Adventures of 2 Girls

by Ning Cai

  “Stuff,” he said in his usual nonchalant manner. “I’m gonna draw the Eiffel Tower.”

  Ning and I took the boys to the Eiffel Tower that afternoon. They were severely jet-lagged and dozed off several times, but I could tell they really wanted to soak in the city as much as they could. Such excellent troopers!

  We visited the Eiffel Tower another two times, and those were the most memorable moments I had, just lazing on the grassy lawn with a picnic basket and watching them sketch the Parisian icon. As John was completing his drawing, a group of young French kids gathered around him.

  “Très bien!” they exclaimed, kneeling on the grass around him excitedly, proceeding to ask him many questions in French.

  “What are they saying, mum?” John glanced at me from the corner of his eye, looking visibly uncomfortable with all the attention.

  “They’re saying your drawing is beautiful,” I laughed, as I noticed that the circle around him were all little girls watching his every move adoringly. I snapped a picture. He’ll appreciate this some day!

  The little French boys had scampered over to Jeremy, who had dug out the Swiss Army knife Ning bought him in Montreal. He was showing off to the little preschoolers and entertaining them without speaking their language.

  “Be careful, Jera,” I called out to him.

  “I know, mum!” he grinned. He was the Big Brother in that group and I think he quite relished the idea of that.

  I explored Paris for the first time with the boys. We took a day trip to Montmartre, the artistic and sleazy part of town. It’s where famous artists like Pablo Picasso and Vincent Van Gogh stayed while they were still struggling artists. It’s also where the famed Moulin Rouge still stands at Pigalle, amidst the former red light district of Paris. Sleazy sex shops still line the streets, and I hoped the boys wouldn’t ask me too many questions!

  Yet the main icon of this colourful district of Montmartre is the pretty white Basilique du Sacré-Cœu, standing majestically atop a hill. We climbed to the top of the church dome together, with John and Jeremy scampering way ahead of me while I huffed and puffed my way up. The view from the top was stunning – a panoramic view of Paris.

  When Ning’s sister Ru and her best friend Ying Ying visited us in Paris, we took a day trip together to Mont Saint Michel in Normandy. It was a crazy day of juggling bus and train schedules, and even though we missed most of the midday Latin Mass in church, we had a blast on that cloudy, drizzling day in the most magical town ever.

  It was like stepping onto the set of Harry Potter or Lord of the Rings. Mont Saint Michel is a rocky tidal island surrounded by marshland and quicksand. Many a pilgrim lost their lives making that journey. Narrow cobblestoned streets are lined with quaint little shops on either side, spiralling up to a monastery and church right on top. And oh, the fluffy omelettes were to-die-for!

  The time I spent with my boys in Paris was magical. Pain au chocolat breakfasts every morning. Strolling through the morning market to buy fresh fruit. Endless rides on the metro to visit every icon of Paris. Candy floss at Parc Astérix which stuck sweetly to their cheeks. A full day at Cité des Sciences et de l’Industrie where they giggled at and fiddled with all the interactive installations. Cuddling under the covers in the hotel after a long day of adventuring together.

  These are what memories are made of. And memories are priceless. I had a wonderful summer in Paris with my boys, and I didn’t want it to end. I dreaded the day they would have to leave and head back to Singapore. But it was inevitable, and what an emotional farewell it was for me.

  But the trip made me realise one thing about my boys: they are excellent travellers. They never once complained about anything, even with inconveniences or differences in cultures or cuisines. They tried their best to fit in by doing what the Parisians did, eating what the Parisians ate, even picking up a handful of French phrases to order their own food, and to say hello, thank you and please.

  As a mum, I hope that they too will get the chance to see the world like me one day. And if they wish to, I’ll do whatever I can to make it happen for them.

  Pam soaking in the sights of Paris with her boys, John and Jeremy.

  11

  laundry blues

  Paris · July 2011

  PAM

  I don’t like to iron clothes. In fact, I’m really not much of a laundry person. But in the summer of 2011, when we lived in Paris for three months, I volunteered to do all the laundry. At the time, Ning was attending a basic patisserie course at the renowned French culinary school, Le Cordon Bleu, and since her course was from June to August, we decided to rent an apartment on Rue de la Convention, which was within walking distance of the school.

  Ning was often so exhausted after her baking classes that she’d collapse on the bed after dumping her plastic container of fresh bakes into my hands at the door. C’mon, how could anyone make the poor girl do laundry when she’s a curled-up, worn-out ball on the bed? And her chef’s uniform and apron were always stained with chocolate or batter or cream or butter or...

  So it happened that the BFF came back to the apartment after class on a Monday after our rainy weekend in Amsterdam (where we stayed in the notorious Red Light District, just for fun) and I put her stained white uniform and apron to wash in our already full washing machine. All our dirty Amsterdam travel clothes were already stuffed in there, including our newly bought T-shirts, jackets and shawls, so it was just a matter of throwing her white uniform into the colourful mix and switching the machine on.

  I don’t know what it is about French washing machines, but they are always built together with a dryer, and our clothes never come out dry! What’s more, it takes me almost five hours to complete a single wash-and-dry cycle. So we could never do our laundry in the evenings because in a small Parisian apartment like ours (where everything is within a tiny square space), we wouldn’t be able to sleep for the next five hours!

  On this fateful afternoon, I pulled out the tangled, damp laundry out of the washing machine and, lo and behold, everything was... blue.

  I stared shell-shocked at our blue laundry for a good five minutes, trying not to remember what was in there, because I didn’t want to face the reality that I might have “blue-ified” some important articles of clothing that would have my head on the chopping board.

  I slowly pulled out a blue Harvard jacket we bought from Boston (when Ning bought it, it was a light gray)... a brand new T-shirt she bought from Amsterdam which used to be green but was now some indescribable colour... and then my heart sank.

  A Le Cordon Blue chef’s uniform and apron, tangled in a tight spiral with the t-shirt. My life flashed before my eyes in that instant, as I glanced in despair at the sleeping BFF on the bed, who was completely oblivious to what had happened.

  My mind raced: I could perhaps bury the blue uniform in the garden downstairs before she woke up. But she is a magician. Magicians know things. And she can read minds too. Of course when she finds her uniform missing in the closet tomorrow, she would come after me because I’m the laundry person. What if she interrogates me or (worse still) attempts to read my mind? I’m a journalist. I spew truths uncontrollably. I am so dead.

  Of course, when the BFF woke up from her nap, she freaked out. I felt like a puppy that had toppled the breakfast cereal, and stood with my tail between my legs. As it turns out, the culprit was the damn Pashmina shawl I had bought in Amsterdam. And the shawl wasn’t even blue; it was black!

  Lesson learnt – never buy a Kashmiri shawl in Holland, especially if it costs ten euros...

  NING

  “Don’t be mad, okay? But...”

  Pam guiltily pulled out what used to be my Le Cordon Bleu uniform. I recognised the iconic emblem at the chest, but instead of the smart white I was accustomed to seeing every day in school, my uniform was now... a very different colour.

  It was blue.

  Stunned, I stared at my now berry (very) blue chef jacket and apron. My brain was still trying to r
egister it all but it chugged along like an ancient 486 computer using a dial-up modem to connect to the internet.

  I’d just had a very challenging day and with this unexpected surprise, I really didn’t know what to say. I was way too fatigued to even remember exactly how much my Le Cordon Bleu uniform set cost, but I knew it was about a hundred euros.

  Silently, I pulled out my crumpled kitchen cap from my pocket. As I tossed it on the bed, the white cap landed above my blue jacket in a stark contrast of colours.

  That’s when I burst into a fit of giggles.

  “Why are you laughing?” Pam asked, genuinely confused.

  “Oh my God. Do you hate me that much?” I chuckled, tears of laughter running down my cheeks as my shoulders shook.

  “What do you mean?” Pam wailed in bewilderment.

  I pointed to the white Le Cordon Bleu cap above my new berry blue uniform. “Don’t you see?”

  PAM

  To this day, I reckon I was saved by Facebook. As upset as she was, Ning whipped out her iPhone and began snapping pictures of her blue chef’s uniform and apron, together with her white chef’s hat. There was a curious mix of annoyance and amusement on her face.

  When I read her caption later, I loved her even more for seeing the humour in this situation. The caption read, “Thanks to the BFF, I now look like a Smurf!”

  12

  paris: i love you, i love you not

  Paris · June–August 2011

  NING

  A razor-thin slash of red slowly appeared. It thickened in seconds and a solitary drop suddenly made a deep suicidal dive off the tip, trickling down the length of my finger. For some reason, I didn’t feel pain but I knew that my eyes weren’t lying. Damn. New knives are indeed very, very sharp.

  “Ning!” a shrill voice called out as a hand suddenly grasped my wrist. Denise, my best mate at Le Cordon Bleu, had a look of worry on her pretty face. “Oh my God! You’re hurt! !”

  “I’m okay, it’s nothing. ! I grit my teeth, angry with myself for being so careless while horizontally halving my sponge cake. Time was running out and I still had so much more to do in the kitchen.

  I was the designated class assistant for the day, so it was my responsibility to make sure that all the ingredients needed for the entire class were in our kitchen, on top of whipping up my own creation that the chef would grade. Time management and organisation is key at Le Cordon Bleu.

  The ingredients storeroom is located on the first floor of the old Le Cordon Bleu building, while our designated kitchen for graded practical sessions is four levels up. It is a serious workout using the stairs, while lugging our heavy professional set of kitchen knives, scales and boxes, amongst other things. Especially when several trips need to be made on the days when you’re the designated class assistant and the building’s dumb waiter decides to be off for the day. Sigh.

  We were the last class of the day and I found out from the storekeepers that the entire school had run out of French pears for the traditional pear cake that we were supposed to make. Quite incredible, considering the exorbitantly high school fees everyone pays here.

  I asked if they had some stashed somewhere else, because how could we not have pears, the principle ingredient for the gateau we were supposed to be graded on today? I was met with a solemn shake of the head and with a heavy heart, I dashed up the flights of stairs to relay the bad news.

  “Chef, we have absolutely NO pears in the whole of Le Cordon Bleu! None! Nothing! Zero!” I blurted out when I finally made it up the stairs. My classmates were already swiftly rationing out the various ingredients I’d prepared earlier with Erika, the other student assistant. Time was ticking. Chef stared back at me, cocking his head to one side.

  The chef in charge of us for the day was new and even though he seemed a lot more patient than the strict chefs who usually graded us, this French man didn’t speak or understand a word of English and in my anxiety, my brain just couldn’t flip the SPEAK FRENCH NOW switch.

  “We have. No. Pears.” I attempted to mime out our sad condition while Chef stared back at my sweaty face, amidst the busy kitchen clatter around us. My American classmate Erika tried to help step in to translate. “Nous avons. Non. Poires!”

  I gave up miming after two minutes. How difficult was it to communicate that the school had completely run out of pears? He would just be even more confused by this Asian girl playing a hysterical game of charades with him.

  Downstairs. Storeroom. Yes! Principle ingredient for today. Ah! French pears. Jogging. No. Running. Out of the Le Cordon Bleu building? Er... mutant pears broke out of the basement and have left the building!?

  Chef and I went to the Head Chef’s office to explain the situation, where we received the green light to use apricots instead for the traditional pear cake we were tasked to make today.

  I wanted to point out the glaring fact that apricots soaked in a can of syrup are waaaay sweeter than fresh pears, so shouldn’t we tweak the sugar ratio listed in the original recipe? But even thinking about how to translate this in proper French for Chef made me disparaged enough to flick the thought aside.

  The delay had already cost me a good twenty minutes on the clock and everyone was pretty much done with their frantic whisking by now. Everything has to be done by hand, as per tradition. Only the chefs get to use the food processors or mixers.

  Since I started my stint at Le Cordon Bleu, my arms have actually become even more lean and toned... from all the hardcore masochistic whisking and serious whipping. When I first started, I developed a pain in my ribs from using the incorrect technique. The right way to whisk is using your wrists, not your arms, and switching sides when your dominant hand is tired.

  I had always been careful when working in the kitchen, but I now had a hand maimed by a profusely bleeding finger after carelessly nicking myself while halving my thick sponge cake. Merde.

  “” I implored Denise, who was still holding my red-stained finger while anxiously searching for the chef who had just stepped away for a break. “Look after my stewing apricots on the stove, while I quickly fix this?”

  “!” Denise nodded, gently pushing me towards the first-aid box where the Band-aids, antiseptic cream and burn medicines were kept. “Go!”

  Across the table, E-lin, my other close buddy (and future MOF, or Meilleurs Ouvrier de France, Best Craftman of France) gasped. Her eyes went wide before her expression quickly shifted to one of strong clarity and understanding. “Go, Ning, go. We’ll help you prep your cream and filling, don’t worry. Go!”

  “Thanks, I really appreciate it!” I was so touched by my friends’ gesture.

  While washing my finger at the sink, I winced at the sharp sting. Placing the wound under running water didn’t seem to help; more red coils snaked out from the angry slit on my finger. Pressing the gaping wound closed with my other hand, I somehow managed to wrap a regular Band-aid around the deep cut, but blood kept flowing out from under and around the small Band-aid. It was really gross, but I washed my hands and stained knife and went back to work.

  “” Denise asked, when I joined her back at the kitchen table. I was a few steps behind everyone else and the weary frustration must have shown on my usually jovial face. E-lin generously slid over her bowl of prepped ganache for me to use and I noticed that Denise had taken my saucepan off the heat, so my filling didn’t overcook and burn to a crisp.

  My finger was hurting and I could feel a deep pulsating pain. In fact, the Band-aid came loose and wouldn’t stick anymore, because the blood kept flowing. Chef came back into the tiny bustling kitchen space and clapped his hands together, hollering for us to speed up. “Aller! Aller! Aller!”

  “You okay, Ning?” E-lin asked, echoing Denise’s question.

  “Yes. I will be,” I gave my friends my bravest smile. The show must go on.

  * * *

  My apricot gateau turned out to be pretty decent and Chef surprised me with the high grades he decided to award me, despite all my kitche
n misadventures. I also got a big hug from my wonderful friends after that. If it wasn’t for them, I seriously doubt that I would have finished up on time. I wasn’t entirely happy with my cake decoration, but it was the best I could do given the circumstances.

  As we climbed down the long flights of stairs with our cakes in their Le Cordon Bleu boxes, I allowed myself a rueful grin. The class clown was the one-armed swordswoman today. I removed my chef cap, wet with perspiration, and stuffed it into my pocket. It’d been a stressful day but I had survived.

  “Hey, come over for dinner at my place next week? I’ll cook Chinese,” my Singaporean friend Cindy smiled as she shut her locker, just next to mine. “Denise and E-lin will be there. I’ve got lots of chilli padi, I’m sure you and Pam miss it after travelling for so long!”

  “That sounds absolutely fab,” I grinned as I tried to recall what spicy chilli padi tasted like, after having been on the road for months. “Thanks so much, Cin!”

  It was past 9pm when I finally left Le Cordon Bleu after wrestling for space with a bunch of other sweaty, tired students in the très petit ladies locker room. Walking home with the non-pear cake I’d made, I pulled off my loose band-aid and chucked it. The wound was starting to close up and the bleeding had stopped.

  It reminded me of the many instances when I got hurt during rehearsals involving new magic or illusions that my onstage partner JC and I were working on. Every artist must suffer for his art.

  After climbing up the three flights of stairs of the 1850s building, I thumped at the door of the small apartment that Pam and I had rented. I was just too weary to even try balancing the cake in one hand while fishing for keys somewhere inside my bag with the other. I heard the energetic thuds of the BFF bounding over before the main door flew open. Pam gleefully took the box from me as I stumbled into the ugly apartment and collapsed on the lumpy bed.