(17/40) Provence-To Die For

by Donald Bain

  “I hope so,” I replied, “but I can always be better.”

  “Bon! I like this attitude. You are very intelligent, and much more.” He gazed languidly into my eyes and then dropped his glance to my mouth and then up again. I had a feeling this expression of interest was more for Mme Poutine’s benefit than for mine, and I didn’t care to be used that way.

  “I’d better finish preparing my charlotte,” I said, returning to my seat. I took another ramekin and began to butter it.

  Craig took my place at the chef’s side. “So let me see how you do this,” he said. “Can’t have the women hogging all your time.”

  Bertrand set the blinis aside just as Guy brought in the makings of the main dish. “Voilà! Now we will really show our skill,” the chef announced.

  The three rabbit bodies were not recognizable as anything other than small animals, but my stomach lurched at the sight of the meat covered in blood. The heat in the kitchen carried the scent around the room.

  “These are very fresh,” Bertrand said as he picked up the first rabbit, rinsed it under the faucet of the sink to his right, and laid it on a cutting board. He explained his actions as he cut out the “saddle,” separating the meat from the bone with his razor-edged knife. He worked rapidly, blood staining his fingers, which he wiped on the front of his apron. He tied the meat with string and laid it in a pan. Taking up his heavy knife, he chopped the skeleton in half, the crunch of the bones as the blade split them loud in the silent room. He threw the two halves into the pot with the boiled wine and vegetables.

  “Everything gets used,” he said, smiling, and picked up the second rabbit.

  Mallory, her face very white, slipped off her stool and left the room. On the pretext of seeing if she was all right, I followed her, glad to breathe in the dank air of the courtyard and escape the coppery smell of blood.

  “He’s horrible,” she whispered when I’d closed the door behind us. “A little rabbit, to end up like that. It was awful. He’s a horrible man. Someone should...” She stopped in midsentence and hurried down the step, then stood in the middle of the room and wrapped her arms around her body.

  “Let’s go get some fresh air,” I said, putting my arm around her.

  We took the elevator upstairs and pushed through the hotel’s glass front door. The rain had stopped but it was still overcast—and cold. I realized I’d left my jacket and handbag in the classroom, and so had Mallory, along with her backpack.

  She was shivering, but now I wasn’t sure if it was caused by her reaction to the butchering demonstration or the chilly temperature outside.

  “I’m okay,” she said, breaking away from me and pacing in a small circle in front of the building.

  “It wasn’t a pretty sight, I agree. We aren’t used to seeing what happens to our meat before we cook it, are we?”

  “Meat? I’m not eating that.” She waved a trembling finger in the direction of the door.

  “No one says you have to. Are you a vegetarian?”

  She shook her head. “I wasn’t before, but I could be now. What a horrible man.”

  She stepped into the narrow, deserted street and walked across it and back, rubbing her arms. Some color had returned to her cheeks.

  “Mallory?”

  “I know. I know.” She continued pacing. “What did I expect from a cooking class?”

  “No. That wasn’t what I was going to ask.”

  “Oh.” She halted in the middle of the road and turned back to me. “What?”

  “I think you know.”

  She looked down at the cobblestone street, and toyed with the end of her braid before raising her eyes to meet mine. “Why did I leave Marseilles? What am I doing here? Why did I decide to take this class?”

  “One at a time will be fine,” I said, watching her closely as various emotions flitted briefly across her face.

  “You’re missing your class,” she said, as if it had suddenly occurred to her. She clapped her hands and started walking toward the door, tossing her braid over her shoulder. “I didn’t mean to interrupt it for you.”

  “Come on, Mallory. Talk to me.”

  “Nothing terrible happened in Marseilles, if that’s what you’re thinking,” she said, stopping in front of me. “I just got bored. No one at the hostel was very friendly, and there’s only so much to do there in the cold. You can’t go to the beach or even sit outside in a café all day. And how much bouillabaisse can you eat?” She released a short bark that was almost a laugh. “I was thinking I would go to Cannes, but I don’t know anyone there either, so I decided to come here instead. There’s more to do, and you were the one who said I could call.” She finished with a pout, as if I’d reneged on a promise.

  “But you didn’t call.”

  “Well, I would have,” she said, pulling her braid over her shoulder and gripping the thick plait as if it were a lifeline, “but you told me you were going to be in town today, and I was coming to Avignon anyway. I met this guy who was on his way here, and he said he knew a great hostel.”

  “Is that where you’re staying?”

  “Yes. It’s a couple of blocks from the station. An easy walk. Only took me fifteen minutes. And it’s very cheap.”

  “But this class is not. If you’re worried about money, why did you sign up for the class?”

  She put her hand on the handle of the hotel door. “I have enough money, and I have a cash card. Actually, I’d only planned to come and ask after you, but the girl at the desk said someone hadn’t shown up, and I could join the class if I wanted. She didn’t charge me anything. I thought it would be fun,” she said, disgusted. “I didn’t think it would be like an abattoir.” She used the French word for slaughterhouse. “And I thought I would surprise you,” she finished softly.

  “Well, you certainly did that,” I said, shaking my head.

  Abruptly she pushed the door open and held it for me. “We have to go back in. You must be freezing. I know I am. I’m sorry to have been so selfish, keeping you out in this weather.”

  As we reentered the lobby, Claire came around the front desk.

  “Is everything all right with the class?” she asked.

  “Yes. Fine.” I said. “We were just taking a little break, but it’s too cold to stay outside.”

  “We serve coffee and tea in the atrium. If you want, I can have something brought up for you.”

  I looked at Mallory, who’d paused by a table and seemed to be casually browsing a newspaper left there for guests. “I think we’re ready to return to the class, but thank you. We’ll stop for tea later on.”

  We took the elevator downstairs and walked through the arch. At that moment the door to the classroom opened, and Guy emerged carrying the roasting pan with the saddles of rabbit neatly tied up in string. The other students followed him out. Chef Bertrand remained in the school kitchen, stirring a pot on the stove.

  “We’re going to put the meat in the oven, and take a short tour of the hotel kitchen,” he said. “Are you up for it?”

  Mallory nodded, and we joined the others.

  The hotel kitchen, half as wide as it was long, was empty. “They don’t serve luncheon in the winter,” Guy explained, opening the top oven in a stack of three gas ovens and sliding in the roasting pan, “although Room Service can put together something for guests who don’t want to go out.” He knocked on a door. “This is the office, where the chefs plan menus, order supplies.”

  The narrow room had a small desk at the end, piled with papers, under which could be seen the curled cord of a telephone and the side of a laptop computer. Sitting at the desk was a handsome man in chef’s whites who looked up from his book.

  “Ah, Guy. Is this your class?” the man asked.

  “Oui.”

  The office was cramped and messy. A battered file cabinet leaned against one wall. On the other was a long row of bookshelves filled with cookbooks, more piles of paper, and various kitchen implements, some still in their packaging. The
untidy office was diametrically opposed to the kitchen with gleaming stainless-steel cabinets and counters.

  Guy introduced Daniel Aubertin, the hotel restaurant’s chef and director of the cooking school. “Daniel will give you a short tour of the kitchen,” he told us, “while I keep an eye on the rabbits.”

  Daniel rose from his seat and treated us to a captivating smile, shaking hands with each student as he exited the office, and seeming pleased to meet us. Curly haired and clean shaven, he had the dark good looks of a movie idol and the confident, slightly bored manner of a man who has done this many times before. The kitchen tour must be a standard part of the class, I thought, as he walked backward down the aisle, speaking in English to accommodate the foreigners, and pointing out the four separate work areas used for preparing fish, meats, cold dishes, and desserts.

  “For garnishing,” he said, pointing at a rolling cart at the end of one counter near the door. Its top was covered with bowls, bottles, and canisters, the little containers filled with different sauces, spices, herbs, seeds, crumbs, chopped nuts, dried fruits, olives, miniature pastries, wafers, and other items used to garnish the food and decorate the plate.

  “What time do you have to start cooking for the dinner guests?” René asked, his pen poised above a small notebook.

  “The chef and his staff plan the menu after the market in the morning and then go their separate ways. The dinner chef returns at about four-thirty. That would be me. The pastry chef comes in a little later. And the kitchen closes at midnight.”

  “How do you choose the menu?” Jill asked.

  “The full menu changes each season,” he replied. “At the hotel restaurant here, certain specialties we will make every day, but half the menu depends upon what we find in the market in the morning.” He went to a large double-door locker and opened it. We crowded around the opening to peek inside. The shelves were filled with a variety of fruits and vegetables bought that day. Several crates of squash were stacked on the floor. Daniel walked in the locker and picked up a squash. “These were plentiful in the market this morning. From this, we will make a wonderful cream soup. It’s one of our signature dishes. It will also be caramelized to accompany the roast lamb. Later we will add it to our vegetable terrine. Perhaps we will also dry thin slices in the oven with salt and pepper for tomorrow’s garnish. Everything we serve is fresh. We must use what we buy imaginatively and efficiently or the customer will become bored, and our business will fail.”

  “How do you know how many customers you’ll have?” Jill asked.

  “They take reservations, of course,” Mme Poutine told her crisply.

  “Yes, of course,” Daniel said, nodding at her. “But reservations tell only half the story,” he added, looking at Jill. “The rest you learn by being in business. We keep an eye on the weather. Here, for instance, rain will keep the hotel guests in house, and if occupancy is high, that is good for the restaurant. If it is not ...” He shrugged. “We read the newspaper to know what groups are in town and likely to fill our seats. We know what festivals are on the calendar each year, and keep a log of how they affect our tables. We plan, we track, and we market ourselves; a good review can generate reservations for months at a time. But you must always be prepared for fewer guests as well as more guests than you expect. We cannot waste food or we lose money. And we must have enough or our diners will be disappointed.”

  “I never realized how complicated it was,” Jill whispered to me.

  “We’ve had fresh rolls and bread every morning,” Craig put in. “Do you make them, or is there a bakery service that supplies the bread?”

  Daniel put his hand over his heart and feigned an attack. “My baker would be stricken to hear you,” he said. “Everything you eat here is made here. Come, I’ll show our little secret.” He led us to a steel cabinet with glass doors, near where Guy stood opposite the ovens. “This wonderful machine helps make the bread,” Daniel said. “One puts in the shaped rolls and breads. The machine lowers the temperature to keep the dough from rising; it can stay that way for hours. In the morning, it is timed to turn on automatically, warm up the dough for the last rise, and bake the bread and rolls just in time for breakfast, and again in the afternoon in time for dinner. C‘est magnifique, n’est-ce pas?”

  “Bravo!” said Craig. “I’d like to get one of those for home.”

  “So would I,” his wife deadpanned.

  Guy looked at his watch. “Merci, Daniel. The rabbit should be ready now. We don’t want to overcook it.”

  “No, we probably want it all bloody and rare,” Mallory muttered under her breath.

  We trooped back to the dining room with Guy leading the way, the hot roasting pan on a folded towel in front of him like a crown on a pillow. Chef Bertrand was waiting in the kitchen. “Now we will see how well we have done today,” he said. He had eight plates set out on the table and proceeded to fill them with sliced rabbit, chestnut blini, and sautéed wild mushrooms. Over the meat, he poured a sauce made from the strained marinade. While Guy took the quince charlottes to the hotel kitchen to bake, we removed our aprons, picked up our plates, and carried them to the medieval dining room next door, lining up at that table in the same places we’d occupied in the school kitchen. Several bottles of red wine had been set out, along with a basket of sliced bread. René began filling our glasses.

  Bertrand, minus his toque and bloody apron, but still in a white jacket, joined us in the dining room, carrying in a platter with the remains of the rabbit, blini, and mushrooms, which he set on the table. He picked up his wineglass. “Bon appétit!”

  “Bon appétit!” we chorused back.

  The meal was consumed along ethnic lines. The two Americans and the British couple reached for the bread, and pushed the meat around the plate, nibbling on blini and mushrooms that had escaped the sauce. The four French ate everything on their plates, and sopped up the leftover sauce with the bread. The quince charlottes, however, were a complete success. Covered with a sauce made from frozen berries—“red fruits,” Bertrand called them—they disappeared off everyone’s plate, and afterward were followed by tiny cups of very strong coffee.

  Conversation during the meal followed a similar pattern. Mme Poutine attempted to engage René Bonassé in a discussion of Paris theater, angling her body toward him and pointedly away from Bertrand. The young man listened politely, but had little to say. Bertrand spent the meal sorting through a stack of papers he’d drawn from a breast pocket. The Thomases, making up for earlier neglect, drew Mallory out and quizzed her on all she had seen in France, and gave her a list of must-sees in London, which she said she planned to visit next.

  At the end of the meal, the chef walked around the table, stopping to share a word or two, complimenting us on how well we did. He ended up behind René Bonassé. He rested his hands on the young man’s shoulders and addressed all of us. “Merci, mesdames et messieurs. Thank you for coming to the cooking school. Today’s lesson shows you the basic marinade, and the creation of the sauce from the marinade. Also the charlotte. You can vary the filling and the sauce. Perhaps even use a simple bread and fill it with vegetables. It is a flexible recipe.” He gave René’s shoulder a slap, returned to the head of the table, and leafed through his papers, then pulled out one and squinted at it. He raised his reading glasses, which made his blue eyes look very large. “Tomorrow we will make the famous fish soup of Marseilles, the bouillabaisse.” He looked at all our faces to see the pleasure his announcement had given. “To prepare for this class, I will require you to return here in one hour for your assignment. Each of you will be responsible for contributing an ingredient. We will discuss where they are available and what markets to visit. Right now, however, Guy and I will handle the cleanup.” He looked at his watch. “You have one hour, and then back here, please. You may leave your folders and belongings where they are. They serve coffee and tea in the atrium upstairs.”

  We abandoned the table as a group and ambled toward the elevator, bas
king in the glow of self-satisfaction from having assisted in the creation of a Provençal dinner, our mood only slightly improved by the addition of a few glasses of wine. Behind us, the clatter of dishes as our plates were gathered up was punctuated by a stem “Guy!” from Bertrand. “Where are those papers I asked for?”

  The elevator was too small to hold the six of us. The Thomases said they would take the stairs and meet us. “Be happy to treat you to a spot of tea,” Craig offered. “We’ll save you seats, as we’ll probably be there ahead of you. This old lift is as slow as a hound that’s lost the scent.”

  Only one table in the atrium was occupied; a couple of smartly dressed men frowned over some documents. We found a table with enough chairs for everyone, but René Bonassé excused himself to make a phone call, not indicating whether or not he would return. Mme Poutine dispensed with the niceties altogether and walked straight past us to the front desk.

  “Ah, don’t you find the French so warm and friendly,” Craig said, settling into an upholstered armchair, while Jill and I sat together on a sofa. Mallory remained standing, shifting her weight from side to side.

  “Bertrand was telling Guy off as soon as we left,” Craig said. “We could hear his scolding echoing up the stairwell.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it,” I said. “Guy seems like such a nice man.”

  “Well, I don’t see how he could be a fan of the big guy. There probably aren’t many. What an arrogant one that Bertrand is.”

  Jill made a face at Craig, and glanced at Mallory. “Claire at the desk is lovely,” she said.