On Rue Tatin

by Susan Herrmann Loomis

  As much as I worried, I was excited, too, for this year Joe would learn to read (by Christmas, we were told). Joe would probably also learn to pray at school. We both figure he will make his choice about religions when he’s old enough to have thought about it. Until then it won’t hurt him to be exposed to Catholicism, particularly in the land of Joan of Arc and St. Theresa, the little flower, where the history of religion is practically a part of daily life. Every time we go to Rouen we pass the Vieux Marché where Joan of Arc was burned at the stake, and we’ve been to the cathedral in nearby Lisieux several times and seen the exhibit there about the life of the beautiful St. Theresa.

  We’d been told that Joe would have homework every day, a novel experience.

  In primary and middle school, students go to school Monday and Tuesday, have Wednesday off, then go back Thursday, Friday, and Saturday morning. This meant his school week would be four-and-a-half days long instead of the four-day week he had at the maternelle. The system was instituted long ago to give children a day during the week for religious education, and it holds true for Catholic as well as public schools. Today many teachers in the French school system would like to change it, for it leaves everyone with a very short weekend, but for the moment it holds. Michael and I have adjusted our work schedules to fit the school schedule, and we each work half a day on Wednesday so we can spend time with Joe, and take Saturday afternoon and Sunday off.

  As the date approached I found myself becoming increasingly nervous. I recognized the symptoms. As a child I changed schools every two years as we followed my father’s military career. All the first days at school were flashing before me. I was much more nervous than Joe, as though it were I, not he, who would be going to school. Michael rolled his eyes and thought I was overdoing it. He was right and I knew it, but some things you just can’t control.

  The night before the big day Joe polished his new leather shoes and set them out to wear. We laid out his clothes, checked his list of school supplies once again, folded and refolded the red and white cloth with the lobsters on it. He went to bed easily, excited about his first day at school.

  We were up early and at 8:45—a half hour later than the normal hour, the school administration’s concession for the first day—all three of us left the house, Joe with his satchel on his back. After about ten steps he asked his father to take it for him. “It’s really heavy, Papa,” he said in a little voice. I looked at him. I could tell he was nervous, his face set in a serious look. But he eagerly walked the ten minutes through town, down a long narrow street and up to the double metal doors that opened into the school playground.

  The school used to be a boarding school. I’ve met many adults my age who lived there during their early school years. Now there is a small handful of nuns who live there who have added a few homey touches like paintings and little doilies on the furniture in the entrance to the administrative offices, and a pretty little flower garden with a shrine to the Virgin Mary across from it, which the children aren’t allowed to enter. The playground is huge and divided into three sections—one for the preschoolers in maternelle, who start as early as age 21/2; one for the younger primary children, who included Joe; and one for the “big kids” ages nine and ten. I had noticed when visiting the school that there wasn’t a toy, a painted line, a basketball hoop in sight. “What do these kids do during recess?” I wondered.

  The playground was filling up with parents and their children who were starched and clean behind the ears. We didn’t know a soul and weren’t quite sure of the protocol. All we knew is that the children of Joe’s age had to arrive by 9 A.M., so here we were.

  The principal, a dour-looking woman, arrived and clapped her hands for attention. She took up a microphone and announced that she would call the name of the teacher then the name of each child in her class. I was excited about Joe’s teacher, Brigitte, whom I’d met briefly years before when she taught Edith’s children. A tiny woman with thick red hair and an angular face full of humor, she was the first teacher called.

  She looked expectantly at the crowd, a smile twitching at the corners of her mouth. “That’s your teacher,” I whispered down to Joe, who was clutching and unclutching my hand and stepping on one foot with another. He was so nervous.

  The principal started calling names and children walked up to Brigitte, offered their faces for a kiss, then got in line behind her. “Loomis, Joseph.” Joe put his satchel on his back and without a backward glance strode up to the teacher, offered his cheek like everyone else, and got in line. He didn’t look at us, nor give us a sign. We waited until all the children’s names had been called and Brigitte had walked them off toward their classroom before we left the schoolyard. We walked home, both filled with a mixture of excitement and apprehension for Joe in his new world.

  At 11:25 I was back at school to pick up Joe for lunch. The bell rang and he, along with several classmates, burst forth from the school. “Mama,” he yelled as he flew toward me. “I love it!”

  And that began his first year at Notre Dame. Every morning Joe and I left the house at 8:15, stepping outside into air redolent of the morning smells of France—butter, freshly baked bread, caramelized sugar. We would wander our way past bakeries, succulent-smelling charcuteries, and a handful of shops that include the parfumerie, the graineterie, a shoe store, then across the marketplace to school.

  We usually arrived about five minutes early and would walk into the playground and wait together until the bell rang. Then Joe would put on his satchel, and line up with the other children behind his teacher. I would wait with the other parents until Brigitte led the children into school, then go home.

  Standing in that playground in the early mornings made for good people-watching as parents arrived with their charges. I marveled at the well-dressed mothers who even if they wore jeans had high heels on their bare feet, perfect makeup and hair, and perfume trailing sweetly behind them. Many of the fathers wore the bourgeois uniform of olive green overcoat with yellow cashmere scarves, their shoes slightly scuffed in the way Frenchmen have of ignoring that one detail of their dress.

  There was another fashion category among the parents which surprised me. Particularly on Saturday mornings many would come in shiny sweat suits with brand-new Nikes (pronounced “n-eye-ks”) on their feet. I hadn’t expected the French to dress so casually, though admittedly their sweat suits were starched and ironed, the shoes unblemished.

  Children generally reflected their parents. Most of the girls wore dresses and sweet little empire-style overcoats, while the boys wore corduroy pants, button-down shirts, and wool sweaters or else the opposite extreme of sweatpants and sweatshirts. Joe was the trousers, shirt, and wool sweater type, though occasionally he asked to wear sweats, which we wouldn’t allow.

  Joe’s ardor cooled as he realized that school involved work and discipline, that the teacher had expectations, that the day was long, and that he had to sit still in his seat for most of it. To Brigitte’s credit she had the kids do stretching and breathing exercises each morning to help them settle in. And she had a sense of humor, so it wasn’t all hard work. But she was severe, too, with rigid ideas. One day during the second week Joe came home and handed me the lobster napkin I’d given him to wipe his slate. “It’s too fancy,” he said. “Brigitte says I need to bring a rag.”

  There were times when she yelled at the kids in a way that both Michael and I found astonishing. We had already noticed that French parents yell a great deal at their kids in general, so we weren’t entirely surprised that this carried over into school. We didn’t much like it and we spoke about it to the teacher. She took our comment well, though she was surprised at our observation, for she felt that in comparison with her colleagues she didn’t yell much at all. Another one of her disciplinary tactics was to tear a page out of a child’s workbook if the work wasn’t done correctly or tidily enough. We found this harsh, but Joe accepted it as normal. He was adjusting to French ways, and we had to follow.

/>   For the first half of the year we continued to pick up Joe each day for lunch at 11:30 and return him to school at 1:30. After eating we would trade off spending the lunch hour with him reading, playing a game, or otherwise occupying him. It took a big bite out of the workday, but we loved having him come home.

  It dawned on us, however, that he wasn’t really making friends. We realized the only time the kids had to get to know each other was during the long lunch break, so we decided that he should stay at school for lunch at least two days a week.

  We decided to institute that after all of the CP classes went on their yearly outing, which was to be a week at the beach. There, during what was called the classe de mer, they would spend the mornings in a classroom and the afternoons outdoors either visiting an oyster farm, digging for clams, or inspecting tide pools.

  The list of belongings necessary for that trip was almost as long as the list of school supplies, and it included stamped, self-addressed envelopes so the kids could write home. Parents weren’t allowed to visit, call, or write letters.

  We had expected to be delighted to have Joe off with his class for a week and had imagined rediscovering our life pre-Joe. Instead, we missed him so much that the house felt like an empty shell. Each morning one of us walked to school where the news of the classe de mer was posted on the front door in brief bulletins like “It’s sunny, the kids went wading, all is well.” That was enough to reassure us.

  Friday rolled around and with it the return of the children. I called to verify when the bus was to arrive and was told 6 P.M. We arrived at 5:45 and found it already there. Most of the children had gone home. There was Joe talking to a teenage boy, one of the monitors from the trip. We were mortified to be late, but Joe wasn’t upset in the least. Tanned and freckled, he threw himself in our arms then went back to kiss his teacher and say good-bye to the teenager. Brigitte came up to us, bubbling.

  “Impeccable, c’était impeccable pour lui,” she said. “It was perfect for him and he opened up, made friends, had fun. You’ll see. He’s changed.”

  Joe just smiled, proudly. As we walked home he told us what they’d done, talked about the oysters and the clams, the wading, and the sand. Then he talked about the boom, or dance. Apparently one night the teachers had installed a sound system in the dining room where they were all staying and after the kids were in their pajamas they turned up the music and everyone danced. We later saw a video and there was Joe right in amongst them doing his rendition of Saturday Night Fever.

  The difference in Joe was remarkable. Less shy and reserved now, he had made friends and was eager to go to school. We instituted the two lunchtimes a week at the cantine and he hardly objected. Indeed, by the end of the year he was staying every day, and it was unthinkable to him that he eat lunch at home. Of course we missed having him come home but it was a relief, too, for now we could work full days and be much more available to him when he came home at 4:30 in the afternoon.

  I had noticed that the weekly menu from the cantine was placed outside the front door of the school and I would read it and drool. Three courses were offered each day, including salads or the entrée or appetizer, meat or fish with two vegetables and a starch as the main course, and desserts, which were often flavored yogurts, but now and then might be something homemade like a poached pear in chocolate sauce or a cream-filled pastry.

  Joe would come home rapturous after a lunch of hachis Parmentier, a blend of ground beef and onions topped with mashed potatoes. He also loved cordon bleu, a chicken breast wrapped around ham and cheese that is breaded and fried. He never talked about vegetables, but if there was a good dessert we always heard about it.

  I decided I would investigate further and asked the principal if I could eat with the children one day. She agreed. We arranged a date and I showed up at the appointed hour of 11:45. I slipped in line behind Joe and we walked into the cantine. Joe and his friends got me my tray and set a glass on it, gallantly provided silverware, and led me straight past the entrée salads to desserts and fruit. There they spent a few minutes mulling over fruit yogurt or a chocolate and cream confection, with half of them choosing yogurt, the others going for the chocolate. The cheese selections sat next to the desserts and one of the boys gave me a wedge of Camembert and a square of Kiri, which resembles cream cheese.

  I asked Joe and his friends if they were going to take salads and they all looked at me cross-eyed. “Non,” they said in unison. I reached for a tempting sausage and potato salad then stood in front of the hot food while a cheery woman served slices of rosy roast beef with jus, a creamy potato gratin, steamed barley, and parsleyed carrots. It looked surprisingly good. No one in my group asked for the carrots, and several dolloped mustard on their plates to go with the roast beef.

  In the dining area the school’s principal and the head nun were busily cutting up beef for the smallest children, making sure water pitchers were filled, keeping the general peace. They graciously seated me and my party, which now included seven youngsters. We had forgotten napkins, so the principal rushed off to get some, returning with a handful that included two flowered ones, for me and for Joe. We were getting the royal treatment.

  The children discussed food the entire time they were eating, and I learned that this was not their favorite meal. Their eyes sparkled when they talked about the hamburgers and French fries, or hachis Parmentier, or cordon bleu, or fried fish. One boy piped up that he liked it when the chef prepared chinois, or Chinese food. Another said “beurk,” or yuck. They all agreed that they loved dessert whether it was fruit yogurt or homemade apple compote.

  It took exactly one half hour for the group to finish the meal, which included time for a demonstration of one boy swallowing a Kiri whole, and another mashing his banana in his water glass and eating it with a spoon.

  At the last bite they were all up like shots, rushing to empty their trays and stack their dishes, so they could go out and play. “See you later, Mama,” Joe said, waving as he ran outside with his friends.

  As school lunches go it was pretty good. I might have urged more vegetables on the kids, but then what mother wouldn’t? What I’d enjoyed most was the detailed conversation about food. But when push came to shove what really interested these kids was la récré, or recess. Food was simply a hurdle to get over before getting outside!

  By the end of his first year, Joe was completely integrated into school. The education he was receiving was strict and formal and steeped in basics, and he was flourishing. By mid-year he was reading well and writing in an elegant longhand. He memorized a poem every two weeks, and did lots of coloring (and was reprimanded if he ever went outside the lines). He was learning about Vikings and Gauls and Celts, and was making forays into science and biology. He was even learning a bit about art as we discovered well after the fact. We had taken Joe to an art opening of a painter friend of ours, and after going through the whole exhibit Joe couldn’t contain himself.

  “I hate this art,” he said. “My favorite painter is Monet.”

  Not long after that we went to Monet’s house and garden in nearby Giverny and Joe was overcome with excitement as he discovered the pont japonais (Japanese bridge) and the water lilies in real life, and pointed out many things that he’d learned in class.

  His class switched from swimming to ice skating when the weather turned cold, and they went on several outings toward the end of the year and spent a lot of time practicing a dance program to perform in front of the parents at the end of the year for the kermesse, or annual fair.

  We sometimes shake our heads at what we perceive as the lack of creativity and imagination used in teaching children in the French school system, the general lack of art and music, the dourness of the administration. To its credit, however, Notre Dame has a less rigorous classification system than many schools. The children aren’t given grades, so, while they all know who is best and worst among them, they aren’t assigned a ranking in the class.

  Since Joe’s second year I�
��ve taught English to his class, so I get a close look at what happens in the classroom. We’ve mostly appreciated the individual teachers, though the yelling continues in varying degrees, which we don’t like. However, time is set aside for the children to have fun, and each child’s birthday is celebrated in class, so that on any given day they all burst from the classrooms with their mouths full of candy. We like the insistence on the fundamentals such as intense reading, penmanship, mathematics, biology, geometry, and ethics. The homework has not yet become onerous, and while Joe is not overjoyed with school—how many children are?—he does well.

  I received a letter from a friend in the United States whose son is the same age as Joe. She described the Montessori school he attends. “The theme this year will be Stonehenge to Star Wars: A Celestial Odyssey. They’ll learn how different cultures regarded celestial bodies, with a focus on the Anasazi Indians.”

  I sighed as I looked at Joe’s list of homework: mathematics, spelling, poetry, writing, and reading. It would be terrific for Joe to participate in a program like that, but it looks as though it will be up to us to teach him about celestial bodies and the Anasazi. At the very least, and aside from his fluency in two languages, he’ll know how to recite poetry in French and understand the position of a cheese course in a meal.

  AUDREY’S YOGURT CAKE

  GTEAU AU YAOURT D’AUDREY

  This is a cake that every French schoolgirl once learned to make, and many still do, though they now learn it at home rather than at school. Over the years I’ve collected dozens of recipes for this cake and never found one that was particularly good. Recently I was at Notre Dame, Joe’s school, preparing to teach my weekly English lesson. The teacher came over to me and whispered that there was going to be a party for one of the girls who was leaving, and would I please stay to enjoy it after the lesson. At the stroke of 9:30 the girl’s slightly harried mother arrived with a basket containing three cakes. I helped the teacher cut and distribute slices of cake while the mother poured glasses of Coca and Orangina.