After picking up a bottle of Chenin blanc wine, plus a baguette and a tarte aux fraises (because they looked too good to resist), I headed back to the hotel, exhausted from what had turned out to be a very strange day filled with headstrong expats, bizarre interviews, and a frosty cheese-shop interaction. I snuck my bag of goodies past the receptionist who bid me good-night and told me to sleep well, even though it was only seven thirty.
“You too,” I replied, not knowing what else to say, and then willed the elevator to hurry up so I could escape her pitying gaze.
I opened the bottle of crisp, grassy white wine and poured a generous glass. I was happy to be alone for the evening and raised a little toast to myself for getting out there, despite the fact I hadn’t made much concrete progress. Setting up in a new place certainly was difficult, but I figured that it was better to be doing so in Paris rather than having to start again in Melbourne. At least in Paris, memories of Paul weren’t lurking around every corner. I just needed to keep avoiding the Eiffel Tower for now.
I unwrapped my cheese for one and felt that increasingly familiar twinge of loneliness . . . Welcome back again, old friend, I thought. I’d read somewhere that Camembert had originally been made in large rounds, and the smaller round had only been created so solo diners wouldn’t waste anything. And while at first I found this story interesting, after a glass of wine on an empty stomach, it made me feel somewhat melancholic. It was as though all those years ago, the makers of the cheese had known that I would move to Paris to mourn a breakup. It was as though they’d anticipated that I would start to fill the void in my broken heart with French cheese.
Cutting a chunk, I smelled its barn-like perfume. The off-white, shiny shell was slightly sticky and the bubbles inside the cheese reminded me of those that occasionally line the top of a chocolate mousse. The flavor was a tiny bit sweet and floral, even slightly citric. It was good, but still I couldn’t help feeling that it should have been better. Then again, maybe that was my frame of mind.
As I poured myself another glass of wine, a big, fat, hot tear escaped down my cheek. This was the first time since arriving in Paris, and since the horrible weekend post-breakup with Paul, that I’d shed an actual tear.
Dammit, this isn’t meant to happen, I thought.
I looked out the window, reminding myself that I was in Paris and that I was happy. But, given the day I’d had, I couldn’t help feeling a little blue, and a nagging voice in my head kept asking: Did I do the right thing by coming here?
Chapter
11
I’D ONLY BEEN IN PARIS for a few days when I woke up in a puddle of drool with my phone smooshed against my face and a half-written email to Billie on the screen.
As I lay in bed, I ran through the whole spectrum of emotions I’d felt since arriving in France: the relief of escaping Paul—and winter—in Melbourne, the empowerment of finally traveling solo again, and then the unexpected loneliness that accompanied it.
Realizing I must be cutting a pretty sad picture of a singleton in the City of Light and Love, I leaped out of bed to turn my day around before spiraling too far into despair.
I deleted most of my despondent ramblings to Billie and instead sent her a quick message saying that the weather was wonderful and that the hotel was gorgeous, a great find—positive vibes only, I told myself. I told her about my job trial at the café and recounted the cringeworthy share-flat interview I’d had the day before, which I knew would give her a good laugh. My still-somewhat-miserable self couldn’t help adding that the hunt for accommodation wasn’t going so well, and that I’d probably need an interim place to stay, maybe a cheaper hotel, if I wasn’t able to find a permanent solution soon.
By the time I got out of the shower, she’d written back. “Glad to hear you’re giving everything a go, El. Regarding accommodation, did you check Airbnb? Just a thought. Now, go get that job!”
I threw on jeans and a black T-shirt—although it was already thirty degrees outside, I figured this was probably my “coolest” outfit—and walked down to Flat White. As soon as I entered the café I looked around for my mystery man. I couldn’t help but feel a little disheartened when I didn’t see him there, but told myself it was probably a good thing given I was about to go through a trial for a hospitality job and it’d been more than a few years since I’d made coffee.
Chris welcomed me more warmly than he had the day before, handed me an apron, and said, “Right, Ella, let’s see what you can do. Why don’t you make me some coffee? Let’s start with two identical lattes and then we’ll do two identical flat whites.”
I felt slightly panicked. It was one thing to remember correct coffee-to-milk ratios, but re-creating them in real time was another thing altogether. Not wanting Chris to smell my fear, I smiled as I pulled the espresso shots and then poured the steamed milk. There was some panache to my style, but I failed to produce anything near identical.
“Hmmm. Not great,” Chris said. “You wanna try again? I’m guessing you haven’t used this machine before, right?” He was being generous.
“Sure, totally,” I said.
This time, my flat whites looked identical, much to my own surprise, but the lattes were still wildly different. Chris nodded and got us to taste them.
“Bitter,” was his first remark. “The milk is a little burnt,” was his second.
“Ah . . .” I was about to launch into an excuse but Chris cut me off asking, “Where did you say you’d worked again?”
“Just a small café on Brunswick Street. It’s not around anymore.”
“I thought you said you’d worked at ST. ALi?”
“No, never.”
“Ah shoot, that must have been someone else. Never mind . . .” He paused. “Look, it’s great you’re keen on the job, but your coffee tastes like shit.”
“I can learn,” I said, disappointed that I hadn’t done better. Perhaps it’d been too long between coffee-making jobs. Obviously standards, even in Paris, had gone up.
“Look Ella, I kinda think you’ve either got it or you don’t. And I’m not sure you do,” he said.
“I understand,” I told him, devastated that I wasn’t going to walk out of the café with a job.
Thankfully, Chris wasn’t finished with me yet. “The good news is, if you’re still after a job, we do need someone to help out in the kitchen on weekends. We get slammed pretty much from open until close, so it’d be good to have an extra set of hands on deck. And we can pay you cash too. Sound good?”
“So I’d be cooking?” I perked up at the thought.
“Mostly washing dishes, maybe helping with some prep; it depends. It’s probably not your bag, though. You’re more a corporate gal, right?”
I paused for a moment, resenting being boxed into a specific job type, but also wanting to hurl at the thought of washing dishes. It was hardly the glamorous job I’d envisaged getting in Paris; but then again, the whole point of leaving Melbourne was to try new things and get out of my rut. And I quite liked the café. The idea of hanging out and doing something free of responsibility was liberating. Anyway, I didn’t have anything else lined up, so why not?
“Chris, I’d absolutely love to wash dishes here,” I told him, and we arranged for me to start the next day.
“And sorry about the coffee,” I said as we were wrapping things up.
“Yeah, not good. How about I make you one for the road?”
Relief flooded over me that a) Chris wasn’t pissed off that I’d wasted his time, b) I’d gotten a paying job, even if I’d be working as a dish pig, and c) I was about to get a decent flat white. I wouldn’t say the trial had been a raging success, but a small victory nonetheless, and it was a concrete start towards establishing my life in Paris.
En route back to the hotel, I felt drawn in the direction of Mr. Cheeseman’s shop. I wasn’t sure that I wanted, or needed, to buy more cheese given I’d already indulged pretty heavily since arriving in Paris,
but I couldn’t help passing by to see if my new acquaintance was working.
When I looked through the window, I was delighted to see he was back—and a little more than pleased that his female friend was nowhere to be seen.
He waved me in.
“Bonjour,” he said jovially as I walked in the door.
“Bonjour,” I replied dutifully. The French were always so formal in their greetings. “I came by to see you yesterday but you were out.”
“Ah yes, an emergency, I’m afraid,” he said. I wondered how often he encountered cheese emergencies in this area of Paris.
“No problem.” I tried to sound casual. “Your colleague gave me some cheese.”
“Ah good, so Fanny looked after you.”
I suppressed a chuckle at her name.
“Yes, your girlfriend was very kind and helpful,” I lied, wanting to keep him in good spirits.
“Fanny? Kind?” he questioned. “She certainly knows a lot about cheese but I wouldn’t say she is particularly friendly. Oh, and she is only a colleague.”
It made sense that they were not an item. Where Serge gushed with adoration for cheese, and, I assumed, everything in life, Fanny had treated it as a job.
I couldn’t think of anything to say to brush over the fact that I’d just indirectly asked if he was dating his not-so-friendly coworker, so I said a long, “Hmmm,” while turning a vibrant shade of red.
“So what cheese did Fanny give you to try?” he asked.
“Oh, a Camembert. Perhaps she thought I was just another tourist and would only want to eat an iconic French cheese. It was nice, but it seemed a little hard . . . I thought Camembert was meant to be softer, more gooey.” Google had taught me this when I was noshing down my wheel at the hotel.
“Did you tell her it was for eating immediately?” he asked. The serious expression that he seemed to reserve for intense cheese discussions was suddenly back.
“No, I didn’t. Was I meant to?”
“Well, it helps us to choose the ripest wheel with the best flavor.”
“Oh,” I said, embarrassed.
“Not to worry. There’s plenty more Camembert in the sea,” Serge said, laughing at his own joke. His face softened, and I found myself once again captivated by his blue eyes. I tittered so as not to be rude.
“Anyway, it’s lucky you came back because I have a cheese I think you’ll be interested in. Not all foreigners like it because it can smell a little strong, but it’s something I’m sure you can’t get in Australia.”
“Great,” I said, glad he was finally on board for recommending different types of cheese. I was also keen to dispel his impression that foreigners don’t like stinky cheese. “So what is it?”
“Roquefort.”
“Oh, I’ve tried Roquefort before,” I told him, feeling proud of myself.
“But I’m sure it wasn’t the real Roquefort. At least not the best Roquefort.”
Man, this guy is hung up on the “realness” of cheese.
“What’s the difference?” I asked, slightly annoyed.
“Real Roquefort has to be aged in the Combalou caves in Roquefort-sur-Soulzon. Anything else is just a poor imitation. Would you like to try some?”
Putting my frustration aside, I eagerly agreed to sample this famous Roquefort, happy to be getting the star treatment and feeling like my patronage at the store was already starting to pay off.
He handed over a slice and it felt wet and slippery between my fingers. I ate it quickly, surprised by the sharp, salty flavor I found when my tongue hit the vein of blue mold puncturing the cheese.
“Wow,” I said, buying myself time to figure out if I liked the taste or if I was going to have to rush outside and spit it out. I let the cheese linger in my mouth a little longer, nodding along as I chewed, then forcing a wide grin. I decided to buy a small chunk to take home and investigate further, this time with some bread to soften the force.
Serge hummed along to himself as he wrapped up my order, clearly happy he’d taught me something about real French blue cheese. His change in demeanor since our first meeting was dramatic. He was sweet and unpretentious, kind in a goofy way.
“By the way, je m’appelle Serge, Serge Marais,” he said, his French words spilling into the air, smooth as cream.
I replied in a garble of French. I’d practiced saying, “Pleased to meet you” many a time walking the streets of Paris waiting for this moment, but as it came out I knew that I’d bungled it. But Serge didn’t let it show; he smiled, handed me my cheese, and wished me a pleasant evening.
As I walked out, the little bell tinkling over the door as I did so, I swear I heard him chuckle.
Back at the hotel I started to scroll through options on Airbnb. Even with my new source of income, it didn’t take me long to realize that the price per night was still too high for solo apartments in the areas I wanted to live in, and that those I could afford were all in far-flung locations. I moved my search to private rooms in share houses and tried to remain as open-minded as possible. After so many years of living with Paul—and after the pretentious share-house interview I’d just sat through—I wasn’t sure I could go back to living with a stranger, or strangers, again: having to learn and preempt their rhythms, their whimsies, and factor in the time they spend in the bathroom getting ready. But then I figured I had to compromise. There’s no point being in Paris if you can’t live in the heart of the action, or at least within one of the twenty arrondissements that make up the snail within the ring road.
I unwrapped the Roquefort in an attempt to help me concentrate. It had the opposite effect; the smell was almost overpowering in the tiny hotel room. I opened the windows and hoped it wouldn’t permeate into the walls. I ate and scrolled, surprised at how moreish the cheese was, and soon I found myself wishing I’d gotten a bigger slice.
Long after my cheese had run out, and exhausted from trying to find somewhere to live that didn’t sound too bizarre or intimidating, I came across a listing for a gorgeous apartment in Saint-Germain, sharing with a mother and her adult son. According to the description, they were “socialites” and “hardly ever home.” The thought of living with a mother and son would normally have been a deal-breaker for me, but as I looked through the pictures of the apartment, I was shamelessly lured by its grandeur.
I wouldn’t leave home either if my mum lived here, I thought. The apartment was luxury beyond what I could have imagined, and there was a great discount for monthly bookings. I sent them a message and crossed my fingers that the room was available. I didn’t have any other very promising leads.
I went to bed with my head full of images of ornate and overpriced apartments, big hunks of Roquefort, and a blossoming friendship with a French cheesemonger. I couldn’t believe how quickly my fortunes had changed in this magical city. Why was I even upset this morning? I asked myself.
Considering I’d been in Paris less than a week, things were actually going rather well. I had a job, a constant stream of delicious cheese, and I’d even learned Mr. Cheeseman’s name.
Chapter
12
WHEN ACCEPTING THE KITCHEN JOB at Flat White, I didn’t realize I’d get to see my handsome French mystery man the very next day. And I certainly didn’t count on being exhausted, sweaty, and disheveled when I did.
Thankfully, my first shift had gone so much better than I could have expected. I found not being confined to an office desk really refreshing and I enjoyed the freedom of being able to move around the kitchen, despite its tiny size. The constant access to good coffee was a huge bonus. When I considered how much money I’d save on my weekend cups of joe, it made the kitchen work all the more worthwhile.
My not-so-positive initial impressions of Chris were thankfully quickly dispelled as I got to know him better. Behind the front that I’d mistaken for arrogance, I found that he was sweet, funny, and just ridiculously earnest when it came to talking about coffee. During the lulls
in service, we stood around shooting the breeze.
“So what brought you to Paris?” Chris asked what I would come to know as the standard expat question.
“Change,” I told him. “I needed a change of scenery.”
“Yeah, I get that. Melbourne can seem small sometimes, hey?”
“Oh my God, can’t it?”
“Remind me what you were doing back home before you came to Paris? You were working a corporate job, right?”
“Book publishing.”
“You’re a writer?”
“Not quite. I’ve always enjoyed writing but somehow ended up on the business side of things, as an assistant. I guess that’s part of the reason it was so easy to pack up life back home and move here.”
Chris nodded.
“And what brought you to Paris?” I asked. “The pursuit of good coffee?”
“No, the pursuit of French women. I came to seek them out, to date them, and to love them.”
I laughed but Chris wasn’t trying to make a joke. His shameless obsession with les femmes françaises was surprisingly endearing.
“I’m head over heels for them, Ella. I’m obsessed with this country’s Brigittes, Charlottes, and Marions.”
I admired his honesty. I decided I’d try a similar approach next time somebody asked me what I was doing in Paris: I decided to come to France because I didn’t know what else to do after breaking up with my boyfriend. A slice of Comté convinced me it was a good idea. Might be hard to pull off without sounding completely crazy.
I was just about to head home, feeling ragged after my first day back at work, when the handsome French mystery man walked through the door.
Shit, I thought, smoothing down my hair.
I froze, torn between rushing out the door and wanting to hang around and see if I could find out anything else about my espresso-drinking dream guy.
I told Chris that on second thought, I might just grab a coffee before I go.
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