Bon Bon Voyage

by Nancy Fairbanks

  Feeling put upon, probably as a result of sleep deprivation, I examined the sitting room more closely than I had while trying to mediate the initial meeting between my two roommates and during the arrival of the unappreciated bonbons. As well as the table and chairs, there was a sitting area with two loveseats edging a coffee table and one armchair on the third side, all of which faced a television set that folded down from the ceiling, according to the TV booklet on an end table. The color scheme was rose and gray. Beyond a large draped area were sliding doors that led to a balcony with white metal chairs and a low table. The outside chairs had rose cushions on the seats. If I hadn’t been so exhausted, I’d have sat there with my abandoned wine and nuts and gazed at the harbor.

  Instead, assuming that Luz was under the sheets by now, I put the unfinished goblet and half-eaten packet on the table, took a nightgown and toiletries out of my carry-on, and tiptoed through to the mini-bath. Luz was fast asleep while I struggled out of my clothes and into the shower, where the water ran hot immediately and I luxuriated in a thorough soaping and spraying, not to mention the scrubbing of my face and ears. The Bountiful Feast may have been sailing from a European port, but unlike European hotels, it provided wash-cloths. Of course, I’d brought my own, but I wouldn’t have to use them.

  I didn’t even have to use my own toiletries. The mirrored door above the sink revealed a full array of lotions, shampoos, perfumed soaps, toothbrushes, and toothpastes. I brushed my teeth vigorously, slipped out of the bathroom, dropped my travel clothes into the laundry bag provided by the ship, and fell into bed. I doubt that I’ve ever fallen asleep faster in my life. I barely had time to realize that Luz did groan in her sleep, although I doubted that my mother-in-law snored. She just wanted the room to herself, which was fine with me. I didn’t want to share with her anyway. She had an uncanny talent for hurting my feelings.

  The first time I ever had bonbons, they came decoratively wrapped as a “bon voyage” gift. Granted, they looked pretty when I opened the box, but there wasn’t a dollop of chocolate in the lot. Now, truffles are heavenly. I love truffles, which have chocolate on the outside or the inside or both. Imagine a truffle with dark chocolate coating, a crispy inner layer of chocolate beneath that, and then liqueur spurting into your mouth when you’ve bitten through. Godiva makes those. Then compare that to a bonbon.

  My box contained a lot of coconut, which is very unhealthy. It shoots your cholesterol right up into the stratosphere, whereas dark chocolate lowers your cholesterol. Some of the bonbons were fruity or nutty, which is nice, but it’s not chocolate. I’d swear that several had mashed sweet potato inside with hard frosting outside. How disgusting is that?

  If for some reason you decide to make bonbons— and there are bonbon recipes—here is a strawberry version, since May is not only Mother’s Day month, but also National Strawberry Month. Also, the recipe has a bit of chocolate in it to perk you up. For added perkiness, I’ve included a coffee bonbon recipe.

  However, the ultimate candy to produce happiness is the truffle, so I’ve provided a simple truffle recipe that you can fix in any number of flavors.

  Strawberry Bonbons

  Blend well 8 ounces softened cream cheese and 6 ounces melted semisweet chocolate chips.

  Stir in ¾ cup vanilla wafer crumbs and ¼ cup seedless strawberry preserves.

  Shape into 1-inch balls and roll in chopped hazelnuts. (30 bonbons)

  Coffee Bonbons

  Mix the following ingredients: 1 cup finely rolled vanilla wafer crumbs;cup confectioner’s sugar; ¾ cup finely chopped pecans; 1 tablespoon instant coffee powder; 2 tablespoons melted butter; 1½ tablespoons light corn syrup; and ¼ cup coffee liqueur.

  Roll into 1-inch balls, dust with more confectioner’s sugar, and refrigerate for several days.

  Various Truffles

  For raspberry truffles, defrost ¾ cup frozen or fresh raspberries and strain through a fine mesh sieve. Set ¼ cup aside.

  Chop finely 8 ounces good semisweet chocolate such as Lindt and put in a bowl.

  Bring ¾ cup heavy cream almost to a boil and pour it over chocolate. Whisk to blend.

  Stir in raspberry puree and a nip of salt (or for a different truffle flavor, 3 tablespoons brandy, cognac, Grand Marnier, rum, or other favorite liqueur.)

  Cover and refrigerate until very cold, one hour or more.

  Make 1-inch balls with a melon baller or small ice-cream scoop and put on a baking sheet. Return to refrigerator.

  Pour sifted Dutch-process cocoa powder or favorite sugar or finely chopped nuts on a plate or plates and roll cold truffles in them, coating thoroughly.

  Move truffles to an airtight container with waxed paper between layers.

  Can be stored for one week in fridge or frozen for a month.

  Truffles can also be coated with a hard layer of chocolate, but the process, which involves tempering the coating chocolate, is more complicated (i.e. melting the chocolate, cooling, and re-melting before dipping and rolling the truffles and refrigerating again).

  Carolyn Blue, “Have Fork, Will Travel,” Phoenix Sun

  7

  The Captain’s Champagne Reception

  Luz

  I woke up feeling pretty good, taking notice of my mood and my physical condition, as I always do before I open my eyes. Some days it’s not worth getting out of bed. That day it seemed safe: I didn’t feel like biting anyone’s head off or yelling at my dog, and my knees didn’t ache. Then I did open my eyes and got a high-voltage jolt.

  Where the hell was I? Oh, Christ! Carolyn’s frigging cruise. Narrow bed, like I was a nun or some damn thing. Fussy boat colors. We were probably already at sea since I felt a weird vibration I never noticed in my condo at home. So I checked for seasickness. Nope. I didn’t feel like puking, but I did look around wildly for the bathroom and, spotting a door, grabbed a terry robe someone had left on the bed, not the weird little steward I hoped, and sprang out from under the covers.

  Whoops! I slammed the door to the living room shut and tried another. Hijo de puta! If this was the luxurious john with water-spouting tub Carolyn had told me about, the Bountiful Feast people were going to be really sorry they lied to us! To take a piss, I had to put one elbow in the sink. To take a shower, I was wedged between a tile wall and a glass door, on which I scraped my butt trying to get in. At least the water was hot, and the soap, which smelled like a whorehouse full of perfume, made suds. I felt better, except for a second scrape getting out, and scrambled into the robe. If I showed up naked in the living room, Carolyn would faint. No telling what her mother-in-law would do. The woman had a personality like broken glass.

  I padded barefoot into the living room and spotted Carolyn and Vera sitting on a balcony, all dressed up, with a million miles of water in the background. What I didn’t see was my suitcase, and when I glanced over my shoulder into the bedroom, it wasn’t there either. The only things of mine in there were my traveling jeans and denim shirt, neatly draped over a chair (not by me; I’d dropped them in a heap on the floor when we got in) and my sling bag sitting on the carpet by the chair.

  They’d lost my suitcase, the bastards. Or that Luis at the airport had stolen it. If the ship had been returning to Lisbon when this mess was over, I’d have torn the city apart looking for him and wrung his thieving neck. When I stomped over to the sliding glass doors and glared at Carolyn in her comfy deck chair, she jumped up, looking really surprised.

  “Luz!”

  “Right!” I snarled. “Where’s my bag?”

  “The Albanian can’t find it,” said her mother-in-law. “Silly man was in tears when he came to tell us.”

  Carolyn thought I might as well go back to bed while she tried to find a solution to my problem. “What? And miss the champagne party?” I snarled. “And the great hors d’oeuvres, and getting my picture taken with the captain, not to mention our first gourmet dinner at sea? No way.”

  I left Carolyn stuttering and her mother-in-law grinning like an anci
ent bruja; she lacked only the pointy hat and broomstick. Once back in the bedroom with the door closed, I climbed into my second-day-dirty clothes and considered how to make myself glamorous. My sorority sisters, nitwits all, used to say, if you had only a plain dress for a special occasion, dress it up with a scarf or jewelry. They probably read that in some woman’s magazine that told how to charm a man or lose weight or find a good hairdresser.

  Showing a little skin was recommended, so I unbuttoned the shirt down to my bra, tied the tails in a knot under my boobs, pushed my underpants down so they didn’t show above my jeans, checked my belly button for lint, put on my grandmother’s turquoise jewelry, and added lipstick. Now I had to choose between sneakers and bare feet. I remembered little bows stuck to the stuff in the bathroom medicine chest, so I rescued two of those and taped them on my big toes. Maybe people would think I had on see-through sandals. Or that I was just some nutcase. Satisfied, I sashayed out to startle my roommates with my new look.

  Carolyn gaped. Her mother-in-law laughed out loud and said, “I like a woman with a sense of humor.”

  Carolyn

  I’d been hoping Luz would want to order room service and go back to bed. No such luck. Obviously she planned to spend the whole tour wearing those jeans unless I could figure something out, but she was too tall to wear my clothes. We took the elevator down to the reception with people staring at us—well, at Luz, who smiled back and pointed a toe occasionally to admire the bow she’d attached to it. I couldn’t help but feel that she was getting even with me for talking her into this trip.

  My mother-in-law actually whispered to some woman on the elevator that she thought Luz was a famous designer from Madrid. Luz played right along by speaking in Spanish to a man next to her. He obviously had no idea what she was saying, but he was so flattered by her attention that he trailed us into the reception and stuck close, handing her glasses of champagne and snatching canapé trays from waiters to offer her while we were standing in line to be introduced to the captain.

  The hors d’oeuvres were lovely: caviar on toast, tiny tempura shrimp, pork dumplings with a lovely soy and rice-wine vinegar dipping sauce, salty, red-brown cracked olives, and little puff pastries filled with everything from brandied fruit to tuna bits in a mild horseradish cream. I’m afraid I made a pig of myself, but then I was here to write about their food, so I had to taste it. The champagne waiters were followed by waitresses carrying trays with tiny portions of Chambord and a peach liqueur, which they would pour into your champagne to make Bellinis if you indicated an interest. I’d had two by the time Luz reached the captain.

  Captain Gennaro Marbella was a very handsome man in his perfectly ironed white uniform with periwinkle trim and gold epaulettes, his black hair handsomely streaked with white, a tanned face, and a melting smile. He seemed to prefer to have his picture taken while each lady, looking bemused by his charm, was encircled in his arm and her male escort, if any, stood beside them looking awkward. After the introductory handshake, Luz snuggled up against him for the picture while he smiled down at her cleavage. Then she whispered to him, loudly enough for me to hear, “If you people don’t find my luggage, I’m going to sue your asses off.”

  I groaned and helped myself to a third glass of champagne. The captain stared at her in astonishment. “No luggage?” he asked.

  “You lost it,” she replied.

  “Get Patek!” he roared. Crewmembers scrambled, and in no time at all, a slender man with dark hair and skin and an officer’s uniform, but with less decoration than the captain’s, presented himself. “This lovely lady says she has no luggage,” the captain growled. “You lost it.”

  “I am aware one passenger—”

  “What do you intend to do about it?” demanded the captain.

  “I have already been in touch with Lisbon, Captain.”

  “Not good enough,” snapped Gennaro. “Passengers on my ship do not sail without their luggage.” He turned to Luz. “My most lovely signora, tomorrow morning the ship’s boutique will outfit you for your passage. With our compliments. Choose what you will, and accept my apologies. Even without your clothes, you look beautiful.” He scanned her cleavage and belly button. “Most enchanting.”

  “Gee, thanks,” said Luz.

  I was up next, horribly embarrassed. My hand was perspiring when he shook it. At a loss for conversation while the photographer was aiming at us, I asked the captain if he came from Naples. “Holy Blessed Virgin!” he exclaimed with delight as he embraced me with both arms and asked how I knew.

  “San Gennaro, the-the patron saint of Naples,” I stammered.

  “You have been there?” he asked. When I nodded, he kissed me on both cheeks, and the photographer took our picture. I wouldn’t be able to take that one home to Jason. On second thought, maybe I should.

  When the last of the two hundred passengers had been embraced and photographed—no one else got kissed—the captain introduced his staff to the crowd: Martin Froder, ship’s engineer, a wiry fellow with short blond hair and a sour expression coupled with a German accent; Bruce Hartwig, chief security officer, American, burly, ugly, and sort of scary looking, although he had a nice smile and aimed it at the guests; the ship’s doctor, Beaufort E. Lee, whose gray hair hung in untidy curls on his forehead; Umar Patek, the chief steward, who seemed unruffled after his brief tongue-lashing from the captain; Chef Demetrios Kostas el Greco, round, flushed, and sporting a two-foot, cylindrical chef ’s hat set slightly askew; and Hanna Fredriksen, the blonde, Amazonian hotel manager, who gave the captain a killing look when he asked us to note what a luscious figure she had. Although the woman was standing, like a good soldier, straight with shoulders back, feet braced apart, and hands behind her back, I think the captain tried to pat her on the fanny.

  “Ha!” said my mother-in-law. “That woman needs to be told she doesn’t have to put up with sexual harassment even if he is the captain. And why was he kissing you, Carolyn? Obviously, I’m going to have to keep an eye on you.”

  I tried to rush Vera and Luz toward the dining room before Vera could make a feminist scene, but we were waylaid by a couple who could have been brother and sister with their light brown hair, suntanned faces, and matching greenish suits. “Kev Crossways,” said the man, and offered me his right hand to shake and, in his left hand, a small tray of fried cheese balls speared with toothpicks. He must have snatched them from a waiter.

  “Bev Crossways,” said the woman, shaking all our hands before tossing back a flute of champagne, unadulterated with any of the colorful liquors being offered. “Adjunct professors at the Scripps Institution of Oceanography.”

  “Did you notice how many pictures they took at this party?” Kev demanded. “Over four hundred. Four hundred! Now they’ll develop them in their photo shop, sell them to you at outrageous prices, and pour the developing chemicals overboard.”

  “Those chemicals are toxic,” said Bev. “Dangerous pollutants.”

  “Really?” Too bad Jason isn’t here, I thought. He’d be interested. In fact, he’d probably know more about the toxicity than she did.

  “Take a picture. Kill a fish,” said Kev, looking outraged.

  “A whole school of fish,” Bev predicted.

  “Well, let’s hope we won’t be eating any of them tonight,” said Vera. “And speaking of eating—”

  “A pleasure to meet you,” I said politely to the Crosswayses and let myself be shepherded away by my sour-faced mother-in-law.

  “Heads up, Luz,” Vera called over her shoulder to Luz, who had bent over to readjust the bow on her left foot.

  8

  At the Doctor’s Table

  Luz

  People actually believed that I was a fashion designer from Madrid wearing one of my own outfits. How dumb was that? I got stopped and gushed over by women who probably were wearing designer stuff, so I played along by answering in Spanish while Carolyn squirmed and her mother-in-law had a great time translating my remarks. I found out af
ter the first translation that Vera didn’t know a word of Spanish. She just improvised. For instance, she told some blue-haired snob from Connecticut that high heels were definitely out now that everyone knew heels were the result of a plot by the patriarchy. The woman looked pretty surprised and seemed to think the “patriarchy” had a connection to terrorism.

  The dining room was something else—big framed panels of silver and light purple silk and velvet stuck up on the walls, crystal chandeliers, silver carpet so soft the stuff inched up between my toes and knocked my toe bows cockeyed. I got my feet under the table as fast as I could because I kind of enjoyed playing Spanish designer. The tables seated eight, with velvet armchairs, white tablecloths, candles, china, place cards with our names written in old-fashioned script, and waiters who directed us to our seats.

  We got the doctor’s table. I had a sneaking feeling that wasn’t a plum assignment. The captain’s table had the blue-hairs and their well-fed husbands. I was next to the doctor, and on his other side were a really tall, busty, middle-aged black lady and her large, black husband—Randolph and Harriet Barber. He owned a string of funeral homes. How the hell he got so big is a mystery, because he had a video camera and took pictures of everything and everybody, pretty much ignoring dinner, while his wife talked about the Republican Party and her years at some fancy eastern girl’s university where she was one of the first African-American students.