their community projects in Paris and in the country. I mentioned the elderly ladies and unembarrassable men, and our situation with the florists.
Claude, one of our guests, put a finger to his mouth and looked at us thoughtfully. “You must understand, it’s normal,” he said. “You’ve arrived here like a cheveu dans la soupe, a hair in the soup. No one asked you to come. And, you’re American.”
He reflected.
“Forget about the ladies and the men. They are no problem. Here is what you do about the florists,” he said. “Tomorrow you take them some of these incredible petits pains that you’ve made and explain about Thanksgiving and tell them this is a family recipe. That will open the door for you.”
I was skeptical. “You think they care?” I asked.
“Of course they do,” he replied. “They have no idea what you are like, and they only imagine the worst. The food will help.”
I wasted no time. The very next day I bundled up a dozen of my grandmother’s legendary Thanksgiving rolls, which I had had in the freezer and baked fresh that morning. I grabbed Joe by the hand—for courage—and we walked together across the street. My heart was in my throat. I climbed the steps up into the florist shop and practically ran into the two stern-faced, gray-haired sisters, the owners. Squeezing Joe’s hand, I gave them the rolls, told them about Thanksgiving and how I always made them, then offered a suggestion on how best to heat and serve them. I’m sure I spoke in a rush because I was so nervous. Joe, who didn’t really know why we were there, was looking around curiously, his little round face beaming. He has what the French call a bonne bouille, or darling face, and I hoped it was softening up the florists. We didn’t linger, however. Once my speech was done and the rolls accepted, we were gone.
When we got outside the shop Joe looked up at me and asked, “Mama, why were you squeezing my hand so tight?” Poor child. I had probably cut off the blood circulation I was so nervous.
I didn’t expect miracles and there were none but the temperature rose slightly, and my bonjours were returned by both the women and Monsieur Taverne, who was the husband of one of them. I couldn’t tell which, because I couldn’t really tell the two women apart and at this point it didn’t matter. The important thing was that we had gained some ground. I called Claude to report on the progress, and he cheered me along.
A couple of weeks later Michael began decorating the house for Christmas. He hung cedar boughs over every door and window then wove tiny white lights through them. He lit up our gnarled apple tree and hung multicolored lights in the three tiny paned windows in Joe’s room. I made and hung a giant wreath on our gate, festooning it with gold beads and a big red bow and we put candles at all the windows. Since our house is right in the center of town across from the church we felt a certain obligation to decorate sumptuously.
Once the outside of the house was done we put up a tree (which we didn’t buy at the florist, because we were too cowardly) and decorated it and the rest of the interior by hanging decorations and boughs from the raw beams, on the ragged brick fireplace, and the not-yet-plastered walls. Our windows have tiny panes in them and most are curtainless, so the golden glow within was easily observed from without, and the house looked like a fairy-tale dwelling, standing out starkly from the shops and apartments around it, which were more modestly decorated. We knew it was appreciated because we saw cars slow down and necks crane, and more than one person came with a camera and stood out front clicking away.
I have always baked a variety of cookies for Christmas and being in France didn’t change that, even with the wealth of bakeries at our fingertips. I’m a firm believer in tradition—ours and others’—and I didn’t see how it would be Christmas without Christmas cookies. Joe and I took an afternoon to mix, roll, and decorate. Then we filled several gaily decorated cellophane bags and delivered them to the florists, the café owners, the crew at the Chez Clet, Brigitte, the owner of Laure Boutique next to the florist, and the family who ran the real estate agency across the street, along with an explanation of their place in our Christmas tradition. I was taking Claude’s suggestion seriously.
Two days before Christmas while I was baking, Michael was working, and Joe was playing in the chilly entryway. Suddenly Joe ran to get me. “Mama, there’s someone at the door, those two ladies,” he said with his lisp. I went to the door, wiping my hands on my apron. Michael, in his studio, had heard Joe and he emerged as well. It was dark already, and I switched on the outdoor light and opened the door. There, framed by the light in our doorway, were the twin sisters, a huge bouquet in their hands. They didn’t say anything and just stood there. I was stunned and unsure of what to do, so we had a standoff for a moment, then they handed me the bouquet. I had tears in my eyes and they did, too. Michael, standing back just a bit, was equally moved. We didn’t say anything. Finally, I said “Merci” and they said simply “Bon Noël.” They handed Joe a little gift, shook our hands, and were gone. We stayed in the doorway looking after them.
I looked at Michael, who looked back at me. “The rolls and the cookies. They worked,” he said, smiling. We all felt as if a miracle had occurred, a cultural breakthrough that would improve the quality of our daily lives. Our first Christmas on rue Tatin couldn’t have offered us more.
That Christmas was a watershed, and none of us have ever looked back. Over the subsequent years we’ve developed a close relationship with the florists and found them to be warm and loving neighbors. Year-round they bring us bouquets of flowers that they can’t sell but that still have many days of life in them. I take them cookies, or cakes, or whatever it is I’m baking when it’s something really special. Their grandchildren come over occasionally to play with Joe and I’m even nice to Jonquil, their German shepherd, though in my heart of hearts I’m sure she’s going to attack me one day.
Ironically, last Christmas found us urging them to store their Christmas trees in our backyard, as their usual storage area was damaged. It’s easier now, of course, since we all know and appreciate each other, but still I had a quiet laugh about it.
MONSIEUR TAVERNE’S EVERYDAY FISH WITH TOMATOES
LE POISSON DE TOUS LES JOURS
Monsieur Taverne, the florist who lives across the street from us, has described this as one of his favorite dishes during the summer tomato season. This dish is so fast and easy you’ll be surprised what an elegant presentation it makes. I suggest cod or halibut because in Normandy they are the obvious choice, due to their abundance. You can use any white fish. Just make sure it is the freshest possible. Of course, you need a really ripe tomato with some acidity and character. As for herbs, use the recipe as a model and choose the herbs you prefer. Capers are also a welcome addition here, tossed over the tomatoes just as you remove the dish from the oven. Serve a delicate, lightly chilled Sauvignon Blanc with this dish.
NOTE: The cooking time will depend on the thickness of the fillet.
11/4 to 11/2
pounds/625 to 750g cod, lingcod, halibut, or other firm white fish fillets, trimmed, bones removed
1 tablespoon/15g unsalted butter
11/4 pounds/625g tomatoes, cored and cut in 6 wedges each
2 tablespoons/30ml freshly squeezed lemon juice
Fine sea salt and freshly ground black pepper
1/4 cup/5g loosely packed fresh tarragon leaves or another herb of your choice such as basil, dill, chives, or parsley
1. Rinse the fillets, pat them dry, and refrigerate until ready to cook. Preheat the oven to 400° F/200° C/gas 6.
2. Butter a large baking dish. Lay the fish in the dish (skin-side down if there is skin on the fillets), and arrange the tomato wedges around the fish. Drizzle the fish and the tomatoes with the lemon juice, then season all with salt and pepper. Sprinkle half the tarragon leaves over the fish and bake in the oven until the fish is opaque and the tomatoes are tender, about 15 minutes.
3. Remove the dish from the oven, scatter the remaining tarragon leaves over the fish, and season with a fine sprinkling of pepper. Serve immediately.
4 SERVINGS
THE ROLLS THAT BROUGHT US TOGETHER
LES PAINS DE RAPPROCHEMENT
These are rolls that break down cultural barriers. Make them and you’ll taste why! This recipe was first published in Farmhouse Cookbook, Workman Publishing Inc., 1991.
These must be served hot from the oven!
1 cup/250ml milk
8 tablespoons/125g unsalted butter, at room temperature
1 package/1/4 ounce/7g active dry yeast
1/2 cup/100g sugar
41/2 cups/650g all-purpose flour
2 large eggs
1 teaspoon fine sea salt
1. Scald the milk over medium-high heat. Pour it into a large bowl or the bowl of an electric mixer and add the butter. Stir until the butter has melted. Set the bowl aside until the mixture is lukewarm.
2. Stir the yeast and sugar into the milk. Add 1 cup/145g of the flour and mix well. Add the eggs, one at a time, beating well after each addition. Add the salt and 1 more cup/145g of flour, and mix vigorously until the dough is elastic and smooth, at least 6 minutes by hand or 3 minutes on medium speed with an electric mixer.
3. If you are mixing by hand, add the remaining 21/2 cups/ 360g flour and mix until the dough is slightly firmer but still very soft and smooth. Turn it out onto a lightly floured surface and knead just until it is smooth, which will take 2 to 3 minutes. If you are using an electric mixer, add the 21/2 cups/360g flour and mix just until it is incorporated. Then turn the dough out onto a lightly floured surface, and continue kneading by hand until it is smooth.
4. Place the dough in a bowl, cover it with a kitchen towel, and set aside to rise in a warm spot (68 to 70° F) until it has doubled in size, about 2 hours.
5. Lightly flour 2 baking sheets.
6. Turn the dough out onto a well-floured surface, divide it in half, and roll each half to form a circle that is 1/8 inch/.3cm thick and 16 inches/40cm in diameter. Cut each circle into quarters, and cut each quarter into 4 wedges. Roll the edges up, beginning at the wide end, to form crescents.
7. Place the rolls on the prepared baking sheets, leaving 2 inches/5cm between them and arranging them with the tips rolled underneath, so they won’t pop up during rising and baking. Cover the rolls with a kitchen towel and let them rise in a warm spot (68 to 70° F) until they have nearly doubled in size, at least 4 hours.
8. Preheat the oven to 350° F/175° C/gas 4/5.
9. Bake the rolls in the center of the oven until they are golden, 10 to 12 minutes. Remove, and serve immediately.
32 ROLLS
NINE
The Priest
A FEW DAYS AFTER we’d moved into 1 rue Tatin I heard a knock on the front door. There on our stoop was a timid young couple who asked me when the pre-marriage classes began. I looked blank, and the young woman asked me if this was the aumônerie, or parish house. I said no and pointed to where the aumônerie was, right behind our house, and thought nothing more about it. The following day two couples stopped by, and by week’s end I’d had at least five different young couples knock on the door and ask the same question. Over the ensuing weeks many people knocked at the door or simply barged right in the house looking for the priest, inquiring after a baptism or communion, wondering about other church business.
As the weather warmed, we ate outside often and nine times out of ten people walked through our garden while we were in the midst of a meal. Either it was the priest or one of his assistants or the young couple who volunteered at the church in exchange for lodging in the aumônerie behind us. Being well brought up these intruders always said “Bonjour!” and shook our hands whether we were eating fried chicken, had our mouths full, or had guests.
It became obvious that much of the parish assumed our house was the parish hall, and that our garden was public property. This was the result of a decades-old mix-up in addresses that had the parish hall listed at 1 rue Tatin, our legal address. At first when people made the mistake and came to our house we directed them kindly and eagerly to the proper address. Even when people walked right in the house we would stop them and explain, then show them the way. After a few months and many disturbances, however, it became tedious.
We tried locking the door but that wasn’t practical for Michael, who was constantly in and out with buckets of this and barrels of that. I put a handwritten sign on the door explaining where the aumônerie was, but that didn’t seem to deter anyone.
One evening I was upstairs in Joe’s room reading him a story when I heard a heavy foot on the stairs and a strident “Allô! Allô!” I walked out of his room, through our room, and into the bathroom. There stood an imperious elderly woman with a cane. “Je suis ici pour le curé!” she said. “I’m here for the priest.” I felt the weight of a last straw.
I don’t think I even responded but took her by the elbow, steered her back downstairs, and then had the presence of mind to explain that the curé didn’t live in our house, that it was a private family home, and would she please tell all of her friends. I admit to being annoyed, yet I couldn’t blame these individuals.
Once we realized that all these intrusions were a simple matter of a mistaken address I mentioned it to the priest and to his lay helper, asking them to change it. Both brushed me off with a “Oui, oui.” Nothing changed. I called the city planning office and the gentleman I spoke with was aghast. “Madame, this is not your job to ask them to change their address. It is our job. We will write them a letter and all will be well,” he gushed.
Nothing changed. After about six months I called the city planning office and they affirmed they had sent the letter. I explained that nothing seemed to have changed and they promised to send another one. I’m sure they did, but there was no sign that any heed was taken.
We had known when we bought the house that the deed specified an easement for the priest, so that he could have easy access to his house (though it also has an entrance on another street). Over the years the easement had been unofficially extended to all the parishioners, who thought nothing of walking through the garden of a basically derelict house to get to the parish hall. The woman we bought the house from had told us few people walked through the yard. Either she had lied or she had simply never spent enough time at the house to really know how much traffic there actually was.
We had tried all the legal means to make people change their ways. We’d told everyone who walked through our garden that there was another entrance and that this was a private home. I had put signs on our front gate and our front door explaining that this wasn’t the parish hall and directing people around the corner. In Paris I bought a lovely enameled sign that read privé and put that on the door. The French are very respectful of privacy, and I was assured that privé would do the trick. But our door continued to open and parishioners continued to wander into our living room.
The true final straw came on a warm Sunday morning. I set our table out
side for breakfast, and when Michael returned from the boulangerie we all sat down to freshly squeezed orange juice, coffee, croissants, and brioches. The church bells rang out the mass, the sun was warm but not too hot, and we were basking in our good fortune. Joe had gone inside to play and we were outside reading the paper when suddenly I heard him yell “Mama! Mama! What are all those ghosts doing in our yard?” I looked up from the paper to see a line of white-robed children, large wooden crosses hanging around their necks, standing in our garden. They were about to make their first communion and were flushed with devotion, eager and pure. Beyond them a clutch of parents was trampling my herbs and lettuces as they angled to get photos. We were flabbergasted yet charmed at the same time and we sat as if nailed to our chairs.
We weren’t about to make a scene for these people on such an important day, so we sipped our coffee and observed the spectacle. These poor kids, I thought, dressed up like friars and sober brides. I was getting a look at my own religion from a new perspective. Joe was hanging on to me, frightened and fascinated. I reassured him that they weren’t ghosts, but I’m not sure he believed me.
I spoke to the priest’s assistant the following day to ask him to please let us know when there would be another event like communion, so we would be prepared. He looked at me blankly. “We are just doing things the way they have always been done.”
We felt that the priest and his entourage had no empathy with what had become to us an unbearable invasion of privacy, and would do nothing to change it. We decided we had to act, and that the best solution would be to offer to build an entryway, at our cost, on church property. That way all the parishioners would have direct access from the parish hall and the priests’ house to the church without cutting through our garden. It seemed to us to be a perfect solution.
On Rue Tatin Page 15