Reservations for Two

by Hillary Manton Lodge

  “Then don’t.” I put my fork down. “So—we never talked about travel plans. I’ve got four days planned here, and then Italy next. I’ll be in Rome first, then a few days in Montalcino for my grandfather’s birthday before I fly home.”

  Neil picked up his espresso cup. “I’ve got the time off. If you think having me at your grandfather’s party is too complicated, I can fly home.”

  I grasped his hand. “Of course I want you there. Are you sure you’re ready for sixty-two Italians fueled up on espresso and cake?”

  “You know I’m only in it for the cake.”

  “You’re incorrigible,” I said, but I couldn’t wipe the smile from my face.

  ~ APRICOT-CRÈME FRAÎCHE PANCAKES ~

  1 cup whole wheat pastry flour

  ½ cup all-purpose flour

  2 teaspoons baking powder, preferably aluminum-free

  ¾ teaspoon fine sea salt

  ¼ teaspoon nutmeg

  ½ cup crème fraîche

  ¾ cup whole milk

  3 tablespoons honey

  2 large eggs

  2 teaspoons vanilla bean paste or vanilla extract

  2 tablespoons butter, to grease the skillet

  3 ripe apricots, peels removed and sliced thin (if apricots are out of season, fresh raspberries are a delicious alternative)

  In a small bowl, sift together the flours, baking powder, salt, and nutmeg. In a medium bowl, whisk together the crème fraîche, milk, honey, eggs, and vanilla.

  Add the dry ingredients to the crème fraîche mixture slowly, stirring constantly, mixing only until just combined.

  Melt butter in a large skillet over medium-low heat until it begins to froth. Ladle the batter onto a griddle using a ⅓ cup measure. Arrange 3–4 slices of apricot on top of each pancake. Cook for 3–4 minutes, or until the batter bubbles and the edges begin to firm. Flip and cook the opposite side until golden, another 1–2 minutes.

  Serve pancakes immediately with crème anglaise ladled over the top. Refrigerate any leftovers. If you’re not in the mood to make the crème anglaise (recipe below), simply serve with hot maple syrup.

  Makes about 10 pancakes.

  ~ VANILLA BEAN CRÈME ANGLAISE ~

  4 large egg yolks

  2½ tablespoons sugar

  1 cup whole milk

  ¾ cup heavy cream

  1 teaspoon vanilla bean paste

  Prepare an ice bath by filling a large bowl halfway with ice, then nestling a second bowl (ideally metal) inside the ice. Set a wire-mesh strainer over the second bowl.

  Using a mixer, beat the yolk and sugar together for about two minutes, or until pale and creamy.

  Combine the milk, cream, and vanilla bean paste in a medium-sized saucepan, and bring to a simmer over medium heat, stirring constantly to prevent scalding. Once the cream has just reached a simmer, remove from heat and reduce burner to medium-low.

  With the mixer running on low, slowly pour ⅓ cup of the hot cream into the sugared yolks. Blend until well incorporated, then pour the remaining cream into the mixing bowl.

  Transfer the custard to the saucepan, and return it to the stove. If it’s frothy; the air will dissipate as it cooks. Stir over medium-low heat for 5–10 minutes, or until the mixture can coat a spoon. For thicker custard, cook a few minutes longer. If the custard resists thickening, increase the heat; avoid a boil, as the egg will cook and the sauce will separate. Once the custard has thickened, remove it from the stove and pour it through the mesh strainer and into the chilled bowl.

  Chill the sauce in a covered container for three hours, or overnight. The custard will thicken as it cools. Makes about 2 cups.

  Bread, milk and butter are of venerable antiquity. They taste of the morning of the world.

  —LEIGH HUNT

  After I’d finished breakfast and showered, I felt infinitely more myself. Without air conditioning, my long, dark hair dried twice as fast as usual. Once I’d dressed in a pale chambray shirtdress, I finished organizing the photo files and then set off to find Sandrine.

  I tied my hair back as I walked. This time of day, Sandrine went through the guest rooms, tidying and refreshing linens. I found my cousin in the “bee room,” which was decorated in golden honey tones with a honeycomb motif and accented in dark woods.

  “Cou-cou!” I called from the doorway. “Can I give you a hand?”

  “Bonjour!” Sandrine looked up from the bed she was making. “Of course.”

  I took the sheets on the opposite side and tucked them under the mattress. “Cécile told me where to find Mireille’s letters last night.”

  “Ah, bon! That is good news. Did you find what you were looking for?”

  “I did find letters,” I said, “but I haven’t been able to read them yet.”

  “But you must take them with you! You must have them.”

  “Thank you,” I breathed, my smile wide and real. Probably tired as well. “I spent the night making digital copies, but there’s something about the real thing, you know?”

  Sandrine tugged the coverlet into place before replacing and fluffing the pillows. “I am glad you found them. Letters are an important part of a family’s history.”

  “I was wondering if there were any family photos in the chateau. I noticed I don’t have any photos of Grand-mère before my mom was a toddler. For that matter, I’d love photos of my mom as a baby. Do you know if there are any?”

  “It is almost a miracle that you found the letters, because this house holds its secrets well. I have some photos, but I don’t remember seeing many of Mireille. You’re welcome to look, but the house ate my own childhood photos long ago. The house is always open to you—if you would like to try to unearth more of the house’s secrets, do try. It has always fussed at me when I’ve tried.”

  “The house fussed at you?”

  Sandrine gave a French shrug. “It was for a boring and practical reason—I wanted to tap into the existing pipes to add another en suite bath. The house was not happy—there was a burst of water and a petite deluge.” She held up a hand. “Clean water—merci, mon Dieu—but a mess, nonetheless.”

  “Oh my goodness,” I said, noting as I listened how much her voice sounded like my mother’s. The accent was much thicker, of course, but the resemblance certainly ran strong with the women of the family. Their facial features were similar as well, although Sandrine had inherited her coloring from her father, Grand-oncle Richard.

  “Another time,” Sandrine continued, “I went looking for some old clothes of my mother’s, and I could not find the key to one of the closets. I thought between Auguste and me that we had all of the keys—I even tried an old skeleton key. The chateau—it is not haunted. I know Americans like their haunted houses, but it’s not. It’s just a large old house with opinions.”

  “Ah. Well, I will try to look and not cause a cave-in.”

  “I think the house likes you,” Sandrine said, her voice lowered conspiratorially. “It likes your mother a great deal.”

  “That’s…nice of it.” I closed my mouth and smiled; any moment now and I would run out of reasonable responses. “Anyway, we’ll be out of your hair in a few days.”

  “And on to Paris?”

  “That’s the plan.”

  “Auguste and I will miss you. I know ma mere has enjoyed having you for conversation. But you will enjoy Paris. And Neil? He is going too?”

  I couldn’t hold back that smile. “He is. And he’s coming to Italy with me after.”

  “He is a good man, your Neil.”

  My Neil. “Yes,” I said. “I think so.”

  We chatted about the chateau, Cécile, and the family’s penchant for bichon frises (theirs had passed quietly of old age two months prior) as we finished up the rest of the rooms. After working on Grand-mère’s building for so long, the simple domestic chores felt natural and easy, even relaxing. Make beds, dust, sweep, vacuum, repeat. Except this time I had the company of another woman.

  As we began the las
t room, Sandrine shifted the conversation from family news to advice with the élan of a talk-show host.

  “You must be good to him, your Neil,” she said, “but do not be too accommodating. I have noticed that American women will do whatever a man wants. But that is not the French way. And you”—she pointed at me—“are French.”

  I decided against reminding her that I was half-Italian as well.

  Instead, I nodded to indicate listening.

  “You must not make things too easy for him, but do let him know that you appreciate him.” She raised her eyebrows for emphasis.

  I felt my cheeks turn pink. “I…We’re not…I mean, we don’t—”

  Sandrine waved a hand. “You don’t have to go to bed with him to keep him. The important part is to love him, but stay a little mysterious. Make him work a little.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” I answered, turning my face away until my flush subsided.

  For lunch I decided to rummage through Sandrine’s fridge to see what I could make. Inside I found crème fraîche left over from the morning’s pancakes, celery, and an opened jar of olives. In the pantry I found a beautiful tomato, a lemon, shallots, and most importantly, packaged tuna. On the counter sat some beautiful croissants, left over from Sandrine’s pastry offerings to her guests.

  Neil stepped into the kitchen, face flushed. “Hi,” he said, grinning when he spotted me. “I just finished patching up the roof over the shed with Auguste. It’s gotten hot out there.” He paused to kiss my cheek. “How are you?”

  I returned his kiss with a real one, enjoying the way he smelled of sandalwood and sun. “I’m good. Are you hungry? I was just thinking of piecing together some lunch.”

  “Are you happy to be back in the kitchen?”

  “Of course,” I said. “I haven’t cooked in so long my fingers are feeling tingly, and ladling pancakes doesn’t count. Do you like tuna?”

  “I like it if you’re making it.”

  “Just be warned,” I said, reaching for a chef’s knife to begin chopping the shallot, “it’s not your mother’s tuna sandwich.”

  “No?”

  “I’m thinking of something Provence-inspired. Tuna Provençal is very traditional here, made with fresh tuna steaks and vegetables. I was thinking of incorporating those flavors into a sandwich with the croissant.”

  Neil gave a crooked smile. “I like the way you talk about food.”

  I grinned back at him. “I just like you.”

  Another kiss, and he left to shower before the meal. I set to work chopping, juicing, stirring, and toasting. Sandrine stepped inside the kitchen. “What is this for lunch? So nice to have someone else cooking in here for a change.”

  “Provençal-inspired tuna sandwiches,” I told her. “On croissants.”

  Sandrine wrinkled her nose. “A sandwich inside a croissant? That sounds very…American.”

  I pointed my spoon at her. “But tasty!”

  Sandrine eyed my handiwork warily.

  “Would you try just a bite?”

  “I will try,” she said, though I could see in her eyes she remained unconvinced.

  The tuna salad came together simply enough once I finished prepping the ingredients. After spreading olive oil inside the cut halves of the croissant and toasting them lightly, I filled them with the savory tuna mixture. “Lunch is ready!” I called, hoping that either Neil or Sandrine remained within shouting distance.

  Auguste arrived first, with Sandrine close behind. “So much yelling at my chateau,” Auguste mused. “It used to be so quiet…”

  I snorted. “I’ve heard enough stories from Grand-tante Cécile that I know that’s not exactly true.”

  Sandrine laughed, while Auguste examined the sandwiches on the sideboard that I’d assembled. “So that is the sandwich?”

  “It is.” I plated it quickly, serving it with a pickle spear.

  Neil appeared a split second later, his hair damp and slightly curly from his shower.

  It was a good look for him.

  “Hungry?” I asked, enjoying the opportunity to look at him.

  “Always,” he answered, grinning.

  Sandrine winked at me.

  We sat at the wooden farmhouse table together and enjoyed our sandwiches. At least, Neil and I did.

  Sandrine bit into her sandwich with caution, and I watched, making an effort not to laugh. “How is it?” I asked.

  “Different.”

  “Different good or different bad?”

  “Different good,” she conceded. “And yet I still believe a croissant is meant to be eaten only in the morning, and only with butter and jam.”

  “I agree,” said Auguste, but I couldn’t take offense, considering that he’d finished his sandwich and any remaining crumbs before I’d made it even halfway through.

  If Nico were there, he would have railed that this was the problem with modern French cuisine, its inability to innovate, to try things that hadn’t been around since the days of Marie-Antoine Carême.

  But he wasn’t there, and I decided that sometimes winning a small battle on the side of the tuna sandwich was good enough for me.

  To: Caterina, cdesanto@beneculinary.com

  From: Me, jdalisa@twobluedoors.com

  My dear sister,

  So sorry to hear about your hall bathroom. Christian is a very enterprising child; I am hopeful these will be funny stories you tell at the cocktail party before he receives a marine biology award. Or something.

  We’ll be heading to Paris soon. I’m planning to stay in Provence longer than anticipated to get some extra time with Grand-tante Cécile. She remembers, some days, good stories about her and Grand-mère that I’ve not heard before. Missing Grand-mère, I’ve enjoyed hearing more about her, and being near Cécile is like having her nearer for just a little while.

  As for Éric…it was surreal to see him in Seattle. You’d like his restaurant, and I don’t have to tell you the food was good. I don’t know, it was kind of one of those “if only” sorts of conversations where both parties are nostalgic and wishful, though no one’s willing to make a change to make any of it a reality. He married and divorced and is single now, and while I certainly got the idea that we could pick up where we left off (or as much as a person can after, what, six years?)—I know Éric. He’s only ever going to be married to his restaurant. So it was one of those “If only, but won’t happen” kinds of conversations.

  But the best part that came out of it was that L’uccello Blu’s restaurant’s closing wasn’t my fault. When it happened, I felt very responsible—Éric was such an integral part, and I’d made him go away. Éric assured me that in fact there were other factors going on in the business end of things, and that wasn’t something I needed to carry.

  Which is nice, you know?

  I’m not hung up on Éric at all (just wanted to make sure that’s clear). Things are really great with Neil, though I am concerned about what’s going to happen when we both get back to real life. Like I said, I’m committed to life in Portland right now, and he’s pretty settled in Memphis. Trying not to worry about it too much…

  Anything you want me to bring you back from Paris? Not that I’d mail it to you—you’ll have to come to Portland for it (because I’m sneaky like that).

  Love to you, Damian, and the twins. Speaking of…what’s Luca up to?

  J

  To: Me, jdalisa@twobluedoors.com

  From: Caterina, cdesanto@beneculinary.com

  Oh, sweet Luca. Of the twins, he’s always been the cuddly, quieter one. This is nice, on one hand, but it also means that it takes me longer to discover what kind of shenanigans he’s into. Last week he very quietly decided to become creative in the kitchen. Applesauce and Elmer’s glue were involved.

  Something from Paris? I’ll have to think on that…You’ll be glad to hear I’m planning a trip out for July; I told Mom I’d be there for her second round of chemo. She gave me a song and dance about how I didn’t have to bother. (I
’m sure you’ve heard this.

  I think it’s based on an Édith Piaf song or something equally plaintive.) Anyway, I’ll be out with the boys, and Damian too if he can get the time off work. If so, I’d be happy to lend him out as a handyman.

  Anyway, looking forward to seeing you! Let’s take a trip to Anthropologie, if you can spare the time. And if I can be of any help with the restaurant, let me know (not Nico. Because he’d probably get dramatic over how self-sufficient he is and bless him, we both know that’s not true). When are you getting your kitchen equipment? I can clean an oven like no one’s business. My skills with an oven brush are slow-clap worthy. Children dream of one day being able to clean an oven like me. Old men weep.

  Yes, I am tired, and it is late. How did you guess?

  Love, Cat

  P.S. Sandrine e-mailed me and said you made her eat a sandwich out of a croissant, like an American. Oh, you imperialist you…

  ~ PROVENÇAL-STYLE TUNA CROISSANT SANDWICHES ~

  The key to these sandwiches is the quality of the ingredients, particularly the tomato, tuna, and the croissants. I recommend oil-packed tuna, a sweet, ripe tomato, and croissants from your favorite bakery. To toast the croissants without damaging the delicate pastry, use a preheated oven or a toaster oven. You can find crème fraîche in the refrigerated section of well-stocked grocery stores. In a pinch, you can substitute it with sour cream or mayonnaise.

  1 clove garlic, minced fine

  ½ a tomato, seeded and diced

  ¼ cup diced black olives

  ¼ cup diced celery

  2 tablespoons minced shallots

  1 cup crème fraîche

  10 ounces albacore tuna, drained

  1 tablespoon herbes de Provence

  1 teaspoon dill

  Fresh lemon juice, to taste

  Salt and pepper, to taste

  2 fresh croissants

  2 tablespoons olive oil

  Add all ingredients—save the croissants and olive oil—in a bowl and mix together. Taste, and add lemon juice, salt, and pepper to taste.

  Cut the croissants in half and brush the cut-sides with olive oil. Toast lightly.