At Home in France

by Ann Barry

  “Hello,” I said. The Japanese gentleman nodded, a sort of curtsy. His wife looked stonily ahead. With all the aplomb I could manage—as if I were merely assuming my proper seat at the opera—I hoisted myself into his lap. I am tall and slender. He was short and squat. Not a match. I anchored myself with my arms on the dashboard. I had to bend my head slightly so as not to glance off the roof. My knee was throbbing; there was very little space for my long legs. I wriggled a bit on his lap, like a roosting hen, to ensure a better perch. It was extremely uncomfortable for everyone, but not a word of complaint. We were off.

  No one spoke. Where were we going? I wondered with only mild curiosity. I didn’t care, not one iota, where I was being taken. I was back in the world of the living. We rumbled along for nearly a half hour, when I began to see road signs for Paris. That lifted my spirits tremendously. That close! Could it be that the tow truck was going into Paris? I didn’t ask. I just waited to see. Shortly thereafter we turned off the autoroute and onto a secondary road. The tow truck pulled up to a stop at the side. The driver craned his neck to inform me that another truck would be arriving to pick up my car. Where would I be taken? I finally stirred myself to ask.

  “Avis,” the driver said. Aaa-vee.

  That was positive news. I extracted myself—aching neck, aching back, aching knee—from the Japanese gentleman’s lap. “Good-bye,” I said politely, as if we’d been fellow guests at a party.

  Within minutes the second truck arrived, a smaller, single-car pickup. My car was released from the large tow truck and remounted on the second, smaller one. I climbed into the front seat of the truck.

  “Où allez-vous?” the young driver inquired eagerly with a bright smile, as if this was simply an unexpected stop on my pleasure trip. He was boyish and thin, as if he’d grown too tall too quickly for his body. His ears stood out prominently from his head. They were the strangest ears—flat as a pancake, with no curl at the edges. Though he was slight, this gave his head a somewhat elephantine appearance, which was disturbing and endearing at the same time.

  “Paris,” I said.

  “Anglaise?” he asked. The usual.

  “Non, Américaine,” I replied, and awaited, and received, the usual ripple of surprise.

  He very much wanted to come to America, he informed me. Oh, New York, it must be very exciting to live in New York. This was a familiar conversation, but now I was charmed, giddy, to be reattached to normal life.

  At the Avis agency, a small building that seemed to be located on the industrial outskirts of Paris—factories and warehouses surrounded it—the car was unloaded from the pickup. I took out my belongings, congratulating myself for being a light packer, thanked my driver, and approached the desk.

  I explained the problem with the car to a surprisingly jolly gentleman—surprisingly jolly, that is, for someone at an Avis complaint desk. He pulled out some official forms; this clearly was not the first such incident of its kind. He explained that, first, I would have to pay (by credit card, of course) the expenditures for the towing, but that I would be reimbursed by Avis. Second, I had the option of taking another rental car if I needed it, or—he pointed across the way—simply taking the métro into Paris.

  The métro! It was right here! I was elated to be relieved of the car. Suddenly, after the excruciating march of time since dawn, things were moving forward at an amazing clip. I signed all the papers.

  Was there anywhere I could get lunch? I asked. It was nearly one o’clock. He pointed down the road.

  I limped along, bobbing with my bag on the good-leg side. I entered the restaurant, a large room with Formica-topped tables and wooden chairs. It was hot and smoky, crowded and noisy. The customers were all men, obviously workers from the surrounding factories nearing the end of their lunch hour. I’d never been in such a nitty-gritty place in France and, since I was largely ignored, was relishing every minute of it. I found an unoccupied corner table and ordered a beer, never mind coffee. I wanted whatever was filling: an omelette, a cheese omelette, french fries. The waitress promptly brought a basket filled with a loaf of bread and butter, and I reached for it greedily.

  Ravenous hunger, a state that I’d passed through a number of times since dawn, is a primitive sensation, one that I had rarely felt, I now realized. I’d never say “I’m starving!” so offhandedly again. I ate the entire loaf of bread, slathering it with butter. I was grateful for the buzz of activity around me, conscious of my foreignness and relieved to be ignored. I was riveted on food. I asked for another beer when the waitress brought the omelette and fries. They might have been the best I’d ever had. The omelette—a huge, plump mound—was cooked perfectly, the cheese mellow. The fries were crisp and greaseless. I couldn’t have done better in Paris. I ate until I was satiated and finished my second beer, feeling pleasantly light-headed.

  The métro stop was the last on the line. I still had no precise idea where I was. I studied the subway map and saw that I would come into Paris at Les Invalides; the familiarity of the name was immensely comforting. The ride took nearly forty-five minutes. It wasn’t until I reached a familiar stop that I felt, finally, anchored in the world.

  I checked into one of my favorite hotels in Paris, Hotel des Marronniers, where I often stay. The desk clerk greeted me warmly. It was four-ten. I went to my room, dropped my bags, and collapsed on the bed—for only a minute of thanksgiving. I drew a hot bath in the tub and closed the door to capture the heat and steam. I eased into the water and propped my bad leg on the ledge. I encased my knee with a hot wet towel; it probably needed ice, but the heat felt good. I replenished the hot water, feeling the steam fill my lungs. Finally, I wrapped myself in a bath towel and curled up in bed. I turned on the television to find a tennis match in progress; it didn’t matter to me who was playing. This was perfect, requiring no thought. It was a beautiful spring day in Paris, just out my window. Normally I would have been sorry to be missing it. Instead, I felt … grateful. Grateful for having survived.

  If I had been with a friend, I considered, it would have been an entirely different experience. Human disasters, on a small or grand scale, are always alleviated by the presence of others. But I had had no one to provide a buffer for me in the situation. That had made all the difference. That was the essence of the trauma. With a friend, it would have been more bearable. It might even have provided a laugh.

  One thing was sure, however: I’d had enough of rented cars.

  10

  FAMILY DINNER

  For years, I sought a sense of belonging in this corner of France. A feeling of anonymity—a frustrating reminder of how our sense of self depends on others—sometimes nagged at me. When I would arrive at the Bézamats, Kati and Françoise would dart to the porch and then scurry inside. “C’est l’Américaine!” they would shout to Mama and Papa. Bobbie would race up the steps of the porch and stand at the door yapping, his tail quivering in the air like an exclamation point punctuating their shrilling. I would wince. I didn’t want to be the representative of a country. I wanted to feel individual, myself, in their eyes.

  I considered that this estrangement had to do with the brevity of my visits, and that my neighbors—not only the Bézamats, but the Servais and the Salgues and the Hirondes, to an extent—subconsciously didn’t seek more than a casual relationship since I had not made a deeper, more continuous investment in their world. On the other hand, there seemed to be a difference between us: Americans, more open and personal; the French, more formal and restrained. I am always curious about their lives: their opinions, their relationships, their day-to-day habits. Yet they show little curiosity about mine. I am circumscribed by their world, the world we share.

  I have a recurrent fantasy of inviting all the neighbors to dinner. (I’ve never figured out precisely how they relate to each other, although I suspect it’s not so different from the neighbors on my Brooklyn block.) In my imagining, they all gather on the patio—for an all-American barbecue. I have to explain to them what that
means: hot dogs and hamburgers on toasted buns, with mustard or ketchup, or both; potato chips (no, not french fries); coleslaw with hot bacon dressing; corn on the cob—not the fodder for cattle that it’s taken for in France, but sweet and dripping with melted butter; apple pie—no, not tarte tatin, but a mile-high pie with cheddar-cheese crust. Beer. I envision a sort of down-home Babette’s Feast. I watch their faces. They are initially skeptical. They deign to take a bite. They stubbornly refuse comment. They eat some more. They ask for more beer. The gathering starts to feel more like a party. They ask for seconds. Score! Of course, the fantasy always comes to an abrupt halt. Where would I get the hot dogs? The corn?

  So, when the Bézamats invited me to Sunday dinner—I’d known them then for seven years—I was ecstatic. My first invitation to dine en famille! While we’d always been on friendly and chatty terms, it had never involved socializing. At last the bridge was being crossed. We had never used each others’ names in our conversations. Somehow “Madame” and “Monsieur” seemed too formal. Yet using first names seemed too familiar—I wouldn’t have dared. So we skirted the issue entirely, leaving a sort of awkward hole in our conversations. It suggested to me that we hadn’t quite figured out where we stood with each other: myself, the American journaliste (a profession the French revere); the Bézamats, country folk who took care of my house. Friendly, but not really friends. But what? This was a step forward.

  Sunday dinner at the Bézamats meant noontime—the big family feast of the week. Madame Bézamat had issued the invitation as soon as I arrived to pick up the keys; this had obviously been deliberated on.

  “Alors, midi et demi,” she said. Twelve-thirty. It was spring, and she would be occupied in the morning picking asparagus.

  “Midi et demi.” Monsieur pointed to his watch emphatically.

  Here was the opportunity to see how a country woman cooked. The Bézamats, I knew, didn’t rely on village markets. Madame buys many of her supplies from the small trucks that service housewives in the countryside: the fish truck, the meat truck, the dairy truck. These vehicles, I have learned, are not a mark of “progress,” as an American is apt to see it, but harken to the days when this same service was provided by horse-driven wagons. For fruits and vegetables, the Bézamats rely on their own garden.

  I tried to envision what sort of dinner she would serve: hearty earthy dishes, I hoped, the recipes for which she would impart to me so that I could regale my friends at home. At precisely twelve-twenty I set off, at the last minute wrapping up a bottle of wine. Would this be correct, or only an American custom?

  The Bézamats’ front door opens directly into the dining room, which is only large enough to contain a plain wooden table and six chairs. A large television set near the single window dominates the room. There is a fireplace, which burns through fall and winter, and even on a cool spring day like the one we were enjoying then. A low counter separates this room from the kitchen, which is spartan, strictly functional.

  A flicker of surprise crossed their faces at the gift of wine. They made no response, leaving me wondering if they were pleased or somehow offended. Madame turned immediately to the kitchen. Monsieur put the bottle on a side cupboard and invited me to table. Serge, their son whom I’d only encountered on a few occasions, was slumped in a chair and greeted me with a perfunctory nod. Françoise was lackadaisically setting the table. She explained, with a pout, that Kati was the lucky one, waiting tables at a local restaurant on the weekends—with good tips. Monsieur poured the two of us an aperitif in a thimble-size glass. It was heavy and sweet, unidentifiable. A bowl filled with an unappetizing snarl of what looked like golden corn curls was passed around.

  Madame returned with a great white tureen of soup, instructing me to serve myself first. Monsieur poured a local red wine. The cream-colored soup was vegetable, Madame replied to my inquiry. It had the texture of a purée and a bland taste. I asked which vegetables she had used.

  “N’importe,” she said, with a shrug.

  “Pommes de terre et …” I pressed.

  “Oui, canotes, poireaux …”

  Had she used chicken stock? No. Simply boil the vegetables. Mash them. That was it: recipe number one. And the source of the good bread? (This was merely a polite inquiry—my automatic brain calculator had already filed it away as second to Bétaille’s.) It came from the bread truck from Miers.

  Françoise cleared the soup plates and replaced them with appetizer dishes. Madame then set out a platter with a giant pyramid of fat white asparagus, enough to feed twice our number. She had picked the asparagus that morning. I had always been curious about Madame’s part-time labors, wondering how she was paid. Would it be indiscreet to ask? I asked, and was surprised to learn that she was paid by the hour, a more humane method, rather than by the weight of produce, although the latter would perhaps induce more of a yield. The asparagus was accompanied by a large bowl of thick store-bought mayonnaise, a combination new to me but one that I enjoyed. The asparagus were flavorful, though I struggled cutting a few woody ones. Madame explained that these had not received enough sun.

  Had they ever seen or tasted green asparagus? I asked as we all took second helpings. They shook their heads in unison. In the United States, I said, in an effort to encourage discussion, green asparagus was common; the white, rare and expensive, so this was quite a treat for me. The two had entirely different tastes as well, I continued, now struggling in my mind for just what the distinction was. The white tastes more like an artichoke, I stated finally. Slight nods of the heads. No comments. I leaned back, the subject thoroughly exhausted.

  What arrived next was an enormous surprise: foie gras de canard—duck-liver pâté—made by Madame herself! On the same platter were thin slices of ham that she had festively rolled into spirals like party fare pictured in a women’s magazine—an effort I found strangely touching. I oohed and aahed over the foie gras. This was a real honor. Foie gras was reserved for special occasions and holidays—and this was a generous solid block. It was luscious and rich; I applied restraint in the helpings I took, with another course surely to come. I asked where they raised the ducks, since I’d never seen any. As I spoke I realized that I had never seen any chickens either, although they had given me eggs from time to time. Monsieur Bézamat made a waving gesture above his head. Apparently there was a part of the property, farther from the house, that I had never seen.

  Meanwhile Françoise replenished the breadbasket and Monsieur poured more wine. His cheeks had taken on a rosy sheen and my French was becoming more spontaneous. Serge twirled his glass on the table, staring at it with disinterest. Madame, who had been continually preoccupied with the orchestration of the dinner, was still nursing her first glass.

  She had taken only the smallest helping from each dish. She bypassed the foie gras altogether, which reminded me of a friend’s father who used to whisper “FHB” (family hold back) when dinner guests were on hand and the kids were being piggish.

  The sizzle of deep-frying could be heard.

  “Ne les brûle pas,” Monsieur called to her, with mock gruffness. He winked at me over words that would surely rankle her. He opened another bottle of wine. Françoise arrived with a platter of sliced roast lamb. Madame followed behind with a mountain of golden pommes dauphines, a French version of potato puffs.

  “Mon Dieu!” I exclaimed. I scooped five pommes dauphines on my plate and popped one in my mouth. They were heaven, delicately crisp on the outside, with crunchy little wisps of deep-fried crust, meltingly tender on the inside. In that moment I threw restraint to the wind. I had two more helpings, of four apiece, along with a second of the well-done lamb. During the main course, conversation flagged. Everyone, in a rather trenchermanlike manner, was taken up with the food. Momentarily, I felt a chasm created by my lack of real fluency, which would have made me more comfortable, and by their provinciality.

  Would Madame give me her recipe for the pommes dauphines? I asked her retreating back.

  A
s Françoise cleared our plates once more, I broached the subject of cars with Serge. This roused him from his lethargy: he unwound from his slouched position. I said that given the expense of rental cars, I longed to have my own car in France. Verbalizing the wish for the first time gave it the semblance of reality. The problem, of course, I explained, was finding someone to take care of it during my long absences. Monsieur Bézamat immediately assumed that I was dropping a hint in his direction; there was no space in his garage, he said apologetically, as if an instance when he couldn’t help me was distressing. Serge suggested checking out garages in the area; something could be worked out.

  Françoise set a platter of cheese, small wedges of what appeared to be leftovers, in the center of the table. The breadbasket was replenished and more wine (mine was being saved) poured. Suddenly Monsieur Bézamat leaned forward and planted his elbows on the table. To my utter astonishment, he asked me to describe my home in America. My heart flip-flopped; this was the most directly personal question he’d ever asked. I launched into a detailed description of my place in Brooklyn, the relationship of this borough to Manhattan, where I worked, the river, The subway ride. My cats. It all seemed so far away. How could I make them see it, understand it? When I finished my account, he leaned back with a look of satisfaction.

  When I truly thought the meal had come to an end, Madame brought forth a plain, flat prune cake. As everyone except Serge took helpings, I asked Françoise if she studied English in school. She blushed to the tips of her ears, probably anticipating my next question. Would she like to speak a little English with me? This I said in English, which reverberated oddly—out of place—in my ears. She laughed nervously and twisted her napkin. Suddenly I thought, Serge, Françoise, and Kati were unlikely to ever see America or even a world much different than the one they inhabited. They would probably marry, perhaps they would escape to a larger town, but a more foreign world would not attract them.