When the discussion turned to politics, I quietly asked Clotilde what she thought of the whole situation.
“It’s a common phenomenon,” she said.
The confused look on my face prompted her to clarify: “Many people in Paris, at least those who weren’t born there, dream of returning to where they grew up when they have a family. Maybe Serge has had this plan for years. I guess he just didn’t need to enact it until you came along.”
“Seriously? You think that’s what’s going on? I couldn’t live in the country. What on earth would I do all day?” The thought of all that fresh air was terrifying.
“Don’t worry. I’m sure it’s just a flight of fancy. Is that the right expression?” she asked.
I nodded. “So, it’s something he might get over?” I asked nervously.
She gave me the type of French shrug that made a confusing discussion even more ambiguous.
After lunch, Marie showed us to our rooms and told us to enjoy the property for the afternoon while she and Jacques ran some errands.
As soon as I’d shut the door, it was impossible not to notice the lack of sirens, car horns, and general noise that I’d come to expect in Paris. All I could hear were birds and the wind. The silence was almost ominous.
“Is there anything you want to tell me about why we’re going to look at a farm for sale tomorrow?” I asked Serge.
“Do not worry, Bella. Jacques had already lined it up before I told him we were coming to visit. Maybe we can just go so we do not offend him,” he said, rubbing my shoulders.
“So, it’s just for Jacques, then? Or is this what you had in mind when you said we needed to move out of central Paris?”
“There is no harm in looking, right?” he said, avoiding my question.
“Serge, are you sure everything is OK? I’m starting to worry that the news of the baby has made you feel like we need a complete life overhaul,” I said as gently as I could. Meanwhile, I was furiously trying to figure out why he was even entertaining the idea of looking at property out here. I certainly didn’t believe that it was only for Jacques’s benefit.
“But you agree we need to make changes, yes?” he asked.
“We’ve got plenty of time before the baby comes,” I said. “I don’t think we should rush into anything.”
“But you will at least come?” Serge asked. “Everybody else seems interested.”
“I guess. I’m just not sure if there’s much point. I thought we were out here to clear our heads and come to terms with the news of the baby. This farm visit seems like an unnecessary distraction.”
“We can probably taste some goat cheese,” he added, obviously having kept this selling point up his sleeve.
“Why didn’t you lead with that?” I joked, resigning myself to the fact that Serge would be going, with or without me. At least if I was there I could do damage control if need be.
Seeing Serge’s face relax now that I’d agreed to join them, I felt even more skeptical of his motives. He seemed oddly attached to us both going. Perhaps he was nostalgic for his father’s old goat farm. Or maybe he just needed to see firsthand what running a farm would entail in order to reinforce that we had things pretty damn good in Paris.
“What should we do now? Fancy a walk?” I asked.
“I actually have some work I need to do,” Serge said.
“I thought Fanny was looking after things in the store,” I said, frustrated that we couldn’t at least enjoy the afternoon off together.
“I just need to figure this one thing out. Why don’t you lie down,” he suggested.
“I am exhausted, come to think of it,” I said.
Just before falling asleep, I saw Serge pull out a pencil and a calculator.
The next thing I knew, I was waking up to the breeze that gently slipped through the window. Serge was still hard at work, tapping away and jotting something down. I called him over for a hug, and he was wrapping his arms around me within seconds.
“Everything is going to be perfect,” he said, excitedly.
“What’s going to be perfect?” I asked.
“Everything,” he reiterated unhelpfully.
Chapter
5
THE NEXT MORNING, I WOKE to the crowing of roosters through our still-open window, and I couldn’t help but smile at how clichéd that felt.
After a few minutes of this, however, the novelty wore off. I was left wondering how long the roosters would keep at it, and if it was more of a daily or a weekly wake-up call.
Serge must have heard it, too—it was impossible not to—because he soon began smothering me in sleepy kisses, telling me how much he adored the sounds of the country. Each to his own, I figured, as he pulled me under the covers.
We set off to meet farmer Michel in the town of Chinon. For some reason, everyone seemed to be dressed in “country chic,” autumnal-colored knits and stylish gum boots, making them look like they’d taken wardrobe inspiration from a Ralph Lauren catalogue. I felt out of place in my blue jeans and striped jumper, which Clotilde jokingly informed me was only appropriate when holidaying by the seaside. Of course, the French have rules about holiday attire, I thought.
As we drove, Marie was busy pointing out particular vineyards and cheese producers, as well as some of the most popular castles to visit. Where normally I would have loved nothing more than a discussion about French wine, cheese, and culture, I was distracted by the conversation that was quietly taking place between Jacques and Serge in the front seats.
“And don’t be deterred by the house itself,” Jacques said.
“But the farm justifies the price, right?” Serge asked as a follow-up.
“You won’t be disappointed.”
“And the structural work?” Serge asked.
“Leave it with me,” Jacques replied confidently.
Serge nodded, and my worries about his intentions returned.
Approaching Chinon, I was immediately charmed. The wide Vienne River merged with vibrant grassy banks leading up to uniform lines of houses, with the imposing Chinon Château looming in the background. It was hard to deny that it was one of the most picturesque places I’d ever visited.
Papa Jean and Clotilde tooted their horn as we caught up to them, and we all headed across the bridge toward the center of town. From the impatient look on Jean’s face, I guessed they’d been waiting for us for a while.
Coffee was apparently the first stop on our farm visit, because, well, this was France. We met Michel at a café in the Place du General de Gaulle.
Michel was tall, weather-beaten, and muscular. It was hard to pinpoint his age, but given he wanted to sell the property because he apparently felt too old to run it, I was guessing he had to be at least seventy. He wore jeans and a beige knit jumper, and when he shook my hand, I could feel his years of hard work rubbing against my smooth, office-worker skin.
His French was husky but slow, and I delighted in the fact that I could mostly understand everything he said. We’re not in Paris anymore, Toto, I thought.
We sat near an old fountain, surrounded by trees that were losing their leaves to the season. It was the perfect backdrop. I almost wondered if Serge had orchestrated this whole weekend to be a seamless exhibition of the wonders of country life. I reminded myself to stay alert and decided that if I saw a wild deer crossing our path or something similar, I’d know I was being set up.
My musings about getting caught up in a Funny Farm-esque plot line were quickly shot down, however, when the coffee arrived and tasted terrible. I was reminded of my early days in Paris before I discovered Flat White, when I was drinking the bitter sludge that the old coffee machines spat out all day long. I thought that perhaps it was just the decaffeinated version, so I snuck a sip from Serge’s espresso, and it confirmed my fears. If I needed another reason not to leave Paris, it would be the distinct lack of drinkable coffee.
Everyone was chatting away in French, so
I let myself tune out and began to enjoy some people-watching. I hadn’t spent a lot of time outside of Paris since I’d arrived in France, so I was keen to check out the scene.
I was intrigued to see a relatively young—and, by young, I mean young compared to the rest of the people I’d seen out here—man tapping away on a laptop at a café across the square. I put him in his late thirties, but he had the kind of face that made it hard to guess his age. He was quite tall for a Frenchman and wore thick glasses with a dark rim. I couldn’t help but notice that he was handsome, despite Serge’s hand resting warmly on my thigh.
I wondered what he was working on. Notebooks and books surrounded his laptop and overtook the small round table where he sat. The spines and covers were too far away for me to read, but I guessed they were all terribly intellectual. He appeared to be slipping in and out of deep thought, resting his fist on his chin for a few moments and then furiously tapping something out on his laptop, or scribbling in his notebook. Whatever he was doing, he seemed to be taking it seriously.
Suddenly, he looked up and busted me staring at him. I blushed and hoped I was sitting too far away for him to notice the color of my cheeks. He gave me a little grin and a nod before going back to his work.
I tried to figure out why I was so interested in what he was doing. Perhaps he just caught my attention because he looked so out of place. There weren’t many other younger people around, so he’d been elevated to become the most interesting out of an average bunch. Whatever it was about this stranger, he shattered my impression that country life had to revolve around gardening and cooking.
“How is Françoise?” farmer Michel asked Serge in French, forcing me abruptly back into the conversation. How was it that everyone in town seemed so interested in Serge’s ex-wife?
My eyes shot to Serge to see how he’d respond this time, but his face didn’t give much away. He muttered something about her being well last he heard, and I thought that would be that.
But then Michel followed on with, “Et son papa?”
I wasn’t sure why the recent mentions of Françoise—or her father for that matter—continued to bother me so much, but I could feel my cheeks burning. Doesn’t anyone consider how I might feel about being so casually reminded of Serge’s ex? Regardless of everybody’s intentions, these brief discussions reinforced how completely in the dark I was about Serge’s former marriage. Before, it hadn’t seemed particularly important, but now, with the baby on the way, it felt like there was more at stake. Perhaps if I understood what had led to the degradation of the relationship and, ultimately, the divorce, I could get to the point where I could hear Françoise’s name without flinching.
After coffee, we followed Michel’s beat-up old Citroën van out of town and toward the farm. When I saw his turn indicator start to flicker ten minutes later, I thought, At least we don’t have to go too far out of our way for this whole debacle.
The long and dusty driveway led to a modest, but not entirely ugly, farmhouse made of large stones with a slate-tiled roof. The house was surrounded by other buildings, which I guessed made up the “farm” aspect of the property. These were less appealing than the house itself, and I imagined that the property would be much more aesthetically pleasing without them, but given the farm was set up to make goat cheese, I figured they were a necessity. Less of an eyesore was a gorgeous little pond that had come into view.
I wondered why Jacques had been so keen for us to check this place out. It was hardly the grand country château that might persuade someone to pack up and move here immediately. In fact, it looked like many of the other rather nondescript properties we’d driven past on the way over. Sure, the garden was quite pretty, but then we’d been blessed with the type of perfect autumn weather—big blue skies contrasting with juicy green grass and trees of varying shades of yellows and reds—that might convince people that moving to the country would solve all their problems. Fools, I thought with a silent chuckle.
Michel pulled up to the open garage next to two other cars. (I’d always wondered why people living in the country needed so many cars; perhaps I’d finally get to figure this out.) After we got out, he started explaining about the property. Apparently, the barn, milking shed, and cheese-making rooms were another hundred meters down the road. The random hangars and other buildings nestled beside the house were simply for all the cars and excess crap you ended up with when you weren’t confined by tight spaces in Paris. Lesson one in country life, I told myself.
Clotilde and Jean came over to me, neither of them looking particularly impressed.
“Not quite what I was expecting,” Clotilde said.
“No, rather underwhelming, really,” I replied.
“Papa, what do you think?” she asked.
“It’s certainly not Paris,” he answered with raised eyebrows.
“I’m with you, Jean,” I said.
The three of us stood looking out over the farm, and I got the impression we were all asking ourselves what we were doing there.
“Shall we start with the house?” Michel suggested.
“Yes, let’s go,” I said. The sooner we start, the sooner we’ll be done and on our way to lunch.
Serge looked at me enthusiastically and took my hand.
The front door led into a gloomy hallway that led into a gloomy living room. As we walked from room to room, my heart sank for Michel. I was certain that the house would be difficult to sell in its current state. The décor was dated, with floral wallpaper in the bedrooms and ugly brown tiling in the kitchen and bathroom that burned into my retinas.
“Just imagine the bones, Ella,” Serge said to me as he saw my expression change to one of horror as we walked into the miserable kitchen. “There’s so much potential.”
“For someone, maybe,” I said, being generous.
“I can see it now.”
“See what now?” I asked.
“A family home,” he said.
“Serge, you can’t seriously be considering this!” I said. “Just look around.”
“For the price, it’s hard not to.”
I finally acknowledged that I could be in a little trouble.
After rushing through the rest of the house to avoid Serge getting any further ideas, we walked across to the farm. It was impossible not to notice the sound of the bells that hung around each goat’s neck. At one point, Serge raised his voice to talk over the clanging, but just as quickly seemed to decide to wait until we were inside to finish what he was saying. Some goats came toward us bleating loudly. I was taken aback by their dark, elongated pupils and was relieved when we finally got away from their collective gaze.
To my surprise, the interiors of the farm were modern and well maintained. The milking machinery and cheese-making facilities (lessons two and three in country living) looked shiny and professional, and the buildings were well maintained. It was evident that Michel’s passion resided firmly with the animals.
He talked us through the different aspects of the business—the milking, making the goat cheese, and his aging process—and Serge nodded along enthusiastically, stopping him often to ask questions.
We were then led into what Michel called “le grand plus,” or “the big plus,” of the property. It was an airy room with a large bar at one end and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the fields of goats. A long trestle table was plonked in the center of the room, and through a side door, I could see a small kitchen with a barbeque and an old oven.
“This would be the perfect space to sell direct to the public,” Michel said.
“So, you’re already set up for that?” I asked, wondering if the rustic look was perhaps intentional.
“Non, non, non,” he said sternly. “I’m too old for all that. Besides, this is where I host my hunting dinners.”
“Right,” I said, surprised that he’d gone to the effort of setting up a rudimentary restaurant just for hunting dinners with his mates. What a waste!
Stepping behind the bar, Michel pulled out a few wax-paper-wrapped packages from a small fridge. Cheese! I thought with glee. But my plans to finally make the most of this farm visit were quickly thwarted as Michel proudly explained that none of his cheese was pasteurized. Serge gave me an apologetic look, and I spent the next few minutes trying to convince myself that it wasn’t the end of the world.
Our party unanimously liked Michel’s produce, and their appreciation only increased as they sampled their way from the day-old goat cheese to the aged ash-coated log. I smelled each variety and eyed the texture and had never felt such an intense desire to pick up cheese remains and run away with them. To hell with this unpasteurized malarkey. One bite can’t hurt. I took a small slice of the fresh cheese and ate it. It melted onto my tongue like a scoop of ice cream dropped on a hot pavement. Serge looked over at me as I dragged out eating my tiny sample.
“C’est bon, oui?” he said.
“Oh, oui,” I said, unable to articulate anything more.
And it was bon. It was overwhelmingly light and fresh. The perfect balance between fluffy and creamy, a little sweet, with a hint of citrus. If clouds were edible, I decided, they would taste like this cheese. Michel had done himself proud.
When we arrived back at the car, Serge pulled me aside.
“Ella, I need to talk to you,” he said.
“Can’t it wait until after lunch?” I asked. “I’m starving!” It felt like days since Marie had served up big bowls of coffee and hot chocolate with warm baguettes, butter, and homemade raspberry jam. Since arriving in France, I’d really come around to French-style breakfast, or petit-déj, even though it wasn’t as filling as my old go-to of eggs and bacon. There was something about the way a buttered baguette softened yet retained its crunch when dipped into a hot, milky drink, that drove me wild with joy.
Brioche in the Oven Page 4