by Jo Maeder
“I’ll send Nelson a text so they’re not caught off guard. It’s called manners.”
Jean-Luc kept his mouth clamped shut after that retort. A little bickering was fun. Too much, no.
As Alyce steered the car into a space, she shared with him that the first time she came to this supermarket, she’d taken someone’s shopping cart by mistake. She didn’t realize you had to pay for your cart then receive a refund when you returned it to the area where they neatly waited to be used again.
Jean-Luc lit up in a way that he could see pleased her as well. “You are helping me view my own world in a new way.”
As soon as they walked into the supermarket, heads turned, voices lowered. He was used to his celebrity by now. Alyce, though, was visibly agitated. When a young woman pretended to absentmindedly push her cart into theirs, then recognize him, Alyce grimaced and walked away.
“Don’t walk off again,” he hissed when he extracted himself from his admirer. “I need you to keep us moving. Be nice to someone like that but say we are running late.”
She tossed a can of tuna into the cart with a bang. “Yeah, yeah. I know the drill.”
“What do you mean?”
“Never mind.”
He’d get it out of her.
He examined the can of tuna and deemed it acceptable.
They stopped at a display where the cheerful Marie-Laure was surrounded by large bowls of different olives. She delighted in his wanting to try each one. He placed a big green one in his student’s eager mouth.
“I am switching to English for a while,” he said. “My head is starting to hurt.”
“Mine, too.”
After choosing four kinds of olives, he declared, “We will buy as much as we can here, then move on to the specialty stores.”
She stopped at a jar of truffles. “These are special, aren’t they?”
“Ah, when fresh. Put them in a jar with brown eggs. Only use brown ones. They have better yolks. The eggs will become infused with the truffles.”
“Then what?”
“Make pasta with those eggs and you will taste what I mean.” He touched her shoulder. “You must come back after the first of the year and we will go truffle hunting. It’s done with a muzzled female pig because the truffle smells like a male.” He was struck with a ridiculous idea. “I will muzzle you, my little sow!”
She curled her lip at him like a tough street thug.
“Term of endearment, chérie, term of endearment.”
Other fascinating information he imparted to her that day: After being transported, wine should rest for two days before being opened… Never buy butter that’s too yellow. It shows that the cows it came from have grazed on too many buttercups, which will affect the taste… Plant parsley after the full moon… The lighter the rainfall, the stronger the aroma of herbs. Provence herbs are the best since they get 300 days of sunlight a year. Most herbs are best fresh, except oregano. Buy it only as dried leaves, then crush them between your palms.
She gave him a strange look.
“What is going on in that interesting mind of yours, Al-ees?”
“I was thinking about old photos of you I saw on the Internet.”
Ah, she was Googling him.
She cocked her head. “You looked good clean-shaven and with short hair.”
“Al-ees,” he said, discouraged, “once your hair turns gray, it makes no difference what you do to your appearance. You are old.”
“Dye it. Be it a metrosexual.”
“I will forget you said that.”
She was already attempting a makeover and they had not even kissed!
After stopping at the bakery and fish market, they returned home. She began throwing things in the refrigerator.
“No, no!” He had a specific method of storage based on how often products were used and the variations of the zoned temperatures in the refrigerator.
“How can you keep this so neat and your office such a mess?”
“It is not a mess. I can always find anything I need.”
He ran a fresh strawberry under cold water, plucked its green top off, and popped the fruit in her mouth before she could say another word. He watched her face as he imagined the flavors of the fruit exploding then, too quickly, melting away.
She scooted onto one of his tall stools, her summer dress lifting up just a bit to show her toned legs. Her next question steered his thoughts in a different direction.
“What’s with you and money, Jean-Luc? You told me about being embezzled, and the ‘dirty money’ point of view your mother had when she made it, but that was a long time ago. And writing is not prostitution.”
He punched the air with his forefinger. “Money is pure evil. If it weren’t for money, I would be rich!”
With a sarcastic edge, she replied, “This I have to hear.”
He washed the rest of the strawberries in a colander and told her how his publisher cleaned house and dropped all of its authors who hadn’t made a sizable profit fast enough, or were known for not delivering manuscripts on time. He fell into both categories.
She shrugged. “I see their point.”
Blood shot into his temples.
“Being a media buyer is all about numbers. If a client wants college-educated women with a median income of 50K, you buy the top three platforms that deliver them. Not numbers 4, 10, or 20. If you don’t make your publisher money, why should they keep you?”
He fled to his office and slammed the door. I must remove her from my home this instant, he thought, or I will strangle her. And I must write. Though if it’s all a numbers game, why bother?
From the base of the stairs she called out, “Treat your writing like a job! Start at the same time every day.”
Which was worse? What she was saying or that goat-bleating voice? He bellowed back, “And how would you know that, oh paragon of literacy?”
“I read it in a magazine.”
She was priceless. “How silly of me! If you read it in a magazine, it must be true.”
“Go scratch your ass! And if you’re not going to feed me, I’ll feed myself.”
He leapt out of his chair and to the top of the stairs where he could see her. “No! You are not allowed in my kitchen until I am sure you know what you are doing.”
“Then get down here.”
In a deadly serious tone, he said, “I can’t.”
She looked concerned. “Why? What’s the matter?”
“I haven’t finished scratching my ass yet.”
She made her exaggerated eye-roll and walked away.
When he ambled into the kitchen, scratching his butt in an exaggerated way and talking like a hillbilly, it set her off laughing. Even more when he tried to scratch hers and she fought him off.
He was beginning to love that laugh.
After their lunch of salade Niçoise, during which he taught her so much French both of their minds went numb, he said in English, “Amuse yourself, Al-ees. Clear your mind. Relax. Then meet me in the kitchen at precisely 2:00 for your next lesson.”
She answered with a wink and a smile. “D’accord, professeur. But what I’d really like is to swim in your pool. Are you going to fix it up before putting it on the market?”
“No. The new owner will deal with it.”
Though he wouldn’t mind seeing her in a bathing suit.
17
Tears, Fears, and Bouillabaisse
Alyce’s next lesson began with a snack of goat cheese wrapped in oak leaves. Jean-Luc wasn’t surprised she’d never heard of such a notion. He spread the tangy banon on rounds of crustless, toasted, herbed bread while speaking almost entirely in French. It was exhausting.
“Shall we speak in English for a bit, Al-ees?”
“Thank you.”
He brought out a chilled bottle and flutes.
“Champagne now?” she said disapprovingly.
“It is not champagne.” He showed her the label. “Only wine from the Champagne region
can be called that. It is a Saumur sparkling wine.”
He took the first sip. “It tastes like atonement. A moment of naughty damnation followed by a satisfying redemption. What do you think?”
She closed her eyes. Thank God she’d stopped wearing makeup. He hated how her mascara clumped her eyelashes together, her foundation covered her naturally pink cheeks, and the smell of powder buried her true scent.
“It tastes like kisses from a bashful child.”
He was floored by her poetic description. “Perhaps there is a writer in you.”
“After seeing how you struggle? I hope not.”
Next on the agenda was herbes de Provence: dried rosemary, sage, oregano, marjoram, savory, thyme, and basil mixed together in their own grinder. It was to the French what salt and pepper was to everyone else. That got him going on how much he hated American restaurants, the way the waiters immediately accosted you with a giant pepper mill without giving you a chance to taste the food to see if you want more seasoning. And the grated cheese that was proffered with any pasta dish.
“That is never done in Italy.”
“How many times have you been to America?”
“Once. That was enough. I was flown to Hollywood to be seduced into letting The Horse be made with a happy ending. I refused.”
“Why am I not surprised?”
She wrote down the herbs he used and wanted to know precise measurements.
“There are no set amounts, Al-ees. You must feel them.”
He excused himself, went upstairs, and came back with a black leather blindfold. Her face twisted in a most unattractive way.
“Listen, buster. Don’t be getting any ideas.”
“Sorry, mademoiselle. This is not your lucky day.” He slipped it over her head. “It is to help heighten the sensitivity of your poor, plugged-up, unused, withering senses.”
Once the blindfold was in place, he passed bunch after bunch of fresh herbs under her All-American petite nose. She was an exceptionally quick learner.
“Summer savory?”
“Excellent. Soon you will be able to tell wild thyme from garden thyme.”
Jean-Luc took another moment to admire her innocent, plain beauty.
Until she opened her mouth and tried to speak French.
That lesson over, he asked her to cut the greens off the carrots and fennel. She did, then scooped them up to throw them out.
“That is the salad!”
“Huh?”
Once again her foreign ways made him laugh.
The phone rang. He let the answering machine in his office above them pick up the call. Through the open windows they could hear the caller leave a message. It was a woman he had recently met.
“Did I get the date or time of our lunch wrong?” she asked in a voice that was trying not to be angry.
He could see steam building in Alyce’s face. When the call ended, she asked, “Don’t you believe in honoring commitments?”
“Your French is improving. Now I will teach you how to make pissaladière. What your pizza wishes it could be.”
“Don’t change the subject. You stood up a woman without giving it a second thought?”
“I barely knew her. And she suggested the lunch, the place, the time. I do not remember giving her a firm yes. That is the truth. Should I have told her I was with you?”
He removed two aprons from a hook on the wall and handed her one covered with sunflowers. “You look like you were born down the road.” That put a slight smile on her face.
His apron was classic white and covered his chest and upper thighs. Written across the front: Kiss Me, I’m French. They cheek-kissed three times. All ill will vanished.
“First we caramelize the onions.” He took out a bag of pretzel rods and handed her one. “Put it in your mouth while you peel and slice them. Your eyes will not tear.”
Alyce pretended it was a cigar, then dug into their task with it sticking out of her mouth.
After a minute she took it out. “You’re right! No watery, stinging eyes.”
The tart and sweet scent of freshly sliced onions filled the air as a thick layer filled a cast-iron skillet. Sprinkled on top were thyme, rosemary, and extra-virgin olive oil.
“We cook them on a low heat. No browning. Plenty of stirring.”
Next was the making of the crust. Alyce watched intently as he added ingredients to a food processor and it worked its magic. As he slowly added flour when the dough was too sticky, she commented, “You look like a scientist in a lab.”
“All cooking is science and art. Please stir the onions again.”
He rolled out part of the dough and fit it into a rectangular rimmed baking sheet sprinkled with cornmeal. She did the other half. They added the onions, green and black olives, sprigs of thyme. She made a face when they reached the anchovies.
“These are not like the ones you are used to,” he said.
She tried one. “Mmm. It tastes like a swim in the ocean, not pure salt and oil.”
Another small victory for France.
When the pissaladière came out of the oven and cooled down, he allowed her one square. “The rest will be an appetizer for tonight.”
After taking a tentative bite, she exclaimed, “It’s zingy, crusty, gooey—and the onions give it a sweet finish!”
The delightful moment did not last. Her cell phone rang.
“Hi, honey, you just landed? Get my text? You won’t believe what this kitchen smells like. I’ve been cooking all day.” She winked at Jean-Luc. “After customs and renting a car, it should be about two hours to get here. Oh! There’s an incredible open market in Nice anyone can direct you to. Jean-Luc said to look for a man with large copper pans set on an outdoor fireplace made of bricks. He makes socca—a nice snack that won’t be too heavy… socca. It’s made from chickpea flour and olive oil with salt, pepper, and fresh rosemary. I’ve had it here but his is supposed to be the best.”
Jean-Luc said, “And get his fresh-squeezed grapefruit juice, too.”
She repeated his suggestion and motioned she was going back to the cottage. “I can’t wait to see you, sweetie. How was your flight…”
Honey. Sweetie.
Oh, this was going to be rich.
She soon returned, showered and in an understated light blue dress and sandals. Unfortunately she was back to wearing makeup. She twirled around to get his reaction before Nelson, Glorianna, and Luther arrived.
“Aside from the war paint, I approve. You look like a true lady.”
“Nelson’s never seen me without makeup. It’s nothing compared to his mother. I think she applies it with a plaster knife.”
“I can’t wait to meet her.” He rolled his eyes to imitate her. She playfully batted him on the arm.
Pushing up the sleeves of his white linen shirt, he said, “Now it is time for you to master bouillabaisse, a fish stew made from catches of the day.”
“It better be good after what I spent on the ingredients.”
“Your obsession with money is as unattractive as my lack of concern for it.”
He asked her to go to the CD player in a hallway closet and put on Johnny Hallyday. It was essential she knew who he was. When she came back, he’d taken out a book on the “French Elvis.” It was filled with photos.
Alyce gasped at one image. “She looks just like my sister.”
He looked at Hallyday and wife number four (or five?) taken after they were wed. She was about 20 to his 50-something then; a perfect pretty blonde who did nothing for Jean-Luc. Too much like a doll. And she could have been Hallyday’s granddaughter.
Alyce launched into a monologue about her younger sister, Chantilly, and how ever since she was born strangers gushed over how beautiful she was. Alyce ceased to exist as her sister modeled, won beauty pageants, acted in commercials, and consumed all of her mother’s attention. The moment she graduated high school she had a Ford modeling contract and was off to New York City to live in a big loft with other mod
els while Alyce’s home was a small, depressing basement apartment in Hoboken.
“That’s why I hate when we’re in public and people fawn over you. I know I shouldn’t feel that way.”
“With a name like Chantilly, how else could she be? I believe we grow into our names.”
“Why couldn’t they have called me Alyssa instead of AL-iss? Is that why I’m so practical and boring?”
“You are hardly boring. I imagine your sister is, though. She hasn’t suffered enough.”
He presented her with a bowl of striped baby clams and glossy purple-black mussels, and a brush. “Continue with your story. You scrub and de-beard, I’ll rinse. It is important to remove all grit.”
“De-what?”
He tried not to show his surprise. Truly, he did. “Remove the strings on the mussels.”
“Oh! Yeah, right. Of course. Just pull them?”
She seemed to follow his instructions but was so engrossed in her story he had to watch her every move.
“So she married a rich guy and now she’s pregnant. At 21.”
“You do not like that she beat you to it, eh?”
“No!”
“I understand. It is your issue, as Americans say.”
“Wanting to be a mother is not an issue. It’s called natural. Not wanting to be a parent is an issue.”
Is it possible she saw him as perceptively as he saw her?
He began to hum “La Vie en Rose” and soon they were lost in their own world as they prepped the mirepoix and worked on the seafood: Rascasse rouge (tiny rock fish not found anywhere but the Mediterranean), cigale de mer (the slipper lobster), slices of Saint-Pierre (John Dory), baudroie (monkfish), the head of a conger eel all would go into a big pot.
In the mirepoix pot he put carrots, celery, leeks, Spanish onions, garlic, seeded tomatoes, salt, and a soupçon of cayenne and saffron. He showed her how to make a bouquet garni of thyme, bay leaf, parsley stems, celery, fennel, and orange peel. That was tossed in as well, driving another intense aroma into their olfactory sensors.
“Now we wait a bit. Then add the clams and mussels.”
“How do you know when it’s ready?”
“You just do.”
They tackled what he considered the key ingredient in bouillabaisse: the rouille. After Alyce tackled how to say it.