by Ning Cai
I heard her pop off the plastic lid of the box. There was a moment of silence before the pear-lover whined. “Apricots?”
“Oui, ma cherè. You won’t believe it but Le Cordon Bleu actually ran out of pears,” I gave her a wry grin. “And that was just the tip of the iceberg...”
* * *
My graduation ceremony from Le Cordon Bleu was a happy one. Quite a few students flunked out of the course, so I was proud (and relieved) that I passed. Not a bad feat for a city girl who only knew how to make cookies and marshmallows!
Le Cordon Bleu is extremely strict: students get expelled if they are late or absent for three classes. If you don’t make it for the chef demonstration, you’re not allowed in the kitchen for the graded practicals... so that’s two absences and a zero for that particular class.
I was quite the class clown (history has a way of repeating itself) and loved by everybody, especially since they didn’t see me as serious competition. I was simply there to learn and enjoy the process, while everyone else seemed to be super competitive because they wanted to be a celebrity chef or MOF.
The BFF attended my graduation ceremony and even lent me her little black dress for the event when I realised that I had absolutely nothing to wear. People cheered when my name was called and I had to go up on stage to get my Patissier certificate. I was thankful for the moment, and of being able to be a student again. It seemed like a crazy idea to enroll in the world’s most famous culinary school when I’m a magician and not a professional baker, but I always believe in learning from the best.
But seriously... fire-eating and even a double straitjacket escape is way easier for me, compared to whipping up a St Honore or Gateau Basque cake!
My heart swelled with pride too, when Denise, E-lin and Erika were named the top students of our cohort. My Taiwanese friend hadn’t even realised that her name was called, until I turned to her. “Denise! It’s you!”
While my three-month Pâtisserie de Base stint at Le Cordon Bleu Paris had come to an end, these girls would go ahead to complete their 9-month-long diploma programme. Although I was happy celebrating at our graduation, I felt a strange mix of sadness when I looked around me. We came from different corners of the world... America, Brazil, France, Germany, Russia, China, Japan, Korea, Singapore, Taiwan, Malaysia, Australia, Canada, India, the Middle East... when would we get the chance to meet again?
* * *
Our last day in Paris was bittersweet.
Bitter like Tradional Chinese Medicine, because our evil landlady and her daughter made our lives a complete hell. But organic honey sweet, because friendship saved the day.
Pam and I had rented our tiny Rue de la Convention studio apartment through the PariStay website because the place cost less than a thousand euros, which fit our budget, and was within walking distance from Le Cordon Bleu. However, alarm bells soon rang after our first encounter with our Parisian landlady.
My French friend Louis had helped to facilitate things somewhat, and even he was scared of her. There was something about the way Christine smiled that unnerved me. Her sharp pointy teeth looked like it could gnash small little children to pieces. And like her smile, her eyes had absolutely no warmth.
The blonde French woman shared that the room lamp was brand new, recently purchased by the last tenant after it was spoilt. And she insisted that we place sheets over her chairs, because the previous tenant had to pay over a thousand euros to replace the expensive upholstery on both armchairs after dirtying it.
So when the landlady and her daughter entered the tiny apartment for the handover on our last day, I wasn’t surprised when they brought with them a looming sense of doom. For some strange reason, I actually thought I saw two twisted, evil-looking Gollums from JRR Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings, complete with bad blonde wigs, standing there when I opened the door.
Moving inside the bare bones apartment like ghastly Death Eaters from the world of Harry Potter, the two women swiftly started finding fault with just about every single thing: the shower curtain was not washed so they needed to deduct money from our two thousand euro deposit to buy a new one. The bedsheets were not ironed after washing so they pulled all our clean folded sheets down from the cupboard onto the hardwood floor and said they had to send it to the dry cleaners. And the windows and curtains weren’t cleaned so they had to get a professional cleaner to do it...
“You never mentioned that we had to iron the bedsheets after washing them,” I tried to reason. “And it’s summer. We never used the fleece blanket, why are you also bringing that to the dry cleaners?”
Marie-Aurore, Christine’s daughter, sniffed. “It’s not our problem if you didn’t read the contract, which you signed.”
“But it’s in French!” Pam glared at the midget, who stared back at her petulantly.
“It’s not my problem if you don’t know French,” Christine sided with her daughter. “You’re in Paris and this is how things are done. This is not your country.”
“The linen didn’t come ironed when we came here!” Pam pointed at the clean sheets the women had chucked on the floor and were walking all over with their shoes on. “You’re just trying to take advantage of us!”
“You should be ashamed of yourself!” Christine hissed back. Marie-Aurore crossed her arms and stood closer to her mother. Pam and I were completely at their mercy.
Pulling a seething BFF aside, I told Pam to calm down because as angry and disgusted as I was, I also knew that there was absolutely nothing we could do about the situation. This was a money-making venture for the unpleasant pair and I was sure they had done this to every other unlucky tenant they have had.
“They’re ripping us off!” Pam grit her teeth as we stood by the window, which for the past three months, always gave us a sad view into the balcony of an unattractive and always barely-dressed cigarette-smoking man.
“Yes they are,” I slowly nodded in agreement, as we mournfully watched the two move swiftly like evil spirits, with their markers and checklists in hand, around the tiny studio apartment we’d never called home. My mobile phone buzzed and the flash of Denise’s text message on the screen made me crack a tiny smile. I texted her about the shitty situation we were in.
“What time is our flight again?” I asked the BFF, who had made the arrangements for the next leg of our trip. Pam had requested for the landladies to come by the apartment in the early morning so we had enough time to make it to the airport, since we were going by train. Shuffling through the documents, Pam realised she had miscalculated the time. We now had a lot more time than expected, which meant we could have a decent farewell lunch with Denise.
As we closed the door behind us, after signing the documents that basically stated that we’d get back our balance deposit after our landladies had deducted whatever they wanted, I was really glad to finally leave the walk-up apartment. It wasn’t haunted or anything, but there had always been a joy-zapping negativity about that place, and I wonder if the bad energy was simply a reflection of its unpleasant owners.
“I wonder if previous tenants ever thought of trapping them inside and setting the place on fire,” I chuckled as I made my way down the stairs after the BFF, who was clutching her ukulele in front of her.
“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Pam growled. “They’re absolute witches.”
Denise met us downstairs and giggled in amusement when I flipped a birdie behind me. I was upset at the racist apartment superintendent who had made things even more difficult between the landladies and us, by reporting to Christine that Pam had her kids stay with us during their June holiday vacation.
This was untrue because the twins had stayed in a hotel nearby, although they had dropped by a couple of times to eat the pastries I’d made and kept in the fridge for them. Pam’s a really good mother – she Skyped the boys every day and she was over the moon when they could finally spend quality time together. So for the time they were in Paris, the BFF stayed with them in the hotel and I had the apartm
ent all to myself.
Denise had lunch with us at my favourite Chinese restaurant, Allée de la Reine, before we took the train to the airport. It was a bit of an emotional farewell, but I know my Taiwanese friend and I will meet again. I’m just really glad to have picked up new skills, made good friends and be blessed with the life experiences I’ve had in France.
It’s been a magical experience so far, and I only hope what Pam and I are doing inspires others to realise they can do the same: Travel the world, live life without just going through the motions, and essentially check things off your bucket list.
“Twenty years from now, you will be more
disappointed by the things that you didn’t do than by
the ones you did do. So throw off the bowlines.
Sail away from the safe harbor.
Catch the trade winds with your sails.
Explore. Dream. Discover.”
– Mark Twain
Ning in her Le Cordon Bleu uniform in our Paris apartment.
13
ménage à trois is not a brand of wine
Santorini · August 2011
NING
“You like women?” the beautiful stranger asked without preamble, an intense blue steel in her feral gaze.
It was an interesting mix of casual nonchalance, with a mocking hint of a bold challenge thrown at me, in her low, sultry voice. Blondie’s thick French accent was as obvious as the fact that she wasn’t wearing a bra under her thin, translucent white tank top.
Without waiting for a response, her bespectacled boyfriend pointed out where they lived with an easy grin on his thin, unshaven face. His French accent was not as pronounced, its neutrality probably stemming from constant travel. “We stay just 300 metres away. Come to our house. We can have fun.”
In all honesty, I had never expected my first invitation to partake in a ménage a trois to happen in Santorini, especially from strangers while I was just innocently taking in the view of the sea.
The pair were an open-minded French couple working as alleged massage therapists, so maybe I kind of expected the straightforward proposition. After all, it was the romantic French people who created one of the sexiest words in the world... ménage à trois. A silky word that rolls nicely off your tongue when whispered, meaning a sexual union of three different people; two men and a woman, two women and a man... whatever works really.
Santorini is truly one of the most beautiful places in the world. Rumoured to possibly be the lost Atlantis recorded in ancient myth and legends, the Greek island has the most incredible sunsets ever. That is why so many people hold their weddings there; the scenery is simply stunning.
Orange and purple evening skies after sunset, bright silver stars that dance above your heads... I found Santorini far more romantic than Paris, despite having lived in the French capital for three months. It felt so right reading Polish poet Wislawa Szymborska’s poignant Love at First Sight, keeping in view the iconic blues and whites that make Santorini so very special.
Pam and I had used our pool of money to rent an All-Terrain Vehicle (ATV) because at just 20 euros a day, the four-wheel bike is a far cheaper alternative to renting a car that cost three times the price. Putting my rusty motorcycle riding skills to use, I was the designated rider and Pam, the happy pillion. It may seem a bit corny, but we nicknamed our ride Argo, after Jason and the Argonaut’s ship in the famous Greek legend of old.
We had been riding under the hot Santorini sun, me in a bikini top like other sun-kissed tourists I’d seen on the roads, and heading for the village of Oia, just north of the gorgeous island.
After parking Argo, we took a walk along the rocky beach and had found a nice, quaint restaurant facing the sea. We were ordering iced drinks to quench our thirst when the Caucasian couple at the next table boldly threw me their unexpected proposition for some sexy fun. A threesome in bed, at their quarters not far from where we were.
They were looking keenly at me, waiting for a response.
Pam flinched in discomfort. The BFF had a strict Catholic upbringing, was a worship leader in her church’s music ministry, and is a devoted mum who makes sure her two boys say grace before meals. She even thanks Jesus when she finds a parking lot.
During the long sweaty ride on our ATV, the BFF had kept her top on the whole time and even chastised me for taking mine off, even though other tourists were also zipping around in their bikinis.
I tried waving it off as “this is Europe, Pam, relax...” but she felt uncomfortable, like we were breaking rules and a law enforcer was going to nail us for public indecency. So I pulled over, fuming, and wore my spaghetti halter. I decided to pick my battles.
The French man next to me cleared his throat, bringing me back to the moment.
“Ah, pardon... You’re asking me to join you, for a ménage à trois?” My lips curled in amusement as I sipped my cold soda, the ice melting faster than I would have liked, thanks to the scorching heat. “Vraiment? Seriously?”
“! Don’t talk to them!” Pam hissed, shooting me a warning look. I knew the BFF’s concerns and they weren’t unfounded.
Perhaps these kinky Europeans were over-sexed weirdos with evil intentions and wanted my healthy kidneys for the highly profitable illegal human organ trade. But instead of just flailing for the waiter to get the bill before screaming bloody murder while running for the hills, I thought perhaps we could talk about it like (non-consenting) adults because I had the right to enjoy the sea view and relish my over-priced drink.
“Ouai, voulez-vous joindre à nous pour ménage à trois? Yeah, would you like to join us for a threesome?” the dark-haired French man looked steadfastly at me, his voice low, baiting me. He ran his long fingers fondly down his girlfriend’s arm. “We are Shiatsu massage therapists, working at the hotel over there. Me and her, we know the body very, very well...”
I could just about hear Pam throw up internally. She was now holding her beer tightly, knuckles white against her tanned skin, gaze turned away, incredulous at the situation.
Or maybe the perplexed BFF was wondering why nobody was inviting her.
“You look like you know how to... appreciate women,” Blondie lowered her lashes at me and purred. “I know it. I can tell.”
Pam was now kicking me under the table, while trying to catch the eye of any of the wait staff to get our bill. I briefly wondered if the French couple was pulling my leg and a hidden TV crew was cracking up filming this “Gotcha” gag, or if this open-minded kinky pair just shared an Asian fetish.
“Vous êtes très jolie. You’re very pretty,” I smiled diplomatically at the French woman who was now twirling her thick golden mane and giving me bedroom eyes. I cleared my throat and turned away from her uncomfortable gaze. “But you’re unfortunately not my type, sorry. Je suis désolé.”
“You really don’t like women?” Blondie’s face clouded over instantly, her eyes blazing at my rejection. “I do not believe you. I know, I can tell.”
“Pas probleme. No problem,” her boyfriend laughed, trying to turn the situation around. “We can all still have fun. Come... to our house. I promise we will make you feel good. We know how to have a good time. Like how an F1 driver understands the car.”
Seriously? I must have made a face because he snapped his mouth shut.
A heavily-tattooed waitress waddled over and Pam fumbled with her wallet to foot our bill. She hadn’t finished her drink but the BFF looked like she really couldn’t wait to get out of there.
Our bored waitress gave us our change and was walking away, when the lanky French man suddenly came over and tried to kiss me with passion.
“Non, non, arrêtez! Sil vous plait! No, no, stop! Please!” I shoved Pepe Le Pew hard in his solar plexus, surprising him but stressing the fact that he also wasn’t my cuppa tea. “Alors... I’m flattered, thanks, but I’m REALLY not interested in you or Blondie.”
“She’s not interested, so please stop it!” The pint-sized BFF suddenly spoke up in a cl
ear, loud voice. Pam was standing up now, fist clenched at her sides, dark eyes flashing.
Just then, another woman slunk over and joined the pair at their table. Rapid French was spoken and they seemed very comfortable with each other. I realised that they were in fact the original ménage à trois. And they were asking me to be the fourth wheel? Super kinky!
“Salut. Hi,” The stylish-looking cougar shot an appraising look at me, exhaling smoke from her lit cigarette. She had a roaming hand on Blondie’s upper thigh as their happy boyfriend ordered her a beer.
Pam picked up our motorcycle helmets and started to leave. I quickly got up to follow, extremely tickled and honestly a little stunned. “Au revoir, à la prochaine, uh... enchanté! See you around, uh, really nice meeting y’all!”
They said their goodbyes like the cool French cats they were, as I hurried after the fuming BFF who was swiftly heading for the amazing sea cliffs that people love to dive off.
“Oh my God, I really can’t believe those people!” Pam huffed as we climbed the rocks in our Havaianas, balancing our motorcycle helmets in the crooks of our arms. “How incredibly rude!”
“You know babe, I think it’s just a different culture or something,” I wheezed as I tried to keep up with the BFF, who had had a headstart. “The Europeans are perhaps the most open-minded people. I mean, they tan topless...”
We gingerly walked past planks of happy European tourists lying blissfully naked under the Santorini sun, making sure we didn’t step on anyone.