“Please. Call me Jacqueline.” She pronounced it zhockleen. She consulted a piece of paper in her hand. “Today we have Paige, Tess, Kailyn, Becca, Annette, and Chloe, oui?”
“Oui.”
“I see we have some French names in the group.” She smiled. “Perhaps you will have an advantage, oui?”
“I wish.” A puff of air escaped my lips. “The only thing French about me is my name.”
“Which is?”
“Oh, pardon!” I flushed. “Je suis Chloe Adams. And je suis terrible cook.”
“Bonjour, Chloe. I am sure your cooking ability is not so terrible as you think.”
“Oh, yes it is,” Becca said. “I live with her. But then, I’m a lousy cook too. We pretty much live on takeout and TV dinners at home.”
Paige dropped her head into her hands, and Jacqueline flinched almost imperceptibly. “And you are? Miss TV dinner?”
Becca stuck out her hand. “Bonjour. I’m Becca Daniels.”
Jacqueline shook Becca’s hand. A small smile played at the corners of her mouth. “Hopefully, by the time you return home, we will have supplanted at least a few of your TV dinners with some good French food.”
“That’s why we’re here.” Tess diverted attention from Bec-ca’s faux pas. “Bonjour, Jacqueline. Je suis Tess James. Je suis l’agent de voyages. Thank you for accepting us into your home. My client, Cara Hamilton, sends her compliments and says you’re a marvelous chef. We look forward to learning from you.”
“Ah. Mon amie Cara?” Jacqueline’s eyes lit up. She and Tess chatted in rapid French for a few minutes while the rest of us enjoyed the sound of their musical dialogue.
“Don’t you just love the French language?” Annette asked. “I wish I knew more than just hello, goodbye, and how to count to ten. Of course,” she sent us a devilish smirk, “there is that song ‘Lady Marmalade’ from the seventies they used to play in the discos all the time, but it’s a little naughty.”
“And I’d like to thank you for not repeating it here,” Kailyn said.
Tess and Jacqueline ended their conversation and the three remaining Paperback Girls introduced themselves to our teacher, who then handed each of us a snowy white apron and a copy of the recipe for the day in French, with English subtitles.
Jacqueline motioned us over to the kitchen.
And what a kitchen it was.
Big yet uncluttered and functional, with herbs hanging from a rafter and open metal shelving against the crisp white walls holding spices, oils, dry goods, and every size cooking pot imaginable.
I nudged Becca and pointed to a framed piece of calligraphy on the wall — in French, but with an English translation:
Animals feed; man eats; only a man of wit knows how to eat.
The Physiology of Taste, Jean Anthelme Brillat-Savarin
“I think that’s meant for philistines like me,” Becca whispered.
Jacqueline had us pair off at shared work stations around a large butcher block island that took center stage: Tess and Paige, Annette and Kailyn, and Becca and I. The island held four cooktops and plenty of space for food preparation, which would include lots of chopping, as we were soon to learn.
“Bon. Shall we begin?” Jacqueline asked. “In France, food is a sensual experience, something to be savored and enjoyed with family and friends. And French cooking is all about fresh, fraîche ingredients. We go to the market, le marchè every day to select our food for the day — bread, cheese, le fromage, meat, fish. It is très important to buy locally produced ingredients.”
She inclined her head to a bin of fresh vegetables in the center of the island. “Today, I have already been to le marchè so we could spend more time in the kitchen on the proper use of tools and utensils. The baby must crawl before he can walk, n’est-ce pas?” She smiled. “When we meet again on Wednesday, we go to le marchè first — be sure to wear comfortable shoes — and then I take you to Barthélémy, the most famous cheese shop in Paris, where you will learn the art of selection of le fromage. D’accord? ”
We nodded.
Jacqueline began removing the vegetables from the bin. “Today we will make le poulet with rosemary and onion.” She smacked her forehead with the palm of her hand. “J’oublie. I forget. Are there any vegetarians in the group?”
“No, she had to stay home for a triathlon,” Becca said.
“Ah, bien.” Jacqueline picked up a yellow onion. “First, we start by chopping l’oignon.” She held up a sharp chef ’s knife. “You hold the knife like so.”
Three hours later we pushed back from Jacqueline’s glass-topped dining room table.
“Merci, Jacqueline. That was très délicieuse,” I said.
“And not difficile, oui?”
“Oui.” Paige, Tess, and Annette chorused.
Becca held up her left index finger, which was sporting a small bandage. “Speak for yourselves.”
“Speed comes with experience,” Jacqueline said. “Faster is not always better — especially when you are first starting. Skill with the knife is très important in cooking. You must learn an economy of movement first, and then you will improve in the rate at which you can chop.”
“Got that?” Kailyn sent Becca a triumphant look. “Economy of movement.”
“Says the woman who spilled flour down the front of her apron.”
Jacqueline tinkled a laugh. “When I first began cooking, I spilled everything all the time — like Julia Child. It is to be expected.”
“That’s for sure,” Tess said. “In my newlywed days, my kitchen always looked like a disaster zone. My husband used to say he took his life in his hands every time he entered — never knowing what he might slip on.” She smiled.
“On the subject of husbands,” Annette sipped her coffee, “I can’t wait to make that yummy tarte tatin for mine when I get home. He likes desserts that aren’t as sweet.”
“Not me.” Paige smacked her lips. “The sweeter the better. That’s why I can’t wait to try out all the amazing pâtisseries and chocolate shops you have here.”
“Ah, if you like sweets, you must stop at Ladurée on the Champs-Elysées and have one of their famous macarons,” Jacqueline said.
“I don’t like coconut.”
Jacqueline looked puzzled. “Ah, you are thinking of the American macaroon, non? This is not the same at all.”
Tess nodded. “Completely different. Not like the sticky cookies filled with coconut we’re used to. These macarons are amazing.” She and Jacqueline exchanged looks of foodie ecstasy.
“So what are they, exactly?” Kailyn asked.
“Two crunchy cookies joined together with butter cream or ganache filling in the middle,” Tess explained. “They look almost like round mini-sandwiches, except they’re sweet. They come in a ton of different flavors, but my favorite is hazelnut praline.” She closed her eyes and expelled a sigh of pure bliss.
Jacqueline nodded. “C’est délicieuse. Although I prefer the chocolat amer, bittersweet chocolate.”
“Stop.” I held up my hand. “You’re making my mouth water, and we just finished eating.”
“Welcome to Paris,” Jacqueline said. She turned to Tess. “And so, what are your plans for this afternoon?”
“Well, we want to go to the Arc de Triomphe, but after that, we’re not quite sure.” Tess lifted her shoulders. “We all have very different interests. Some want to visit more art museums, others want to shop, and still others” — she inclined her head to Becca — “want to go to Père Lachaise Cemetery and see Chopin’s and Jim Morrison’s graves.”
“Ah, you are a music lover.” Jacqueline smiled at Becca. “I hope you will pay homage to our Little Sparrow too?”
Becca ducked her head. “Sorry. I don’t know who that is.”
“Me either,” Kailyn said. “Little Sparrow?”
“Edith Piaf,” I said. “France’s national treasure.”
“Is that another one of your old singers?” Becca scrunched her eyes at me.
>
I ignored her. “Edith Piaf started out as a poor street singer in the thirties when she was just a teenager,” I told Kai-lyn. “One of her most famous songs is ‘La Vie en Rose,’ which I happen to have on my iPod. They called her the Little Sparrow because she was so tiny — less than five feet tall. She’s considered France’s greatest popular singer.”
“Bravo!” Jacqueline raised her wine glass and clinked it with mine. “Are you sure you are not a Parisienne?”
When we arrived at the west end of the Champs-Elysées, facing the Arc de Triomphe, Becca suggested we sprint across the intersection to get to the famous monument.
Traffic was insane.
There are no traffic signals at the Arc, and no one stops. Just twelve streets of cars coming together in a circle and sailing back out onto — hopefully — their desired streets. I’d read in my guidebook that insurance companies no longer argue about who’s at fault when there’s an accident there. They just split it fifty-fifty. I expected to see a couple of crashed cars on the side of the road and to hear the angry drivers yelling at each other in French.
“Are you out of your ever-lovin’ mind?” Annette said. “I didn’t come to Paris to wind up as roadkill on the ChampsElysées.”
“Especially since we haven’t even had a chance yet to sample those amazing macarons,” Paige added.
Instead, Tess led us through a pedestrian tunnel which brought us right up to the Arc, the symbol of French freedom.
We gazed up at the massive stone edifice.
It must have been at least twelve stories tall. And deeper than I’d imagined. I’ve always thought of it as mostly two-dimensional — like a couple square column legs supporting the arched top piece. But there were four legs. And the carvings. So detailed. People and plants and trees and reliefs of battle scenes and angels.
Becca let out a low whistle. “Way to make a person feel small and insignificant.”
“And Napoleon never even got to see his brainchild completed,” Tess said.
“No, but the Arc still stands today as a legacy of his men and their victories.” Annette, our resident military expert, nodded to the voluminous list of names on the roof and interior walls. “Five hundred fifty-eight generals and one hundred twenty-eight victorious battles. Not bad.”
“And today the Arc is a symbol of all things victorious in Paris,” Kailyn read from a brochure. She looked up. “Hey, did you know this is where the Tour de France finish line is?”
“No, really?” Becca widened her eyes. “So that’s why they took all those pictures of Lance Armstrong here in his yellow jersey. I was wondering.”
Kailyn stuck her tongue out.
“So who’s game to climb all the way up to the top?” Tess asked.
“Isn’t it about ten flights of stairs?” Paige flipped through her guidebook trying to find the exact amount.
“I think it’s a little more than that,” Becca said. “I read somewhere it’s just over a hundred steps.”
Annette blanched. “Don’t they have an elevator?”
“Only for the disabled.”
“You don’t think middle-aged and overweight would qualify?”
“Somehow, I don’t think so,” Tess said. “But that’s okay. I went up top years ago. I’ll stay here with you while the youngsters scamper up all those steps. We can pay our respects at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier.”
Paige joined Tess and Annette. “I think I’d like to pay my respects too.” She nodded at us. “You guys go right on ahead.”
Kailyn and I glanced at the over-thirty contingent and then back to Becca, who was bouncing from one foot to the other. “Aw guys, come on,” Becca wheedled. “Don’t be wusses. Don’t you want to see the killer view? It’s supposed to be even better than from the Eiffel Tower. And” — she sent a knowing look to Kailyn — “there’s a gift shop up there too.”
“I thought you said it was only a hundred steps, Bec.” I stopped to catch my breath again on the circular staircase leading to the top of the Arc de Triomphe.
“Yeah, you did,” Kailyn said, stopping to rest two steps above me.
“No. What I said was it was over a hundred steps.” Becca continued up the stairs in her mountain goat way, leading the way to the top.
“How much over?” I craned my neck to look up the interminable spiral staircase that, like that old Energizer bunny, just seemed to keep going and going.
“I don’t know.”
Someone bumped into me from behind. “Oh, excusez-moi,” said a very American, very male voice.
“That’s okay.” I turned around to shoot my — kind of cute — fellow tourist an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be blocking the stairs. I just didn’t realize there were so many of them.”
“Tell me about it.” He grinned. “One site we googled said 232, another said 264.”
“Two hundred something? Are you kidding?”
“Hey, are you okay?” He peered at me. “Your face went all white.” He thrust a water bottle at me. “Here, have a drink.”
“No thanks. I’m fine.” I put one foot in front of the other and started climbing again. “I’m just going to have to kill a certain roommate of mine.”
More than 150 stairs later — I stopped counting at 251 — I finally made it to the top of the Arc, my calf muscles pounding like a sewing machine on speed, struggling to catch my breath.
Kailyn stumbled out onto the rooftop platform behind me, taking huge gulps of air, her long blonde hair plastered to her neck.
Becca raced over, not breathing hard at all. “Hey, you guys finally made it. Check out this view! It’s incredible. Even better than the Eiffel Tower.” She whipped out her camera. “Say stinky cheese!”
Kailyn glowered. “I just climbed over 280 steps. You say cheese.”
“Aw c’mon. We’re on top of the Arc de Triomphe looking out over the most beautiful city in the world. What could be better than that?”
“Throwing you over the edge?” I peered down at the melee of honking and speeding traffic on the roundabout below.
Kailyn joined me, looking down at the twelve avenues of cars, taxis, and buses radiating out from the Arc like spokes on a bicycle tire. “Those French drivers are crazy.”
Becca was right. It was a killer panoramic view of the city. And since the Arc wasn’t as high as the Eiffel Tower, I could actually identify the famous sights more easily as I walked around the rooftop — the Place de la Concorde, the obelisk, the Eiffel Tower, the Louvre.
Thankfully, going back down the steps was much easier.
Afterward, since Tess was salivating like Pavlov’s dog, we took Jacqueline’s suggestion and went to the famous Ladurée where we bought a couple boxes of mini-macarons to eat in a small park off the Champs-Elysées.
“Mmm. Can you say heaven?” Paige licked her fingers.
Annette scarfed down another macaron — this time, pistachio.
“My favorites are the chocolate ones.” I stood up from the bench to brush crumbs off my coat and noticed the time in the process. “Hey, it’s nearly three o’clock already. Shouldn’t we figure out what we’re doing the rest of the day?”
“I know what I’m doing.” Kailyn opened her small travel journal with her list of Paris must-sees. “Mom and I are going to check out the haute couture shops along the rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré and rue Montaigne. They have Dior, Yves SaintLaurent, Hermès, and more! Can you believe it? You guys are welcome to join us.”
“Please, oh please. Can I?” Becca asked. “Spending a thousand bucks on a shirt is something I’ve always dreamed of.”
“Actually, there you’d probably spend closer to ten thousand.”
“No way!” I gasped. “That’s insane. Who could afford such a thing?”
“Oprah. Madonna. The Grimaldis of Monaco.”
“Not in this girl’s lifetime,” Becca said.
“I can’t afford it either,” Kailyn admitted. “But it’s fun to look. And when will I ever
get the chance again?”
Tess and I decided to head to the Musée Rodin for some Sculpture 101. We asked Paige and Becca to join us, but they declined. Becca was museumed out after yesterday, she said. Secretly, I was relieved. I loved all the girls, but being with them 24/7 was a little much. And it would be nice to have Tess all to myself for a change.
Annette freshened her lipstick and fastened Becca with a gaze. “So what are you going to do then?”
“Whatever we feel like. Maybe we’ll go to the cemetery and pay our respects to Jim and company, maybe we’ll explore the catacombs, or walk along the Seine.”
“Or just sit in a charming sidewalk café with a good glass of wine and people watch,” Paige said. “That’s always fun.”
Less than an hour later Tess and I stood gazing at Rodin’s Le Penseur, The Thinker. He looked different somehow in this Paris garden with shrubbery all around him.
More at home.
Serene.
A natural part of the surroundings.
The nearby gold dome of Les Invalides, home of Napoleon’s Tomb, provided a striking background for the aged verdigris statue underneath an overcast sky. A trio of Japanese schoolgirls giggled as they clustered around the statue and struck the same philosophical pose in front of the world’s most famous thoughtful man. “Would you like me to take your picture?” I offered.
“Yes, please.” The shortest girl shyly handed me her camera.
After the giggling girls moved on, I held up my camera. “Okay, Tess. Your turn.”
“You know, if you position yourself just right,” she said, “you can line up three monuments in the same shot.”
I looked through my viewfinder at my chic aunt in her red wool coat that matched her glasses. “You mean The Thinker, Les Invalides, and you?” I teased.
“I’m not old enough to qualify for monument status yet, thank you very much. No, if you move just a little to your left, I think you’ll see what I’m talking about.”
The Thinker, the gold dome of Les Invalides, and . . . oh! There was my beautiful Eiffel Tower in the distance. “Wow! This is going to be an amazing picture. Take mine next, please.”
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