“So, you work here with Chris?” she asked.
“Yep,” I answered, kicking myself for giving such a monosyllabic answer.
“And where do you live?”
“I’m in Saint-Germain.”
She nodded approvingly. “It’s nice over that side, isn’t it? My father lives there too.”
“The area is lovely, yes,” I told her. “But I’m staying in an Airbnb for the moment and I don’t think I’ll be there much longer. I need to find something more permanent.”
“Will you buy somewhere or will you be renting?”
Ha! I thought.
“I can’t afford to buy a place,” I said, adding, “nor rent by myself. I’ve mostly been looking at rooms in share flats.”
I was readying myself for Clotilde to judge me. She seemed the sort to have owned property since she was a toddler.
“Probably wise,” she said. “It’s really hard for foreign people to get a lease in Paris. Are you finding anything good?”
I was surprised she seemed so interested. “No, everywhere is either too expensive or tiny, dark, and ugly,” I confessed. “Or the housemates are strange, which is my current predicament.”
“I know what you mean,” she said. “Finding an apartment in Paris is like searching for a quality, vintage Chanel handbag in a secondhand store. You can hunt for ages, but never unearth exactly what you’re looking for.”
I looked down at my calico bag and nodded along, understanding what she was getting at without relating to the analogy.
We fell into another awkward silence and just as I was about to make up some excuse to head off, Clotilde continued the conversation as if there had been no pause at all. I was having trouble reading her. She seemed kind and carefree but also distant and snobbish at the same time. I couldn’t tell if she was genuinely trying to be nice or if she had an ulterior motive.
Oh God, I really hope she doesn’t know about me and Gaston, I thought dramatically.
“So you plan to live here for a while?” she asked.
“At least for a year,” I said. She continued staring at me so I added, “Who wouldn’t want to be in Paris?”
Clotilde nodded as though this was the only logical response I could have given.
Ah, Parisians. No matter how much they complain about Paris, they still think it’s the only reasonable place in the world to live.
After Clotilde swanned out, Chris came over with my flat white and said, “Well?”
“Sorry. I still have no idea if she’s single. I guess we’ll have to find out next time she comes in.”
For the rest of the afternoon, my anxiety levels were sky-high as I continued to stress about Clotilde and Gaston’s relationship. Should I have mentioned him? Or did she already know that I’d gone for a drink with him and was trying to suss me out? The questions ran around my head and I couldn’t get them to stop. Was she the reason why he hadn’t called me yet?
The one good thing that had come out of my conversation with Clotilde was the reminder that I really couldn’t live in the Airbnb forever. I pulled out my laptop and started looking for a new share house. Far from the most exciting thing I could think of to do in Paris, but it was a welcome distraction from the worry I was feeling over the Gaston situation.
When customers started filing in for lunch, I could feel my stomach beginning to gurgle in response.
Maybe it was time for some cheese?
I headed to Café de la Place, which had a great selection. I intended to while away the rest of the afternoon sitting there in the sun, alternating between watching the after-work crowd go by and incessantly staring at my phone, hoping that Gaston would ring, or text, or . . . I don’t know, friend me on Facebook?
I ordered a trio of cheeses—all the better to get a move on with the cheese challenge—and when they arrived I snapped a picture for my Instagram. Morbier, Beaufort, and Saint-Nectaire: They looked delicious and I took a moment to wonder what Serge might think of my choices.
And then I saw Jean-Pierre. Seconds after I’d taken a huge bite of rubbery and slippery Morbier, with its distinct ash vein still vivid in my eye, I spotted him. And this time I was certain. He was sitting drinking an espresso in a café on the other side of the street.
I called out to him, we locked eyes, and I motioned for him to come over. I wanted to get to the bottom of why we suddenly kept running into each other. Instead, I saw him get up, fling some money on the table, and walk off quickly down a side alley.
I couldn’t begin to describe the look he’d given me. It was a mix of anger, resentment, and something else I couldn’t put my finger on. I was puzzled. I knew he’d seen me, but why did he scurry away?
Not wanting to go back home just yet, I gestured for the bill and set off back to Flat White. I wanted to give Chris an update on my most recent Jean-Pierre run-in. He’d know what to say, tell me whether I was overreacting. The multiple sightings could have just been coincidental, but deep down, something was telling me they weren’t.
But when I arrived at the café, Chris was occupied, his jaw just millimeters off the coffee counter. I checked to see who had stolen his attention and recognized the green silk dress immediately. What was Clotilde doing back so soon?
My mind raced with hypothetical situations, each one more outlandish than the last. She must have found out about me and Gaston. She was here to retaliate.
My heart pounded as she turned around, but she greeted me with a dazzling smile that stopped me in my tracks. “Ah, Ella, just the woman I’m looking for.”
“Clotilde.” I edged towards her nervously.
“Look, I know this might seem sudden, and I hope you don’t think I’m crazy . . .” She paused, and my eyes flicked to the door, wondering how quickly I could flee the scene. “But I was thinking about what you were saying earlier . . .” she said, followed by another pause.
What the hell had I been saying earlier? I wondered.
“Anyway, I might have the perfect solution. I have a spare room at my apartment because my housemate just moved back to London. I was planning on placing an ad but perhaps you’d like to take a look?”
“But you hardly know me,” I squeaked, terrified she might be plotting to murder me with her Louboutins.
“Any friend of Chris’s is a friend of mine. Why don’t you come over for dinner tomorrow night? I can show you the apartment and we can talk about how things would work. It’s in Le Marais.”
“That’s really nice of you, Clotilde,” I said uncertainly. “Why not? What time should I come?”
We agreed I’d get there around eight, which would leave me all day to stew over whether she and Gaston were together, and whether this dinner was a complicated ruse so she could ambush me about trying to make a move on her boyfriend. And if she doesn’t already know, what if he’s there and I have to explain that we went for drinks? Or what if I move in and then she finds out? What would she do to me? She was model-thin but I got the feeling that she could pack a punch.
I was full of worry, relief, and concern. This was potentially an end to my house dramas, but perhaps the beginning of Gaston dramas.
“Can I bring something? Dessert? Cheese?” I asked.
“Oui, pourquoi pas? Cheese would be great.”
As I left Flat White for the second time that day, I started contemplating what cheese to take to dinner. It was a daunting task for a non-French person. Thankfully, I had an affable cheese man who could come to my rescue. I smiled. That wasn’t a prospect I could have ever imagined back in Australia.
Chapter
16
THE NEXT MORNING IN THE kitchen, I was making a cup of coffee when Jean-Pierre walked in. It’s now or never, I thought, readying myself to confront him.
“Hey, what were you doing down near Café de la Place yesterday?” I asked.
He was clearly startled. “Nobody tells me where I can drink my coffee,” he blurted out. “Anyway, that wa
sn’t me.” Without another word, or any indication of why he’d come into the kitchen, he walked off.
What was that all about?
Before I had time to decide whether to follow him and pursue the conversation or just leave it, his mother rushed in.
“Bonjour,” I said, as breezily as I could.
“Bonjour, Ella,” she said with a strained voice: serious, yet maintaining her sense of composure, as always.
She told me she needed to talk to me about Jean-Pierre, but my French was still rudimentary at best and failed me—all I understood from her five-minute monologue was that I had to be nice to her son.
Grabbing my things and heading out for the day, I was feeling perplexed about what Jean-Pierre’s mother had been trying to tell me. I wasn’t sure if she knew I’d just been planning to grill him about tailing me the other day or if she was simply being an uber-protective mother.
And why did she even feel the need to tell me to be nice to Jean-Pierre? I thought angrily. I have gone out of my way to be civil to him. I simply wanted to find out if, down the line, I might need to get a restraining order . . .
I couldn’t figure out how I’d gotten stuck in the middle of their family feud. Although the house looked like a film set, I was merely renting a room, and I was fed up with the drama. I was relieved that I had plans to visit Clotilde’s apartment later that day. Even if I was potentially replacing one complicated house share setup for another—she was Gaston’s maybe-girlfriend, after all!—it would be an improvement: living with a moody forty-year-old and his meddling mother was getting beyond weird.
I spent the day outside with one eye out for Jean-Pierre, agonizing about what kind of night I had in store with the elusive Clotilde. Judging her purely on looks, I guessed that she enjoyed the finer things and I wanted to take a cheese that would impress. I headed to Serge’s store to pick up some of the good stuff. He would have to help me out with the finer details and give me some tasting notes I could use to show my potential new housemate that I, too, could be a classy Parisian.
Arriving at the fromagerie, I spied Serge’s big hands in the cabinet before I could make out his face through the window. I hadn’t been to see him in over a week and I was worried he’d start thinking I’d flaked on our bet. I needed to go in—first to get some wow-factor cheese for dinner, but also to tell him about the varieties I’d recently ticked off the list.
Serge smiled widely when he saw me. He seemed to get friendlier with each of my visits.
“Serge, bonsoir,” I said, hoping that it was indeed the seemingly-arbitrary French moment of the day to switch over to wishing people good evening.
“Bonjour,” he said in reply, stressing the “jour,” meaning it was still day. I blushed but thankfully he continued. “How many cheeses have you eaten? Am I closer to winning dinner with you?”
“Ha! Not yet, Serge,” I said, making light of the dinner comment.
“But you haven’t been here in days. Where have you been getting cheese?” he asked, with a jovial smile. “Please tell me you haven’t been buying that merde they sell in the super-market.”
My face went red. “I’ve been eating out in cafés mostly.”
“So, what types of cheese have you been trying?” he asked.
“Let me think . . . I’ve had Mimolette and Perail, oh, and a Saint-Marcellin.”
“And how can I be sure you’re not making up these cheeses just to be taken out to dinner?”
I couldn’t help thinking, Don’t flatter yourself too much, Serge. But I did have cheese-eating evidence up my sleeve.
“I have Instagram proof.”
“What do you mean, Instagram proof?” he asked.
“Well, I’ve been uploading photos of all the cheese I eat to Instagram.”
“Oh là là, Ella, this won’t do. Cheese is to be eaten and appreciated in the moment. It’s not meant for your social media click photo things. Oh non, non, non.” He sounded perturbed.
“No, it’s great,” I countered. “You should check out the account at My 365 Days of Cheese if you don’t believe me. I’ve actually got quite the following already. Does the store have an account? I can start tagging it. Cheese seems very à la mode at the moment.”
“Cheese is always à la mode in France,” he retorted.
“Oh, of course,” I said quickly.
A customer walked in, interrupting the flow of our conversation and forcing Serge to ask me in a more professional tone what cheese I wanted.
I let the other lady go in front of me, thinking about his disapproval of my Instagram account. Why’s he such a Luddite? I pondered, eyeing him across the cabinet. He’d trimmed his beard, which made him look younger. He can’t be more than thirty-five. That’s young for such a technophobe.
When the customer left, he looked at me seriously and said, “You should come to me for dining recommendations. I stock cheese at some local restaurants and bistros and I can assure you of their quality. None of that cheap produce that you see in a lot of places.”
Serge’s arrogance was annoying—but at the same time, I found it kind of endearing. They were really obsessed with their food, the French.
When he asked me what I was in the mood for, I told him that I was having dinner with a new friend. A part of me really delighted in telling him this. At least now he’d know that I did have a life outside of his fromagerie. And that I finally had friends to eat the cheese with.
“I need something delicate and delicious. Maybe that blue cheese?” I pointed at a particularly gooey and moldy slice in the cabinet.
“Mon Dieu, non,” Serge started saying. “If this cheese is for a romantic dinner, it is too strong. Are you certain your date enjoys blue cheese?”
“Oh, it’s not a date. It’s just a new friend. I’m not actually sure what she likes,” I admitted. I hardly knew anything about Clotilde. “What do you recommend, then? Maybe goat cheese?”
His eyes scanned the cabinet and widened when they reached the end. He moved a few steps to his left and picked up a goat’s cheese that was fully black.
“This! This will be perfect. And it is ready to eat tonight.”
“What is it?”
“It’s Valençay, a goat cheese from a town with the same name: Valençay.”
“Why is it black?” I asked, tempering my surprise.
“The mold is coated with charcoal. It’s beautiful, don’t you think?” he drifted off as if lost in thought. “And this one is aged to perfection,” he purred.
“I guess,” I said skeptically.
“So you are still not convinced? Then you must try some.”
“Oh no, don’t cut it open for me.”
“Nonsense,” he said. “I can always finish it tonight.”
As Serge thrust his knife into the cheese and cut a tiny little piece of Valençay pie for me, he asked, “Do you know the story of how Valençay got its shape?”
I shook my head, looking at the cheese, which was in the form of a topless pyramid.
“It’s a good story,” he continued, obviously taking pleasure in drawing it out.
I was all ears as Serge launched into his version of Cheese for Tourists: 101.
“So it is rumored that, way back when, the people of Valençay used to make their cheese in the shape of a pyramid, including the point at the top.” He held his hands up to demonstrate the point. “For years, they’d been crafting their cheese this way and they’d perfected the pyramid shape. It was a very popular cheese in France at the time, and visitors loved going to the town to taste the pyramid.”
He handed me a slice of the cheese and encouraged me to eat it while he continued with his story. “Now, as time went on, on the other side of the world, Napoleon was getting himself into trouble in Egypt. After coming back to France, sadly defeated, he went through Valençay, and do you know what happened when he saw the pyramid cheese?”
I shook my head, still chewing. The cheese
was delightful: nutty and smooth, with a hint of citrus. Surprisingly fresh, despite the mold and charcoal.
“It sent him into a fit of rage, reminding him of his recent humiliation in Egypt.” Serge folded a piece of wax paper into a Napoleon-style hat and put it on.
“He felt like the cheese was mocking him so he drew his sword and chopped the top right off the pyramid,” Serge said, taking his own imaginary sword to the cheese. “And ever since that day, Valençay has always appeared in this new shape.”
“No . . .” I said. “That can’t be true.”
“And why not?” Serge shrugged his shoulders in that quintessentially French way. “Unfortunately, we could not be there to see it, so we will never know if it actually happened.”
“I guess not,” I laughed. “But you’ve convinced me. Wrap one up for me please.”
“And what else would you like to try tonight?” he asked, just as another customer walked in the door.
“Oh, um, a hard cheese, perhaps some Cantal,” I said, trying not to laugh as he sheepishly removed his paper hat.
“D’accord, I will give you a special type of Cantal. Not like the others. You can tell me what you think next time,” he said, wrapping the cheese and giving a friendly bonjour to the other customer.
That’s my cue to leave, then, I thought, slightly disappointed that our conversation was over.
I gathered my Napoleon cheese and my Cantal and wished Serge a pleasant evening. Heading to Clotilde’s, I chuckled at the thought of him theatrically reenacting Napoleon taking his sword to the cheese.
With every visit, I felt like I was getting to know Serge a little more; he was kind, animated, and fast becoming one of my favorite people in Paris.
Chapter
Fromage a Trois Page 10