Comfort Me with Apples

by Ruth Reichl

  “Chez Isadore,” I read, looking at the writing above the boar’s prickly speckled fur. “Is it Isadore I’m here to meet?”

  “No,” he said. He led me inside, where it was warm and steamy and smelled like butter, onions, wine, and meat. The room was filled with solid people, planted firmly at their tables. A man in a long white apron, platters stacked up his arms, whirled through the room, bantering as he delivered food. “Monsieur Colman!” he cried joyfully when he spotted us. He cocked his head and looked quizzically at me. “Is this . . . ?” he asked. Colman shook his head, almost imperceptibly, and then quickly said, “This is my good friend Ruth, from California.”

  With a puzzled look on his face, Isadore took my hand politely.

  “Monsieur awaits you,” he said, leading us to a large table beneath the mirror in the corner.

  A short, quite stout older man with a bald, shiny head was sitting there reading a newspaper. He beckoned happily when he saw us—he had beautiful hands—and stood up, painfully, as we approached. He looked exactly the way I have always imagined A. J. Liebling, which I found oddly disconcerting.

  The man embraced Colman as well as he could, given that he was half his size. He showered upon him one of those loving looks usually reserved for one’s children, and I wondered if he might be Colman’s father. I thought he had told me that his parents were dead.

  “So this is why we have seen so little of you.” The man looked me up and down, very frankly, and I was a little embarrassed by the scrutiny. “Je m’appelle Claude,” he said, taking my hand. Then he turned to Colman and said—reproachfully, I thought—“Pepita has missed you.”

  “How is she?” asked Colman.

  He sighed. “Fragile, I am afraid. But come, what am I thinking of? Let us sit down. I have taken the liberty of ordering. Do you mind?”

  Even dining with him was the way I had always imagined a meal with A. J. Liebling. We were no sooner seated than Isadore arrived with trays of oysters—spéciales and claires—balanced on each arm. He set them on the table—four of them!—and poured glasses of Sancerre. “Never stint on oysters,” said Claude. “It takes away the pleasure.” He picked up an oyster, gave it a solid squeeze of lemon, and raised it to his mouth. “Ah,” he said when he had downed it. “They are excellent! We must have more.” He beckoned Isadore to bring another platter.

  As he ate he asked questions. Where was I from, why was I here, what had I thought of Boyer? He asked about my family, my work, my hopes. Before the oysters were half gone he had collected an entire dossier on me. “Are you a reporter?” I asked, taken aback by the intensity of the interview.

  “Bravo, ma fille!” he said. “I was, for more than fifty years, before I retired. That is how I met Colman’s family. I was sent to California when he was a small boy. Pepita and I could never have children, and so I have always thought of Colman as a little bit my own. Now we will have some grilled sardines; Isadore says they are excellent today, and he has never misled me.” He turned to Colman. “Tell me, shall we have a different wine?”

  “I was thinking of Burgundy with the sardines,” said Colman, who always sped through the whites in his rush to the reds.

  “My sentiments precisely,” said Claude. “I have trained you well.”

  Then there was a roast partridge with an enormous pile of crisp, hot frites. It tasted wild and funky, with that high, almost electric note you find only in birds that have never been caged. “The secret,” said Claude, “is in hanging the birds long enough. When I was a boy every bistro in Paris knew how to hang its meat, but Isadore is one of the last of the breed. In other restaurants partridge is no better than chicken. Worse, in fact; it’s dry chicken.”

  Colman was saying very little, just watching the interchange between this wonderfully crusty old Frenchman and me. I thought, from the expression on his face, that I was doing pretty well. Still, when Isadore arrived with a bottle of Bordeaux and began decanting it, I felt momentary panic. More?

  “The marcassin, of course,” said Claude. “You must try it. Marcassin is disappearing in France; in ten more years it will be gone.” I took a bite and words like “morne,” “farouche,” and “goût de terroir” came leaping to my lips. I was a little drunk, and Colman and Claude were egging me on.

  When the boar was gone there was still wine in the bottle. “A pity to waste this, don’t you think?” asked Claude, summoning Isadore to the table. The room was starting to empty out of patrons and fill up with the scent of cigars. It was so much like going back sixty years to that fantasy Paris of the twenties that I was almost in tears. I wished I were wearing an ankle-length black skirt instead of pants, and a white lace blouse. “Do you have a piece of cheese hidden away, a piece of cheese that will do this Pauillac justice?” asked Claude.

  Isadore considered. “Bien sûr,” he said. “I think perhaps the aged Gouda would do very well. I have had it in the cellar for two years, and it has a roundness the wine will like.” He rushed off to fetch it, and Colman excused himself.

  “Well, ma fille,” said Claude when we were alone. “How did you come to be in Paris?”

  “Oh,” I said flippantly, “I followed Colman here.”

  “He didn’t invite you?” he asked gleefully. Why was he so happy about this? Did he enjoy the notion of women throwing themselves at his adopted son?

  “No,” I said, “he didn’t invite me. But I hoped that he would spend some time with me if I came. I didn’t quite imagine, though, that it would be like this.”

  “Like this?” he inquired.

  “Love,” I breathed, taking another sip of the wine. “I didn’t expect to fall in love.”

  Claude looked alarmed. “L’amour?” he asked. “Vraiment?” He peered deeply into my eyes, as if my answer really mattered. I couldn’t see why he cared so much, but once again I had the nagging thought that there might be another woman in Colman’s life. “But aren’t you married?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “And are you going to tear your life up for Colman?”

  I shook my head. “No, I am not. Even if I wanted to leave my husband, which I don’t, I do not think that we would make a very good married couple. This is just . . .” I searched for the right word. “Magique” is what I came up with. That seemed right. “A moment of pure magic,” I repeated. “I am grateful for it. But I know it would not last.”

  He nodded. “I have found,” he said, “that in marriage friendship is sometimes more important than passion.”

  “Yes,” I said. “And my husband is a very good friend.”

  Claude looked relieved. He liked me well enough, I could see that. He liked the fact that I spoke French. He liked my appetite. But he did not think that I would suit as Colman’s wife.

  Colman returned, and Claude nodded reassuringly at him. Colman looked relieved, and I felt as if something important had just taken place but I did not know what it was. But then Colman took my hand and the moment passed and we had framboises with Chantilly and cognac and the two men filled the air with the smoke from their cigars. It was dark by the time we left the restaurant, and we put Claude into a taxi and walked all the way back to Colman’s hotel, singing.

  * * *

  I was supposed to take the night train back to London, but Colman persuaded me to take the new fast hovercraft across the Channel and spend another day in Paris. When I wavered he just went and bought the ticket. And so we had one more day. And then it really was time for me to leave; I could hardly imagine a life without him anymore. “Stay,” he said, laying a bunch of roses on the pillow next to me. “You could take a plane tomorrow and we could still have another day in Paris.”

  I shook my head. “I’m already gone. It has to end sometime.”

  “Okay,” he said. “I’ll take you to the train. We have time for coffee.”

  “Vous partez?” said our wonderful waitress at Ladurée. “C’est triste. I am so in the habit of seeing you two lovers.” And she brought us each a hazelnut-fill
ed croissant and would not let us pay. I bit into it, trying to memorize the taste. “A week from today I’ll be sitting at the kitchen table in Berkeley,” I mused, “eating a bowl of millet. And you, what will you be doing a week from this moment?”

  Colman reached across the table and took my hand. “I guess the time has come,” he said, taking a deep breath. “I don’t quite know how to tell you this. But . . .”

  “What?” I asked. He looked so stricken that I tried to make things easier. “Don’t worry,” I said. “We can still see each other. It just won’t be the same.”

  He took another breath, as if to say something, and then stopped. He took my hand and said sadly, “No, it will never be the same again.”

  DACQUOISE

  There was a time, in the late seventies, when it seemed that every French restaurant in Paris, Los Angeles, and New York served dacquoise. For me it is still more than a dessert; it is a promise that something wonderful is about to happen.

  FOR THE ALMOND MERINGUE

  1 1/4 cups whole blanched almonds

  3/4 cup plus 2 tablespoons granulated sugar

  1 tablespoon cornstarch

  6 large egg whites

  1/4 teaspoon cream of tartar

  pinch of salt

  FOR THE MOCHA BUTTERCREAM

  1 cup granulated sugar

  6 large egg yolks

  1/2 cup heavy cream

  2 tablespoons instant espresso

  1/4 teaspoon salt

  2 sticks (1 cup) unsalted butter, softened

  Garnish: 1/4 cup sliced toasted almonds and confectioners’ sugar for dusting

  TO MAKE THE MERINGUE

  Preheat the oven to 275°F. Line two large baking sheets with parchment paper and on each draw a 10-inch circle, using the bottom of a 10-inch springform pan as a guide. Flip the paper over (the circle will show through).

  Pulse the nuts in a food processor with 2 tablespoons of the granulated sugar until ground fine. Add the cornstarch and pulse until combined. Beat the egg whites with the cream of tartar and a pinch of salt in a standing electric mixer on high speed until soft peaks form. Gradually beat in the remaining 3/4 cup sugar on low speed, then beat on high speed until it forms stiff, glossy peaks. Fold in the almond mixture gently but thoroughly.

  Divide the meringue mixture between the two parchment circles, spreading to fill in the circles evenly. Bake the meringues in the upper and lower thirds of the oven, switching the position of the baking sheets halfway through baking, until firm and pale golden, about 1 hour. Slide the parchment paper with the meringues from the sheets and place on racks to cool.

  TO MAKE THE BUTTERCREAM

  Beat the egg yolks with 1/2 cup sugar in a standing electric mixer on high speed until thick and pale, about 4 minutes. While the yolks are beating, whisk the heavy cream with the remaining 1/2 cup sugar in a small saucepan and bring to a boil, stirring, until sugar is dissolved. Gradually whisk half of the hot cream into the yolk mixture to temper the eggs; then whisk the yolk mixture into the remaining hot cream, along with the instant espresso powder and salt.

  Cook the custard over moderate heat, stirring constantly, until an instant-read thermometer registers 170°F. Transfer the mixture to the clean bowl of the standing electric mixer and beat until cooled completely. Beat in butter 1 tablespoon at a time and chill, covered, for at least 30 minutes.

  TO ASSEMBLE THE DACQUOISE

  Carefully remove the meringues from the parchment and spread one meringue (smooth side down) evenly with the buttercream. Top the buttercream with the remaining meringue (smooth side up) and decorate the outside edges of the buttercream with toasted almonds. Chill the dacquoise, loosely covered, until firm, at least 2 hours; before serving, dust the top with confectioners’ sugar.

  Serves 8 to 10.

  COOK’S NOTES

  Meringues may be made one day ahead and kept in an airtight container at room temperature.

  For a taller dacquoise, make three 7-inch meringue circles instead of two 10-inch ones (the baking time will be slightly less). Sandwich the meringues with buttercream and decorate in the same manner.

  I’ve found that the easiest way to cut dacquoise is with a serrated bread knife, sawing rather than using pressure.

  4

  BLOW YOUR SOCKS OFF

  Home again.

  I’d get up in the morning, stare at the seven huge recycling bags beneath the sink, and find myself filled with despair. I was always cold. Berkeley is not warm in winter, but at Channing Way we did not turn on the heat unless you could actually see your breath in the living room. This was not a money-saving gesture; it was a political statement, our contribution to the environment. I knew it was a noble cause, but it gave me one more reason to yearn for Paris.

  I had known the trip was dangerous, understood that I was asking for grief. But I had underestimated the risks. It had not occurred to me that the fantasy of the affair would make my real life so unsatisfactory. I dreamed of truffles as I cooked dinner for the guests who turned up every night, stretching a single chicken to feed twelve. Baking the wholesome whole-wheat bread of which we approved I’d remember the delicious crackle of biting into one of Poliâne’s crusty loaves. Holding my breath as I turned the compost pile with the pitchfork, I’d think of wild berries and mountain greens at the fragrant market on the rue du Cherche-Midi.

  The hardest part of having an affair is hiding your emotions. Living in a commune made it more difficult; I had six people to pretend to, six people to convince that I was happy to be home.

  More, really. Our house was always crowded. People sat in the kitchen having political discussions about the Shah of Iran. They sat in the frigid front room drinking wine and watching reruns of Mary Hartman, Mary Hartman on our blurry television set. There was always someone out in the workshop with Nick, or down in the darkroom with Jules.

  They came because they were lonely and wanted company, or because they were traveling and in need of a bed. They came because they were hungry and there was always room for one more at the table on Channing Way. I had always loved this energy, thrived on the excitement, but after Paris my feelings changed.

  “I’m tired of living in this mess!” I raged to Doug one morning, as we picked up the detritus from yet another late-night revel. I plunged my hands into the soapy water of the sink and handed him a wineglass. He had returned from Omaha, flushed with success, at the same time I returned from Paris. His wind tent had been ephemeral, and so lovely that a wealthy Philadelphia collector had heard about it and insisted on having one for her Main Line mansion. Doug was heading out, again. “If you charge this woman a lot of money, we could move,” I said. “We could afford to have a child.”

  “I’m just not ready,” said Doug, rubbing the glass so hard it began to sing. “Maybe in a couple of years. But right now I need to focus on my career. I don’t have time to think about having children.”

  “You mean you don’t want to spend time thinking about our relationship,” I said, handing him another glass.

  “Don’t you want to focus on your career right now?” he asked, holding the glass up to the light.

  “I don’t see it as an either-or proposition,” I said, realizing that we were finally having the long-delayed conversation. “Being a restaurant critic and being a mother are not mutually exclusive. We would both have to make adjustments, but most people manage. We’ve been together eleven years. We have to think about children.”

  Doug shook his head. “The timing’s not right for me,” he said. “At the moment my art comes first.”

  “But you’ll feel different later on?” I said. “In a year or two?” It was not really a question, because despite what Doug had said when he was in Omaha, I thought I knew the answer.

  Doug surprised me. He set the glass on the counter and put his hand down into the soapy water so he could take mine. “I’ve been thinking about this a lot,” he said, stroking my soap-slicked palm, “and I want to be honest with you. I’m not s
ure.”

  The room got colder. “You mean there’s a possibility you might not want children at all?” I asked.

  “Yes,” he said. “There is that possibility.”

  It was the first time he had actually uttered those words, and I went silent with shock. At last I managed to say, “I wish you’d told me earlier.” Then I walked out the back door to my little studio on the porch.

  “I didn’t know,” he said, starting to follow me. At the stairs he changed his mind and turned back.

  I walked into my workroom feeling dizzy. I had never seriously considered the possibility that Doug and I might have different plans for the future. What else was there that I did not know about him? In a moment of defiance I turned on the electric heater I had sneaked into my studio; at least I would be warm.

  My little workroom, with its sagging floor and cracked windows, felt exactly like a tree house. It was filled with crippled flea market furniture I had accumulated over the years; the desk was a legless library table propped on two-by-fours, and the chair was a swivel affair from the forties missing most of its springs. Piles of colorful threadbare rugs covered the gaps in the floor, the windowsills were filled with toys, and drawings were tacked to all the walls. Plants were everywhere, stretching for the light. It was the one room in the house that was completely my own.

  I looked around at the bright colors and thought of Doug’s spare studio. Our differences had seemed so superficial; it had never occurred to me that they might run deep. Perhaps he was not the person I thought I knew. If he really didn’t want children, maybe I had never known him at all.

  What now? With uncanny timing, Colman chose that precise moment to call. “I miss you,” he said. “Come to L.A. for the day.”

  It was one answer. This time it was an escape.

  * * *

  Other men would have been carrying flowers. Not Colman. When my plane landed in Burbank he was standing at the gate with his hands behind his back. He kissed me and said, “Close your eyes and open your mouth.” I sniffed the air; it smelled like a cross between violets and berries, with just a touch of citrus. My mouth closed around something very small and quite soft, the size of a little grape but with a scratchy surface. “Do you like it?” he asked anxiously.