Cooking for Picasso

by Camille Aubray

  After I’d gotten dressed I felt a bit nervous at the prospect of facing down a Michelin-starred chef. My mother had taught me to have “taste” yet I knew so little about how she actually cooked such magnificent meals. For the first time I had qualms that I didn’t really belong here and might look awkward. I thought it would be a good idea to do a little prep with a quick look at Grandma’s recipes.

  When Aunt Matilda emerged from her shower and went to the closet to select her clothes she asked, “What’s that notebook you’re reading? You look like a student cramming for an exam.”

  “That’s exactly what I’m doing,” I admitted sheepishly. “It’s a cookbook my mother gave me. It belonged to my Grandmother Ondine. Her best recipes. She had a café in Juan-les-Pins.”

  Aunt Matilda crossed the room to retrieve her hairbrush, pausing to glance over my shoulder.

  “Your grandmother wrote those?” she said, impressed, reading a few recipes as I turned the pages. “Then you’ve already got this cuisine in your blood. You’ll ace it.”

  I was tempted to announce that Grandma had cooked all these meals for Picasso, but I held back, since obviously Mom hadn’t told her about this. Aunt Matilda was distracted anyway, eager to join our group for breakfast. “Come on, kid, let’s get down into that kitchen and meet the Big Cheese!” she said. “Or should I say, Le Grand Fromage?”

  The class was assembled in a huge modernized kitchen, all chrome, steel and marble with an impressive array of multiple ovens and work-stations. A buffet breakfast was laid out in a far corner, and all those early-birds had already discovered the mouth-watering croissants, brioche and pastry that you can only get in France. A festive, eager atmosphere permeated the place.

  “Mark my words, this course won’t be a picnic,” warned Magda, a sturdy, cheerful woman with salt-and-pepper-colored hair, who owned a dog-breeding farm in Scotland. “My niece took Gil’s professional class in London last season and had to quit halfway through. But she’s lazy.”

  “I hear he makes grown men cry,” said Joey, a balding old gentleman from Chicago who ran a catering business with his sons. There was a murmur of agreement, because we’d all seen Gil’s cable TV program from several years ago, Can YOU Stand the Heat?, where it was clear that he didn’t suffer fools in his kitchen and could be easily provoked into unleashing his fearsome temper.

  “Well, they say all good chefs are half-mad,” said Peter, a retired wine steward from London whom Aunt Matilda had already “taken a shine to” over sherry last night. A neat, trim Englishman, he had a full head of white hair and well-groomed white eyebrows, and was dressed in an old-fashioned navy blazer with gold nautical buttons, and light-colored flannel pants, an impeccable silk shirt and tie, and a red handkerchief in his pocket, as if he were going yachting today instead of learning how to cook.

  “Heads up!” Aunt Matilda said. “Here he comes.”

  I saw a tall figure standing just outside the kitchen doorway. Our master chef had paused to give instructions to his kitchen crew. My classmates instinctively huddled closer together to collectively assess the man.

  “Ooh, he’s so good-lookin’. I don’t know how I’m gonna keep my mind on the cookin’!” whispered Lola, a thin, ultra-tanned rich widow from Dallas with expensively highlighted hair and lots of gold glinting on her neck, arms and fingers.

  “He’s a big fella, i’nt he?” her tall, good-natured brother Ben added with some surprise.

  It was true; unlike many TV personalities who turn out to be smaller and thinner than they appear onscreen, Gilby Halliwell was bigger and beefier, looking healthy and athletic in a crisp white chef’s jacket and black pants. The only indication of his celebrity status was the perfect cut of his blond hair. We eyed Chef Gil—as his staff called him—with wary fascination.

  My classmates had parsed many details about him over dinner last night. So now I knew that Gil, a working-class English bloke from Manchester, had overcome a troubled youth of petty crime and reform school by apprenticing with an impressive list of French chefs working in London. When he was hired by a posh hotel to update their Grill Room it soon became a trendy success, which, with his appealing goods led to a quirky little British TV show that got picked up in the States by a food channel.

  But then he’d burned out just as quickly. There’d been some gossip about why he disappeared from sight for awhile—an affair with a partner’s wife, lawsuits, a nervous breakdown resulting in the abrupt closing of his popular London restaurant.

  The press reacted to his unexpected departure by writing him off as just another “flash in the sauté pan” as one wag put it. But two years later he surprised the culinary world with a roaring comeback, winning a Michelin star within a scant year of opening this new restaurant here in Mougins, a formidable gastronomie hub where the competition for great places to dine was fierce.

  And, never one to rest on his laurels, Gil then announced he’d found a silent partner to help him expand this stone mas or farmhouse where we were staying into a fully updated hotel, which would reopen later this year. To further publicize his ambitious plans, he was offering these cooking classes.

  “All right, boys and girls!” he exclaimed to us as he moved away from his staff and came into our midst. Immediately his raw energy—he practically crackled with electricity—dominated the room, and a sudden hush fell over the group. He quickly checked off everyone’s name on his clipboard, formally welcoming us by asking the students about our “goals”. I mumbled something about wanting to learn about my grandmother’s cuisine and culture.

  We had three “boys” and four “girls” enrolled in the class—ludicrous to call them that, I realized; for it occurred to me now that Chef Gil and I were the only people in this room who were under the age of seventy. He was strutting like a peacock. So damned sure of himself.

  “Eyes on me, now!” he said emphatically, putting aside his clipboard and clapping his hands together like the captain of a rugby team. As if we weren’t already raptly attentive! “This is the kitchen of my restaurant, Pierrot. Here you will learn some basic cookery—and more importantly, the local At-ti-tude toward food, which makes Provençal cuisine so fantastic. So now, to your battle stations!”

  He gestured at a long, shiny aluminum counter in the center of the kitchen, where his staff had been quietly arranging seven bowls of eggs lined up in front of seven empty mixing bowls, seven folded aprons and seven sets of knives. “It’s spring, a time of rebirth. Easter and whatnot, eh? It all begins with the egg,” he said, holding up one. “Today you’re going to learn the proper way to crack—and cook—eggs. Like so.”

  With a swift move Gil deftly demonstrated how to make a single clean crack using only one hand. “A truly fresh egg will break clean, and should never shatter into bits of shells,” he declared, “unless you are a total screw-up. Put on your aprons. Stand at the ready. And now—get cracking!”

  The large kitchen echoed with the sound of multiple eggs breaking. Anyone who giggled or chattered was sternly silenced by our master chef as he paced watchfully around the kitchen, ready to pounce on those who tried to cheat by using both hands.

  He caught me as I was surreptitiously banging my egg against the side of the bowl in front of me. “Dear-oh-dear,” he sighed. “You say you came here because your French grand-mère was a chef from this area. Well, if only poor Grandma could see you now. Do it over.”

  Gingerly I picked up a new egg.

  “God, Céline!” Gil said in exasperation. “It’s not hard. Just concentrate, for fuck’s sake.”

  I was now sorry I’d told Gil anything personal in response to his cozy little questions about my “goals”; he clearly wasn’t averse to using such information as a weapon. I began thinking about how I’d like to roast this rooster of a man. When one of his staff appeared in the doorway with a message for him, and Gil stepped away momentarily to listen, Aunt Matilda murmured to me, “Congratulations. You got the first F-word out of him. I knew he couldn’t hol
d back forever.”

  “Big tough guy! He doesn’t scare me,” I said sourly. Until now I’d been so focused on my mother that I hadn’t noticed I’d signed on to a cooking class with just the kind of aggressive, cocksure, in-your-face man whom I normally wanted nothing to do with. All the bluster and bullying invariably evoked residual memories of my dad.

  Gil was making another sweep past my section now, and, unable to bear seeing me screw up again, he seized my hand in his big paw and manipulated my fingers as if I were his puppet, forcing me to break the egg properly. I was surprised to feel how tough and scarred his fingers were; yet they moved with the dexterity and precision of a jeweler. Miraculously the eggshell opened perfectly.

  Then, as the egg slid out, he let go, like a man who’s been holding on to your bicycle but now quietly releases you to pedal away on your own. The slippery egg landed with a quiet plop! in the copper bowl, while I still held the shell, which I could now throw away in triumph.

  “Wow,” I said, impressed in spite of myself.

  “Wow yourself,” he said with a nod. “Do it again. And again.” He moved away, calling out, “Clean up your work-stations as you go, people!” So, we spent the morning making eggs. We boiled. We fried. We poached (with vinegar in the water). We scrambled, first with butter, then oil, to compare taste and texture. We flipped omelettes in the air (mine landed right on my forearm). We made eggs fines herbes with parsley, thyme, chives, marjoram. And we discovered an herb called borage, whose leaves had a cucumber taste and got chopped up into delicate hard-boiled-egg sandwiches. The herb’s deep blue flowers were beautiful and edible.

  “Medieval ladies used to float borage flowers in the wine cups of their knights, to give them courage,” Gil announced with a knowing nod and a wink.

  “This guy just thinks the world of himself,” I muttered to Aunt Matilda.

  “I like him anyway,” she replied, as if she’d already assessed Gil’s assets and liabilities.

  Gil then announced that we were now taking a field trip to a farmers’ market in Antibes. He led us outside where, in the brilliant sunlight, the gardeners were hard at work at the longer end of this L-shaped mas, pruning and watering all the beautiful flowers and herb shrubs that lined the curving paths along the terraced spa, pool and restaurant with its big gravel parking lot.

  “This way,” he said, briskly trotting us down a winding path that snaked past the oldest section of the mas—the shorter end of the “L”—where construction workers were doing the renovating. We could hear the shrill whine of their drills amid all the other banging and hammering.

  The sight of their progress energized Gil even further, if that were possible. “The crew has to get as much work done as they can before the summer season officially begins,” he explained, waving back to the construction supervisor, a man in a hard hat who was shouting at his men. “What a job it is! The previous owner was a very traditional French dairyman who lived to a ripe old age but never changed a ruddy thing around here.”

  We were all herded into a white van, which lurched down the great winding front drive and then around several traffic circles in Mougins, before we finally picked up the highway that took us down to the elegant coastline and the town of Cannes, where beautiful hotels faced the beaches.

  “Look, there’s the Carlton Hotel, where Grace Kelly and Cary Grant went to the beach in To Catch a Thief!” Aunt Matilda exclaimed, nudging me in the ribs with her pointy elbow, as she craned her neck and snapped pictures madly. She had popped on a big straw hat and movie-star sunglasses. The view of grand old hotels, stylish cars, palm trees, striped umbrellas, the sea nibbling at the shoreline, and a few intrepid sailboats lazily crossing the harbor all contributed to a sense of luxurious pleasure.

  We zipped onward to the peninsula of Antibes that jutted out to the Mediterranean Sea. Two main towns clung to this peninsula—on the west coast lay Grandmother Ondine’s hometown of Juan-les-Pins; but our destination was on the east coast, in the actual town of Antibes.

  “Look alive now, and follow me!” Gil boomed as we dismounted from the van onto a busy road in a densely built town. I glanced around, trying to get my bearings. Immediately he marched us through a warren of streets that were small and narrow, even crooked, and crammed with ancient buildings and mysterious shops. “This is the ‘old town’ section of Antibes. We’re going to market. Open your eyes, but more importantly, use your nose! Use every sense you’ve got. Remember, this is the land that inspired Picasso, Matisse, Goethe and Browning and even bloody Nietzsche. Now it’s your turn to be inspired because you’re cooking tonight.” He continued at a breathless pace, marching us beyond the touristy shops, to an enormous iron arcade with a bustling hubbub of food stalls.

  “This farmers’ market is where the best chefs load up their pantries for the villas and yachts of the richest clients in the world,” he proclaimed as he steered us from one awe-inspiring stand to another while jostling with savvy regulars. When we reached the fish stall, it was impressively piled high with the catches of the day.

  Abruptly Gil stopped and whirled around to face us. “If you could pick only one fish dish you’d like to learn to cook while you’re here, what would it be?” he demanded, rocking forward on the balls of his feet like a tennis player about to launch a serve. Most of us froze on the spot.

  “Bouillabaisse,” Aunt Matilda volunteered, nodding at me, having just seen this recipe in Grandma Ondine’s notebook. I was glad now that I hadn’t told her about Picasso; she was not by nature a secretive soul and she might have blurted it right out, here and now, to the entire class.

  “Ah!” Gil exclaimed. “A true Provençal meal and definitely a challenge worth pursuing. All together now, let’s hear each one of you say it, bouillabaisse,” he exhorted, cocking his head expectantly.

  “Bweeya-base,” everyone chorused hopefully.

  Gil sighed mightily. “Historically speaking, there are at least forty varieties of seafood that you can use for this meal. And a proper bouillabaisse must contain at least five to a dozen kinds of fish.”

  “Golly,” said Magda, looking worried for the first time.

  “Say hello to a rascasse, the world’s most venomous species of fish, which can sting you with its killer mucus,” Gil announced with relish, holding up a spiky orange-and-white scorpion fish.

  “You’re just teasing, right?” Lola said worriedly. “Am I right?”

  Gil had already moved on, selecting an assortment of more familiar, fleshy fish. “We’ll do a variation on the basic Marseilles version of bouillabaisse. People up and down the Mediterranean all do it a bit differently,” he explained enthusiastically. “The Spanish call it sabeta and they use more peppers.”

  I perked up, for he’d just echoed exactly what I’d read in Grandmother Ondine’s leather-bound cookbook. Many of her recipes—all written in French of course—had notes at the end for future improvements. For the bouillabaisse she’d written what I’d translated as: Nota bene: More peppers next time.

  Gil paid the fishmonger and we carried our bulging bags of food back to the parking lot, where his French kitchen assistants were lounging by the side of the van enjoying a quick smoke. At the sight of Gil they sprang to attention, stubbed out their cigarettes and expertly gathered all our bags, quickly putting the fish and other perishables into silver coolers full of bagged ice.

  “Okay, class, my staff will take these fabulous groceries back to the mas. The bus will return here to pick you all up,” Gil announced. “You may use this time to gather-ye-souvenirs-while-ye-may.”

  A sudden strong breeze leapt up, causing several identical banners along the road to flap and snap overhead like the sails of a boat. We all glanced up: against each flag’s black backdrop was the extraordinary face of Pablo Picasso, his dark eyes looking down on us with a piercing gaze that was both compelling and unsettling. The Riviera, I knew from my guidebook, always had a Picasso exhibit somewhere. This one was called Picasso: Between the Wars and Between
the Women.

  I gazed up at his image. His balding head made his high forehead seem even higher; his nose gave him a pugnacious air, yet his lips had a curl of amusement. You’re on my turf now, he seemed to say.

  “Just don’t go to the Picasso exhibit,” Gil said, “because I’ve already booked you guys into a terrific private tour next week! But there are plenty of other museums, historic sites, a ton of shops, and most importantly—lots of brilliant cafés and bistros. So make sure you eat lunch.” He began handing out euros and vouchers for our meal.

  We heard a sudden roar as one of his assistants arrived on a motorcycle. The guy was young and French and had apparently driven the bike over for Gil, who seemed to expect it and went walking over to take it. Gil peered at the big wristwatch on his arm. “All right, everybody. Be back here by three o’clock sharp. Everyone got the mas’s number on your phones? Good. Call if you get lost. But if you miss the bus”—he drew his finger across his neck as if slitting his throat—“then you’re out of the class.”

  He clapped his hands loudly, startling a flock of pigeons hovering hopefully. “Time’s a-wasting, so get on your marks, set, and—go!” he said, tapping his wristwatch. Relieved and released, we broke off into excited clusters, not really sure where to go but feeling we ought to put visible energy into the situation. Gil had already hopped onto his fire-engine-red motorbike, and now he zoomed off.

  Joey broke the ice first. “Flickin’ great Ducati,” he said, impressed by the bike. With his Chicago accent, it sounded more like Duh-cawh-ti.

  “Betcha he’s got a girl in town to help him work out all that energy,” Lola drawled wickedly. “After all, it’s siesta time on the Med.”

  “That’s Spanish, dear, not French,” Ben pointed out in a gentle but pained attitude.

  “Sweetie, it’s all the same behind the shutters, no matter whatcha call it,” Lola replied, as she and Ben, and Joey and Magda, headed directly for the town and its shops.