Fromage a Trois

by Brownlee, Victoria

  I laughed. “It can’t be that hard. I mean, eating cheese a couple of times a week sounds like my idea of heaven. What do I win if I succeed? Will I enter a Cheese Eating Hall of Fame? Will you put my photo on your wall?”

  “OK, Ella. In the highly unlikely scenario that you sample every variety of cheese in France, I’ll take you to dinner at La Tour d’Argent. As well as having a fabulous cheese selection, it’s one of the oldest restaurants in Paris. It’s an institution.”

  Wow, that escalated quickly! It also has to be one of the city’s most expensive restaurants.

  “Sure,” I said, not really thinking about what that implied. “It’s a deal. I love dinner.”

  “So if you try every type of French cheese in one year, I’ll take you to dinner. And when you don’t manage to try them all, you’ll take me for dinner?”

  “Serge, you’ve got yourself a bet,” I said, thrusting my hand over the counter to finalize our little wager. I felt a wave of electricity course through me; my excitement at the prospect of this cheese challenge made me feel high. I buzzed with an increased sense of purpose: eating cheese to win a very luxurious dinner with my new friend. I only thought to add after our handshake that—on the off-chance I lost—I’d take him to an authentic Australian pub for dinner. I certainly couldn’t afford to treat anyone to dinner at La Tour d’Argent.

  “I wish you luck, Ella. Either way, I think I’ll be the winner,” Serge said, winking.

  Why was he suddenly looking so smug?

  “So, exactly how many types of French cheese are there, then?” I asked, looking around the store, my brain finally kicking into action.

  “There are over 365 types,” he replied. “But for simplicity’s sake, we can just call it one new cheese for every day of the year. You’ve never heard de Gaulle’s famous line about the impossibility of governing a nation with so many different types of cheese?” He gave me a sly look, like he’d just tricked me into buying him dinner.

  “Three hundred and sixty-five types? Seriously?” I said. “Tell me you’re exaggerating.”

  “Three hundred and sixty-five, although you’re down to three hundred and sixty-four now with the Sainte-Maure de Touraine,” Serge said, and handed over my cheese.

  Oh God, what did I just agree to?

  Chapter

  14

  WHEN I ARRIVED HOME THAT evening, I found Jean-Pierre and his mother sitting on the sofas in the living room drinking tea. Again. The mother waved me over, poured me a cup, and motioned for me to join them. I begrudgingly accepted, but felt desperate to get back to my room and dive into my roll of Sainte-Maure.

  With Jean-Pierre and his phone acting as interpreters, his mother asked me how my job was going and how I was enjoying Paris. In our weird three-way conversation—with an added technological margin of error—I told them that I loved the city and that work was going really well. She nodded and asked Jean-Pierre to translate something else, which, other than picking out the French word amour, I didn’t understand. Jean-Pierre replied quickly and angrily to his mother and she hissed something back before getting up to go into the kitchen. I rose and grabbed my cup and she almost pushed me back onto the couch, telling me to sit as she walked out.

  I asked Jean-Pierre how his day was and he gave me a short, one-word response. He avoided making eye contact with me so I only sat for a couple more minutes before standing up and going to my room. Sure, it was a great apartment, but was it worth suffering these awkward family interactions? I thought.

  Ah, shit! I said to myself after confirming everything I’d feared on my laptop. Serge was right: There are over 365 types of French cheese. Dammit! The more I researched, the more I began to realize I’d bitten off more than I could chew. I started to feel sick at the thought of cheese, day in and day out.

  I ran through the potential cons of following through with the challenge. All that cheese buying was going to put a strain on my personal finances. And my waistline as well, come to think of it. I wasn’t even sure that my—so far—voracious appetite for cheese could withstand a daily dose. In any case, I hoped my overly-eager bravado wouldn’t jeopardize my love of cheese, or my burgeoning status as Mr. Cheeseman’s favorite customer.

  I considered forgetting the whole wager ever happened and never showing my face at the fromagerie again. But a bet is a bet, and Serge was one of the few people in Paris who knew my name. I didn’t want to give up on him. Or the cheese.

  I stared at my roll of Sainte-Maure and almost couldn’t face eating it.

  But once my initial surprise at the expanse of the world of French cheese had worn off, I began to cut slivers of the rich, ash-rind goat cheese, pairing them with black figs that I’d picked up at the market. The combination felt summery and light, and each bite was like a burst of happiness that kept me wanting more.

  As I ate, I began to picture myself trying a new type of cheese every day for the rest of my year in Paris. Suddenly, the image brought a smile to my face.

  At least one cheese for every day of the year . . . No big deal . . . I guess I could manage that. The intoxicating mix of figs and goat cheese filled me with confidence and I decided that there was no good reason I couldn’t win the bet if I put my mind to it. I can become a chic, cheese-eating Parisian while working in a café kitchen, I told myself. Why not?

  And the whole idea wasn’t without some pros: It would give me additional purpose during my year in France, cement my friendship with Serge, and give me an amazing excuse to learn the ins and outs of one of the country’s most famous foods. My God, by the end of the year, I could be a specialist. I could export cheese back to Australia; I could write a book about cheese!

  It felt a little deranged to commit to such a challenge, but I figured it couldn’t hurt to start and see how it went. Give it a few months at least. What was the worst that could happen?

  365 types of cheese in 365 days. It was almost beginning to sound fun.

  I poured myself a glass of wine from the emergency bottle I’d stashed under my bed.

  “I accept the challenge,” I said to myself, waving my wine around. “Let’s do this.” I kept going, dancing around the room, now fully aware that I was talking to myself, but not wanting to lose momentum. “I can do this. I’m going to do this! This is going to be wonderful!”

  To commemorate the occasion, I arranged my wine glass, the goat cheese, and the figs on the windowsill, with the stunning view of the rooftops in the background. I took a picture on my phone and the result was quintessentially Parisian. I’d never been one to post food images on social media, but opened up my Instagram anyway. I hesitated and then decided to create a new account. With a couple of clicks, I’d set up My 365 Days of Cheese: a photo diary of my year in Paris. It’d be the perfect way to document my cheese-eating adventures and my year in this gorgeous city.

  I posted the Sainte-Maure picture with the caption “Cheese number 1 in my challenge to eat 365 types of cheese in 365 days. Follow my adventures as I make my way through the smelliest, gooiest, and downright ugliest varieties of French cheese.” I added a few food and Paris hashtags for good measure. I chuckled to myself and sent the account name to Billie, certain that I’d at least have one follower.

  The next morning I opened up my Instagram account to see whether Billie had liked my cheese picture and nearly dropped my phone in shock.

  I have forty new followers?

  I was gobsmacked. Overnight, forty people had decided to follow my cheese adventure in Paris. I only had a hundred and twenty followers on my normal account and that had been active for years. I felt like photos of cheese would put that number to shame in a matter of days.

  Maybe I’m onto something with this challenge, I thought.

  I also had a message from Billie congratulating me on my social media prowess and telling me that she was planning a trip to Paris in October.

  Only a couple of months away!

  Everything was clicking int
o place. I was to be a fabulous, single, cheese-eating woman in France. I had a source of income—though not a particularly glamorous job—a start on some friendships, and now a purpose to my life in Paris: cheese. And the sun was shining, to top it all off.

  Leaving work the following Sunday, after a disappointing lack of Gaston sightings over the weekend, I tried to avoid thinking about men by thinking about all things cheese. I didn’t want to disappoint Serge—or let him take an early lead on our bet. Plus, my Instagram followers were hungry and waiting. Hurrah!

  There wasn’t a shortage of cheese in Paris, but finding cafés that offered an assortment beyond the standard varieties was a little more challenging. I’d earlier spied a nice-looking café a few blocks from work; I would celebrate the end of my working week in style.

  Before sitting down, I did a careful visual scan to make sure Jean-Pierre was nowhere in sight. I’d already endured an uncomfortable run-in with him last week when leaving work. Surprised to even see him outside the apartment, I’d only recognized him at the last minute and hadn’t had time to alter my course.

  “Is that where you work?” he’d asked, pointing to the café.

  He’d shifted about uncomfortably from foot to foot.

  I’d ummed and ahhed, not really wanting to confirm where I worked in case he turned up for coffee one day, so I’d changed the subject. “So what are you doing over this side of the river?”

  “Shopping. It’s Mother’s birthday soon.”

  I’d instinctively looked down at his hands, which were completely free of shopping bags. He didn’t seem to notice the look of surprise I’d given him.

  “I’m just on my way home,” he’d continued. “What are you doing now?”

  I’d panicked at the thought of walking home with him so I’d lied and told him I was meeting a friend. I said a speedy good-bye and walked off, doing a quick check to make sure he was heading in the opposite direction. I couldn’t pinpoint what I found creepy about him, but I figured that as long as I kept my distance, he wouldn’t ever be a problem.

  Shaking Jean-Pierre from my thoughts, I ordered a glass of white wine and a Saint-Marcellin: a soft-rind cheese from the Rhône-Alpes. It looked small and manageable on the plate, almost lamentably so considering the decadent mood I was in, but thankfully it packed a punch. The potent ball of cow’s milk had a yellowish tinge and looked as wrinkled as a hairless cat. Admittedly it was not attractive, but it was addictive, which seemed to be the way with a lot of French cheese.

  I took a couple of quick photos of the Saint-Marcellin, made even more appetizing in the dusky sun’s glow, and uploaded one to my Instagram account. I couldn’t believe the traction that an account dedicated solely to cheese was getting. It’d somehow grown to two hundred followers since I’d started posting pictures of cheese and the comments were often quite serious. For every post uploaded, I’d receive a few questions asking about the flavor, the best time to eat it, and where to buy it. I’d research the different types of cheese as I ate them—of course, only when Serge wasn’t on hand to provide the information for me—and I’d been adding more and more detailed captions to keep my followers happy.

  Another cheese down, only 340 to go, I thought ominously, but joyously, to myself. I’d taken another bite when my phone started to ring. Blocked number. With Jean-Pierre still in the back of my mind, I panicked, thinking it might be him. But then I had an even scarier thought: Could it be Gaston?

  It’d been about three weeks since I’d given him my phone number and I’d been desperately hoping he’d get in touch. I looked fretfully at the remains of the cheese in front of me, hoping it would give me some moral support. I awkwardly swallowed what was in my mouth and took a moment to mentally psych myself up before answering the call.

  “Bonjour,” I said in my best French accent.

  “Ella, darling, I thought you must have fallen off the face of the earth. You haven’t called in ages.”

  It was Mum.

  “Mum, it’s only been a couple of weeks since we last talked. And why are you calling from a blocked number?”

  “Didn’t you get my emails?”

  “No.” And while it was the perfect situation for a white lie, I actually meant it—I hadn’t received anything from her. “What address did you send them to?”

  “Oh, I don’t know, it was EllaHotHotBooty at hotmail, or something crass like that.”

  I rolled my eyes. “God, Mum, I haven’t used that address since I was thirteen.”

  “You should have told me,” she said.

  “I have. Countless times.” Not wanting to let myself get irritated with her, I changed the topic and began telling her about my new apartment and café job. She replied with the anticipated “shouldn’t you be looking for a proper job?” which annoyed me no end, but I had to remind myself of what I already knew: It was a stopgap.

  “I’m really enjoying it,” I assured her. “And I’m meeting some nice people.” My mind went dreamily to Gaston.

  “So you won’t be home in time for Christmas then, if you’re too busy working?”

  “Probably not. Sorry, Mum.”

  “That’s OK, I have a plan,” she said.

  “What—” I began to ask, before she cut me off.

  “Ah, someone’s at the door. Have to go, darling.” She was giggling like a naughty teenage girl.

  What’s gotten into her?

  Mum hung up, leaving me feeling a little miffed. She’d added a quick “good luck on the job search!” before saying bye, but still, I was disappointed that she wasn’t more interested in hearing how well Paris was working out for me. I wondered who her mystery door knocker could have been, to be important enough to make her basically hang up on her only child. I could barely manage to get her off the phone at the best of times, especially now that we only had a short gap at the start and end of the day when the time difference meant we were both awake.

  And what the hell is this Christmas plan?

  Maybe she was thinking of coming over, which sounded wonderful. So what if I couldn’t tell her about my new and successful Parisian life? Showing it off would be much more fun.

  I finished my cheese and asked for the bill—or l’addition—one of my favorite words in French. Standing up, I thought I spied Jean-Pierre across the square.

  No, it can’t be! I found it hard to imagine he would stray this far from home twice.

  I shrugged it off and by the time I’d gotten my change from the waiter, his doppelgänger had disappeared. It must have just been somebody who looked like him. There were plenty of dark-haired guys with wispy beards and glasses in Paris. Jean-Pierre certainly didn’t own that typically French look by a long stretch.

  Chapter

  15

  PERCHED ON A CAFÉ STOOL the next morning with a coffee in hand, I was enjoying an early start to the day. Who cared if it was my first day off after the weekend and I was back at Flat White? I quite enjoyed the fact that it was starting to feel like home.

  Thankfully, it was relatively quiet, and I took the opportunity to tell Chris all about my troubling Jean-Pierre imaginings the previous evening.

  “It’s not like it’s even just him. There’s something off about his mother too. She’s just very . . .” I reached for the word, knowing it was going to make me sound crazy, “. . . controlling. And why are they even renting out their spare room? It certainly doesn’t seem like they need the money.”

  “Ella, you’re so hard to please,” Chris laughed, before turning sharply towards the door. “Psst!” he whispered, and motioned with his head in the direction of a woman who had just entered. His reaction, plus the woman’s immediate allure, told me that this could only be Clotilde, his French crush. She was tall with blonde hair, and perfectly put-together in that gorgeous, effortless, French way, her piercing green eyes somehow exactly matching her delicate green silk dress. Her hair was tousled and her lips were flawlessly painted red. She looked young
er than me—I put her at around twenty-five—but perhaps she just had an amazing skin-care routine.

  “Salut. Ça va?” she said to Chris, who I could only imagine was in a pool of longing at her adorable French accent.

  “Ça va bien, merci. Et toi?” Chris’s thick Australian accent made me want to laugh, but I held it in as I knew he was trying. He rarely spoke French, but was obviously happy to make an effort for love’s sake.

  “Ella, you must meet Clotilde,” he said, calling out to me.

  Fuck! I thought. I hadn’t been expecting to meet Gaston’s potential girlfriend. If I had known, I would have at least made more of an effort before leaving the house. I smoothed down my curls and hopped down from my stool.

  “Hi, Clotilde,” I said, trying to sound casual. “Nice to meet you.”

  I wondered if she could smell my fear.

  She opened her mouth to say something but then her phone started ringing and she held up her hand as if to hush me. She stepped aside and began speaking in very fast French.

  I snuck a look at Chris, who seemed to read my mind. “Don’t worry, she’s really friendly. You’ll see,” he whispered.

  “Sorry about that,” Clotilde said as she tapped her phone and placed it delicately back in her bag. As she did, I noticed that her nails were, of course, also impeccable. “A supposedly urgent call.” She raised her eyebrows. Her English was impressive.

  “Chris, I’ll sit with your friend,” she announced, pulling over a stool. “Is that OK, Ella?”

  “Of course,” I said, feeling nervous. After all, she was “the competition.”

  Chris looked at us hopefully while I ordered another flat white and tried to communicate with a long stare that he needn’t fret; I had this. He dawdled back to the coffee counter, clearly wanting to join in, or maybe eavesdrop, on our conversation. I turned back to Clotilde.

  My projected confidence for Chris was an act, though. In truth, I didn’t have a clue what to say to the glamazon sitting next to me. I was suddenly feeling conversationally-challenged, worrying that I would say something to indicate that I might have gone out for a drink with her boyfriend. I shifted in my seat and reached out to hold my empty coffee cup just to give my hands something to do. Thankfully, she broke the silence.