Brioche in the Oven

by Victoria Brownlee

  “Really? When I saw her she looked fine. She’s back behind the fence now. She actually went back in very obligingly. She really is one of my favorites.”

  “Well, not mine,” I said.

  “Shall we go back together?” he asked.

  “Perhaps I should stay here and make us some lunch,” I said, my heart still beating quickly.

  Serge only needed to look at me to realize I was traumatized. He nodded his agreement and gave me a reassuring hug.

  Perhaps I can find another way to convince Serge that the cheese-tasting room is a good idea, I thought while busying myself in the kitchen.

  Cooking turned out to be the ultimate distraction from my other concerns. It was meditative and warm. It kept me both physically and mentally occupied. And neither Serge, nor the bébé, complained about the outcome.

  I needed to find recipes and go shopping, all before even starting to prepare and cook. If it wasn’t market day, I’d have to head to the supermarket for supplies, which always felt like a mission. Country supermarkets—or les grandes surfaces—didn’t bear much resemblance to the ones I’d frequented in Paris. They were huge warehouses with equally large parking lots, and felt big and cold. Everyone used trolleys and stocked up on things like long-life milk and six-packs of water. The selection of products was overwhelming, and I missed the careful curating that made the delis and épiceries of Paris so perfect. But still, the collection of cheese was enormous, so I couldn’t really complain.

  Cooking filled hours of my day, and I seemed to have the wonderful ability to choose recipes that would take a long time to prepare. Serge had a Paul Bocuse cookbook from the seventies that was wildly decadent and complicated, but provided me with an opportunity to test both my French and my skills in the kitchen. And it served as great fodder for my Instagram feed. While last year had been all about cheese in its natural state, this year would be all about dishes that incorporated cheese.

  Building on my reasoning that everyone is happy after eating well, I planned to tell Serge about my plans for the cheese room eventually, over a lavish dinner. But the nights went by and the moment never felt right, and then Chris was due to visit, so I put it off a little longer.

  Chris arrived and brought with him a breath of Paris air that I didn’t even realize I’d been desperate for. And he was thrilled to be out of the city, exclaiming that even the journey had been refreshing. Serge and I picked him up at the train, took him back to our house, and gave him the tour. He loved the place.

  Later, with Serge back looking after his goats, Chris drove us into town. We headed to my usual café, the only one I’d found with decent Wi-Fi.

  “Now, sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but from what I’ve seen, you won’t get a decent flat white out here,” I told him.

  Opting for a glass of Chinon wine instead, Chris asked me how I was holding up.

  “It’s been an adjustment,” I told him.

  “No kidding,” he said. “Even Paris can be hard to get used to. I can only imagine being out here in the backwaters.”

  “There are certain things I do like. The local market is amazing. Serge keeps telling me how delicious the wine is. Goat cheese is rife. This town is gorgeous. I guess I’m just missing my creature comforts—my Haussmann apartment, my favorite barista . . .”

  “Who wouldn’t miss me?” he asked.

  I punched him in the arm. He was only joking but he actually wasn’t wrong. It felt indulgent to admit that I was missing coffee, but it was more than that. I was missing café culture. Hanging out in a friendly space with friendly people. Having a meeting point.

  “And how’s work?” he asked, bringing me back from Paris where my mind had wandered off to.

  I guessed Tim hadn’t mentioned anything to Chris. I started to explain the situation as I had done with Clotilde.

  “So, what are you doing all day?” he asked, interrupting.

  “Well, I’ve taken to cooking, which fills in a surprising amount of time.”

  “Have you been checking out the area? Visiting other towns?”

  “Not really,” I admitted. “A little bit while Clotilde was here.”

  “Ella. It sounds like what you need is a break from the farm. Being pregnant doesn’t mean you’re housebound,” he said.

  “No, but I’m certainly less fun.”

  “You probably have less fun, but that doesn’t make you less fun. What else is there to do around here?”

  “There’s plenty of wine,” I joked.

  “Yes! Let’s go to a winery and try some wine,” he said quickly.

  I pointed at my stomach.

  “Ella, you’re mad—a winery is probably the one place in the world where it is acceptable to spit out wine.”

  I actually hadn’t considered that. “OK, let’s do it,” I said.

  It was that time of year when most of the wineries were either quiet or closed for tastings, but we found a beautiful vineyard just outside of Chinon that was open.

  Chris enthusiastically tried every wine on offer, while I was more reserved, trying only a couple and making sure to spit the samples out.

  Walking through the spindly vines—Chris jolly from the tasting—I explained my idea for the cheese room to him.

  “Like a café?” he asked.

  “No, more like somewhere you can go and try—and then buy—the cheese, and perhaps sit down for some simple food. Like a wine-tasting room, but for cheese.”

  “I like it,” he said.

  “Yeah?” I asked, relieved.

  “But why not just throw a coffee machine in the corner, too?” he suggested.

  “I guess I could,” I said, thinking it over for a minute. It would certainly manage to kill two birds with one stone. It’d make good coffee available in the country and it’d probably bring in more business. “It’s a good idea,” I admitted.

  “You’d need a barista, though,” he added quickly, obviously remembering how bad I was at making coffee.

  “You?” I suggested.

  “Move here?”

  “Yep!”

  “No way, Ella. I’ve hardly seen anyone under forty here—there’s certainly not enough action for my liking. But I could help you get things off the ground. Are you serious about it?”

  “Well, I’m not sure about the café aspect, but I want to do something to help Serge sell his cheese. And really, I don’t have much else going on.”

  “And what about all that?” he said, pointing at my belly.

  “You underestimate the power of a pregnant woman,” I told him with a grin. “And a bored one at that.”

  “You’ll need a proper plan then,” he said.

  We spent the afternoon figuring out a business proposal and a budget for the cheese room. I told Chris we wouldn’t have much disposable money, and he reassured me that he had the contacts to help me do things affordably. “Besides,” he said, “you’ve got amazing second-hand markets in this area. I’m sure you could set up something really fun while sticking to this budget.”

  After Chris’s visit, the idea of starting a café/cheese room in the middle of nowhere had officially become my new dream. It even made me cool slightly on the idea of immediately moving back to Paris. I’d begun to realize that I couldn’t fit my old city life into this new country setting, and in order to create a life for myself here, I needed to acclimatize to the surroundings. For perhaps the first time since we’d arrived on the farm, I was excited to see how things might evolve.

  Serge must have noticed my change in disposition, too, because even though he was still constantly busy, he seemed happier than he had been in a while.

  He’d taken the news of me cutting back my hours at Food To Go Go surprisingly well. When I’d explained that Tim had found someone in Paris to replace me, and that I’d just be doing occasional freelance jobs, he didn’t seem too bothered. Perhaps he felt guilty for making me leave the Paris office in the first place. O
r perhaps his money troubles were sorting themselves out, and he didn’t need to rely on my income anymore.

  It probably would have been a good time to pitch the café/cheese room to Serge but, following Chris’s advice, I wanted to do a little more research—and investigation into the state of our finances—before doing so.

  Serge was a numbers guy. I had to make sure what I’d budgeted wasn’t too far out of reach before sharing it with him. I was already worried he’d think it was mad to take on this project, what with our eventual house renovations and the baby on the way, but as Serge once said, why walk when you can run?

  Chapter

  14

  AFTER THE BUZZ OF CLOTILDE’S and Chris’s visits, the house felt desperately quiet, and with Serge still spending most daylight hours on the farm, my boredom returned quickly. I decided to drive myself into town to do our weekly shopping. I was no closer to getting my French license, but in the end I’d thought bugger it, figuring my Australian license and a little foreigner charm would probably do the trick if I ever got pulled over by any country cops.

  The Chinon market was easily one of the best things I’d found since arriving in the countryside, with the buzz of the shoppers and stallholders taking over the streets of town. I’d amble along the busy, cobbled lanes, sampling little tasters as I went. I’d spend minutes inspecting the pieces of fruit that were cut open and put on display for all to judge their worth. I’d fill my basket with seasonal produce.

  In general, market shopping in France was a very laid-back affair. You were never rushed, and therefore it was expected that you’d never rush anyone. And while it wasn’t unheard of to queue for close to twenty minutes to buy fish from the fishmonger, as soon as you reached the front of the line, you were treated like royalty. You could ask for recommendations, for cooking advice, even about the water temperature of the sea that a certain fish was fished out of. I’d learned more about seafood from market shopping in France than I think I’d ever learned in Australia, a country surrounded by water.

  Shortly after arriving at the market that morning, I ran into Marie, who was weighed down by a huge basket of apples and pears. She put down her shopping and kissed me hello. After exchanging some pleasantries, she asked how I was enjoying life in the country. I think she was still baffled at the idea of anyone choosing to live in an apartment above, below, and next door to strangers.

  “It’s mostly going well. I’m finding plenty to keep busy,” I exaggerated.

  “I know the feeling,” she replied.

  “Oh? Is the B&B busy at the moment?” I asked.

  “Oh, no, a few bookings, but it’s manageable. I’m spending most of my time at the moment in the kitchen baking.”

  Just as I was imagining her and Jacques eating their weight in baked goods, she explained that she baked tarts for a café in town. The enormous basket of fruit made a lot more sense in that context.

  “That’s a brilliant side gig,” I said.

  “It brings in some more money and keeps me busy. I wasn’t brought up to sit around idly.”

  I envied Marie’s down-to-earth approach. I could really do with a dose of her get-it-done attitude in my country living plan, I thought, as we said goodbye.

  I stopped by the fromagerie on wheels to pick up my standard selection of hard cheeses—Comté, Emmental, and Gruyère—and was surprised to see a row of Serge’s wrapped goat cheeses. I didn’t know he’d gotten his cheese stocked at the market. I beamed with pride.

  “Is it good?” I asked in French, motioning to the goat cheese, hoping to do a bit of sleuthing for Serge.

  “Comme ci, comme ça,” he replied.

  Huh? The cheese is only so-so?

  After everyone had raved about farmer Michel’s cheese, why was this guy saying that Serge’s was average? Oh, God, is Serge making bad cheese? Is this the real reason why it’s not selling?

  “Is that right?” I asked.

  “There’s been a change in ownership,” he said, as though that explained everything. “It’s just not the same.”

  When I’d asked Serge if I could sample his first batch of cheese, he’d told me quite strongly that I should continue to avoid eating unpasteurized varieties. I regretted not having sneaked a small taste and quickly ran through the likelihood of a bad batch. Yes, Serge had never farmed nor made cheese before; but he had immaculate taste and he certainly wouldn’t try to sell something that was below par. Or . . . did he need to sell it? I guess what else would he do with the stuff he’d already produced? And what did this mean for my cheese room?

  I pushed on with my market shopping, but I was distracted by my interaction with the cheese guy, and I ended up with a rather random assortment of vegetables. I’d settled on a very handsome and very heavy pumpkin, some pears, onions, carrots, and potatoes. Looking at my haul, I felt a little dismayed, wondering what I was going to cook.

  Then, on my way to the butcher, I spotted Chuck working in the café. I automatically ran my hand over my hair, hoping I didn’t look too dishevelled, and then tapped on the window and waved. It took him a moment to look up and I panicked, wondering if he was ignoring me. But he raised his hand, obviously finishing writing a sentence, and then waved me inside.

  “Chuck, what a surprise. I haven’t seen you recently,” I said. I didn’t take off my coat out of fear of having to explain my growing bump.

  “I had to zip back to London for an event. Did I miss anything?” he asked.

  I looked around at the near-empty café and laughed.

  “So, what’s for dinner?” he asked, looking in my basket.

  Is he angling for an invite? I wondered momentarily before awkwardly asking him if he’d like to join us. I wasn’t sure how Serge would feel about a surprise dinner guest, but I knew I was keen to spend more time with Chuck.

  My offer was met with an equally awkward answer. “Oh, um, sorry, I didn’t mean to just invite myself to dinner,” he said.

  “Oh, it’s really no problem. You’re very welcome,” I rushed on. “Anyway, I’ve been brushing up on my cooking, and it seems I’m still learning about portion control.”

  “Then I’d be honored,” he said seriously.

  “Great, well, it’ll be pretty casual. It won’t be the most glamorous meal,” I said, trying to keep expectations in check. “And our house is in a bit of a state.” I stopped myself from making any more excuses in case it was starting to sound like I was retracting the invitation.

  “I’m sure it’ll be perfect,” he said encouragingly.

  “Would you like to bring someone, perhaps? A girlfriend? A boyfriend?” I offered. I didn’t really know anything about Chuck’s personal life.

  “Will it spoil your plans if I join you solo?” he asked, not giving anything away.

  “Of course not,” I reassured him before rushing off to continue my shopping.

  I went to the butcher for some chicken and my daily dose of friendly service. Visiting him reminded me of when I first arrived in Paris and used to visit Serge to be guided through the world of French cheese. Although the butcher was around sixty and wasn’t any threat to my current relationship, he’d taken a shine to me, and his smile when I walked through his door brightened my day. And his advice on cooking meat had so far played a big part in my success in the kitchen.

  I headed home with a long to-do list buzzing around my head. On top of cooking an unintentional comfort-food-inspired menu, I wanted to clean the kitchen and the living and dining area, and try to hide some of the clutter.

  I also wanted to unpack some books to avoid looking completely illiterate in front of Chuck—although I wasn’t sure my selection of memoirs on travel and a few trashy romance novels was going to win me many points. Serge did, however, have a solid collection of French books, but their covers were all so identical and boring that I’d never even bothered opening them when they’d lined the shelves of his Paris apartment.

  “Serge, what kind of boo
ks are these?” I asked later as I was pulling them out of boxes.

  “Oh, there are many different genres. A lot of police and crime novels. I also enjoy a good political biography.”

  “Hmm,” I said, wondering what Chuck would make of this, which reminded me: I should probably tell Serge about our dinner guest.

  “Oh, I almost forgot. I ran into Chuck earlier today, you know, that English guy I met. He’s just back from a trip to London. Anyway, I ended up buying too many ingredients so I invited him over for dinner. I hope that’s OK.”

  “Parfait, it’ll be nice for you to have an English-speaking friend here,” Serge said generously. “I’ll dig out some wine.”

  “And some of your cheese?” I suggested, trying to gauge his reaction.

  “I’ll see what I can find, but I think most of it is packed already,” he said.

  “By the way, why don’t you have a stall at the market?” I asked.

  “I hope to eventually,” he said.

  “But why not now?”

  “Don’t rush me, Ella,” he said sharply, making me wonder if my pregnancy hormones were contagious.

  He went off to the cellar, and I was left to question whether there’d been some truth behind the cheese vendor’s comments. Why else doesn’t he want to show off his creations?

  Chuck arrived in a beat-up Renault that evening. I watched him out the kitchen window as he walked up to the door, flowers in hand.

  “For my lovely host,” he said when I opened the door. “You look wonderful.”

  I blushed. I hardly even took off my coat these days, so I guess I’d made a little bit more of an effort when getting dressed tonight. I was wearing black jeans—elastic-waisted, of course—and a red top, which was perhaps a little too low-cut considering I was now sporting a more generous bust thanks to the pregnancy hormones.

  “Welcome, welcome,” I said, ushering him in.