Fromage a Trois

by Brownlee, Victoria

  Coming out of the metro, I started to think about dinner. Hyped up on love and hungry from all the fresh mountain air, I was in the mood to sample a cheese that was decadent and warming—something that would continue to make winter more bearable. I also wanted to get a little something to put in the fridge to celebrate Clotilde’s return from her trip to Thailand with Papa Jean, which they’d ended up extending beyond the original two weeks because apparently sitting on the beach in Southeast Asia was nicer than spending winter in Paris. They were due back late that evening and I knew she would have missed her French cheese.

  I headed directly to Serge for a recommendation and to say a belated thank-you for the Christmas cheese; I was also excited to tell him about my fondue discovery. It’d been an eventful few weeks and, feeling like we’d left our friendship in a really good place after our Christmas Eve dinner, I was looking forward to seeing him.

  “Happy New Year,” I said, grinning as I opened the door. “How was your holiday?”

  He told me it was great—in French—testing whether my comprehension had gotten better over the break.

  “Wonderful,” I replied in English.

  “Tell me, did you manage to finish the leftover cheese from Christmas dinner?”

  “Don’t get me started, Serge. I ate too much.”

  He made a face of mock horror and said, “There is no such thing as too much holiday cheese.”

  Ah ha, I thought excitedly. It seemed that overindulging in food was acceptable in France so long as it was attached to an event or holiday. Good to know!

  “I feel like something delicious tonight,” I told him. “Something luscious and creamy. What would you suggest?”

  “Let me see,” he said, running his hand over the counter. “Have you tried Mont d’Or before?”

  “No, I haven’t even heard of it,” I admitted.

  “Oh là là,” he exclaimed before telling me that this “very special” cheese was only available in autumn and winter. He gave me a mouthwatering description of how it can be baked in the oven with a little garlic, salt, and a splash of dry vin blanc. It sounded heavenly.

  “Mmm.” I made a murmur of approval as I looked at the white, pillowy cheese encased in a round, wooden box. “Better wrap one up then.”

  “You know, it’s a terrible shame to eat cheese like this alone,” he said wistfully.

  “Really? Why?” I asked. Not that I would be alone after Clotilde got back anyway.

  “Well, it’s the kind of cheese that is best shared . . .” He paused and I nervously waited for him to continue.

  “If you don’t have plans tonight, why don’t you come to my apartment for dinner? I’ll bring the cheese.”

  “Like a date?” I asked fearfully. I hoped he hadn’t somehow gotten the wrong idea about us after our Christmas dinner.

  “I would like to repay your hospitality,” he responded, skirting the question.

  I was about to tell him that I was too exhausted from my trip to the snow, but then I thought about how fun it would be to eat cheese at Mr. Cheeseman’s house.

  “OK. Why not?”

  At that moment, an impeccably-dressed woman around eighty entered the store, leaving me with only a few more seconds to agonize over whether or not Serge had just asked me out. Maybe he doesn’t understand the nuance of the word “date.” Besides, I’m sure I’ve told him about Gaston . . .

  “Come over around eight,” he said, giving me his address.

  I rushed out of the shop, relieved to get outside and replay the conversation in my mind. Did I just agree to go on a date with Serge? Merde! Perhaps I’m simply overthinking things; it wouldn’t be the first time . . . I was probably just getting carried away thinking that all French men loved me in light of Gaston’s recent declaration.

  Whatever tonight was, I planned to drop Gaston’s name into the conversation nice and early, and if it was supposed to be a date, hopefully the reminder that I already had a boyfriend wouldn’t offend Serge and he’d take it in his stride.

  Trying to find something in my closet to wear to this non-date dinner was harder than it should have been. I wanted to look casual—and not at all sexy—but I also didn’t want to offend my host by turning up dressed sloppily. Did high heels give off a “date me” vibe? Would faded jeans be too informal? I glanced at the clock and realized I’d be late if I didn’t make a decision quickly. I considered messaging Clotilde for advice but she was probably still in the air. Plus, I didn’t want to tell her about dinner with Serge in case Gaston found out. Better to mention it when I was sure there weren’t any romantic intentions. Things suddenly felt complicated.

  After inspecting all the potential outfits currently on the floor, I threw on black jeans, a fitted black T-shirt, and a pair of ballet flats. I scooped up my hair into a rather chic chignon, grabbed my bag and coat, splashed on some lipstick, and rushed out the door.

  I hadn’t really thought too much about where Serge might live, but I was surprised at the splendor of his apartment’s exterior as I walked through the pot plant–clad courtyard. He buzzed me in and told me fourth floor, apartment A.

  Serge opened the door in an apron, holding a wooden spoon, and ushered me in. “Vite, vite, vite. Quick, quick, quick,” he said, hurrying me along the short hallway. “We don’t want anything to burn.”

  Looking around, I was surprised by two things. The first was how charming Serge’s home was, especially for a bachelor. The second was the candle on the table and the dinner setting for two. Merde! It definitely appeared to be a date.

  This might get awkward.

  “Serge, this place is magnificent,” I said as he handed me a glass of sparkling wine, a Crémant de Bourgogne. Exposed wooden beams the color of espresso lined the high ceiling, offset by creamy white walls and over-stacked bookcases. Two leather couches, soft like butter after years of wear, sat cozily by the windows. It was a small apartment but it gave off an impression of space.

  “I never knew you were into interior design,” I continued.

  “Ella. There are many things you don’t know about me,” he said, winking while ushering me into the kitchen and stirring a pot bubbling away on the stove. My stomach fluttered and I was suddenly reminded of my first day in Paris when I’d met Serge in his cheese shop, full of aspiration and hopped up on the excitement of being in France.

  “You’re probably right. And I’m sure there are many things you don’t know about me,” I said, trying to find a way to bring up Gaston but instead sounding oddly mysterious. “Anyway,” I continued, changing tones, “what are you cooking?”

  “Homemade pappardelle,” Serge said, telling me how he’d done a pasta-making course in Italy when he’d been there on holidays last summer. I kept asking him questions and tried to act casual, but found myself unintentionally interrogating him, all the while seemingly incapable of mentioning that I had a boyfriend.

  I finished my glass far too quickly—Serge had only taken a couple of sips of his—and I was feeling a little flushed. I excused myself to go to the bathroom for a quick breather; I had to try and form a plan for the evening that didn’t involve me chugging my drink and babbling like an idiot.

  I sat on the loo and reprimanded myself for getting into this messy situation, thoughts flying around my head. Were Gaston and I even exclusive? We certainly hadn’t had the talk, but he had said he loved me. Am I cheating on him by being on a date? Is this a date? Is it too late to get out of it? Should I fake an illness? Maybe I can sneak out the window. But then I’d lose my cheeseman . . . Oh God.

  I washed my hands and headed back out.

  “Is everything all right?” Serge asked, gallantly pulling a chair out for me at the dining table.

  “I’m fine. Sorry. I must have had a little too much coffee this afternoon,” I said, noticing two plates of delicious-looking pasta ready and waiting. I also couldn’t help but notice that he’d refilled my glass. Great . . .

 
“Alors, first on the menu tonight we have pasta with truffles and Gruyère. Something simple and light so we can move swiftly on to the cheese course.”

  I laughed at his idea of simple and light, swirling the creamy pappardelle into a large ball and stuffing it ungracefully but satisfyingly into my mouth. Perhaps he’ll find my eating habits a turnoff . . .

  After the pasta, Serge didn’t waste any time moving on to the baked Mont d’Or, serving it unadorned in its box with a couple of spoons. He studied me carefully as I heaped some of the warm, oozing cheese onto a hunk of crusty bread. Remembering how I’d burned my tongue on the fondue in the mountains, I waited a moment before slipping the warm cheese into my mouth.

  “Serge, what have you done to me?” I asked, mid-chew.

  “What’s the matter? You don’t like it?” He sounded surprised.

  “I just don’t understand how you could have hidden it from me until now,” I said in mock anger.

  “Ella,” he said slowly. “You can’t eat this cheese too often. First, it’s only available for a few months every year. Second, it’s very, very riche!”

  “Well, I think my cheese challenge is over. This is, and always will be, the only variety for me. It’s what I didn’t even realize I was looking for. Can I marry this cheese?” I joked.

  Serge laughed and told me to go ahead and forfeit our bet, he’d already gotten me to agree to dinner. It would have been the perfect moment for me to bring up Gaston, but it still didn’t feel right. Instead, I changed the subject, asking Serge how he came to love cheese.

  “It’s a long story,” he told me. “One for another time. And you?”

  “Also a long story,” I admitted, thinking about my picnic in Paris with Paul.

  We ate in a comfortable silence for a few moments, both lost in our own thoughts, before Serge questioned me on some of my recent cheese discoveries, our usual fallback topic of conversation.

  After finishing the meal, I stood to help clear the plates but found myself feeling a little light-headed after one too many glasses of wine.

  Serge grabbed my arm to steady me. His hand lingered, almost like we were frozen in time, lulled into slow motion from the pasta and the cheese. I should have moved away but found my legs wouldn’t cooperate.

  Before I realized what was about to happen, Serge leaned towards me and placed his large, warm hands lightly on my cheeks. And then he kissed me so tenderly that I melted like a Saint-Marcellin on a warm day.

  I knew I should pull away but his lips felt so right. Serge felt so right. The minutes passed as we stood entwined together.

  And then I suddenly remembered Gaston and went rigid. I leaned back and blurted out, “Serge, I can’t do this. I have a boyfriend.”

  “What? Why didn’t you tell me?” He took a step backwards, bumping into the chair behind him, a horrified look falling over his face.

  “I’m so sorry; I thought I already did tell you. But then there was the dinner, and the cheese . . .” I couldn’t get my thoughts in order. All I could think about was kissing him again. I regretted having said anything and would have happily leaped back into his arms, but his face warned me forcefully against doing so.

  “I’m so sorry, Serge.”

  He said nothing.

  “Maybe I should go,” I said. “Thank you for dinner.” I picked up my bag and coat and hurried out the door.

  Outside in the cold winter night, I wondered what had gotten into me. The combination of the delicious food, the wine, and of course the cheese, all must have wooed me into believing I had feelings for Serge. Clearly, he wasn’t my type of guy. He was old-fashioned and traditional. His hair was already graying and he made terrible jokes. But there was something about him that was sort of charming—not charming in the same way as Gaston, but there was still something there. And then I remembered the kiss and wanted to melt all over again. Damn!

  I opened my apartment door, still lost in thought, and was surprised to see Clotilde sitting in the dark, looking out the window.

  “Clotilde, you’re back! How are you? I feel like you’ve been gone for ages. How was Thailand?” I asked.

  She turned to face me and I saw that her eyes were wet and red and that she had been, and was still, crying.

  “Hey, what’s the matter?” I said, rushing over to her. “Did something happen?”

  “Oh God, Ella. It’s a mess. It’s too complicated to even explain. I wouldn’t know where to start.”

  I thought about the evening I’d spent with Serge and empathized.

  “It can’t be that bad,” I said. “Whatever it is, I’m sure we can figure it out.”

  She leaned around to grab her handbag, hauling it onto the table and passing me a leather folio. I opened it nervously.

  What the hell am I looking at? I thought as I flipped through. The pages featured very suggestive photos, mostly of feet, but sometimes including a “prop” or two. At one point I was on the verge of laughing, but on seeing Clotilde’s distressed face, I held it in.

  “Clotilde, what’s going on? What are these?”

  “Ella, I’m so embarrassed,” she cried. She burst into another round of desperate wailing. I’d never seen her like this. Between sobs, the truth came pouring out. Clotilde had been posing as a foot model. At first, it was all above board, mostly shoots for designer footwear labels—she did have exquisite feet—but then she’d fallen in with a stylist who was paying her increasingly large sums to take some of the more bizarre shots I’d seen in her folder.

  She’d guessed that he was a fetishist, but the money was great, and she’d thought it was all rather amusing. That was, until Papa Jean had found her folio over Christmas.

  “Ella, he’s furious . . . he said it wasn’t proper to fuel people’s perverted fantasies.”

  My heart sank for my friend.

  “I tried to tell him that people could enjoy whatever they wanted and that as long as the photos didn’t have my face on them, it didn’t matter. But he’s so old-school and proper. He kept yelling at me and saying, ‘Imagine if your mother was still around.’ He told me she would be so disappointed in me and what I’ve become.” She started crying again, her body shaking as she gasped for breath.

  “Don’t worry,” I said, rubbing her arm. “I’m sure he’ll forgive you. Can you just tell him that you won’t take any more pictures?”

  “It doesn’t matter anymore; he wants to cut me off. Take back the apartment. Ella, what are we going to do?”

  “He wants you to move out?” I asked, realizing this now affected me too.

  I did my best to console Clotilde but I was struggling to keep up with what was so bad about what she had done. As far as I could tell, the photos seemed fairly inoffensive; sure, their purpose might have been a little less than innocent, but things would have been a lot worse if her face had been in the frame. I now realized why she’d been so secretive about her modeling, elusively rushing off to meetings and always keeping her folio hidden away in her giant bag.

  “So, why have you been posing for these pictures?” I asked her. “Do you enjoy it?”

  “Well, at first it was just for my friend, but then I started getting quite a few offers. Apparently people with foot fetishes can recognize specific feet. My toes became popular in certain circles . . .”

  At that comment, a little bubble of laughter escaped me. Even Clotilde managed a meek smile, almost acknowledging the absurdity of the situation.

  “Clotilde, I wouldn’t worry if I were you. Your father adores you. Maybe wait until he cools off and then try apologizing again.”

  “I’m not sure it’ll work this time, Ella. I’ve never seen him so mad. He said I need to learn the value of hard work and money; he said he wouldn’t always be around to support me.”

  “Maybe you should consider modeling for real, then—all of you rather than just your feet?” I suggested.

  “I couldn’t,” she replied. “Who would ever hire
me?”

  “Who wouldn’t?” I argued. “Even your mascara-stained face is gorgeous.”

  After Clotilde had cried herself out of tears, I sent her to bed for a good rest and told her we would come up with a plan for how to deal with her father in the morning. I knew that we could find another flat if we needed, so that wasn’t the primary concern—most of all, I wanted to help her make amends with her dad. I loved their close relationship and I couldn’t stand the thought of Papa Jean angry with her over some silly feet photos. I considered calling him to discuss what had happened but decided it wasn’t my place to interfere.

  Going to see Serge, on the other hand, and apologizing for not having told him about Gaston, was probably the right thing to do. I resolved to visit his store first thing in the morning.

  But when dawn rolled around, after only a few hours of fitful sleep, I was more confused than ever. I’d dreamed of Serge, of being in his arms, of him caressing my hair and laughing softly in my ear. The dream had seemed so real and so wonderful that I woke up and felt like he was actually in bed with me. I had to turn on my lamp just to check that he wasn’t.

  I decided to avoid Serge and his fromagerie for a few weeks until the memory of the accidental-date-gone-wrong had faded. I was so lucky to be with Gaston and I didn’t want to jeopardize things with him.

  Fortunately for me, there were plenty of other cheese shops in Paris where I could continue to get my fix.

  Chapter

  29

  A FEW DAYS AFTER THE mortifying “non-date” with Serge, Gaston called me late at night and asked if he could come over. I was still awake writing some copy for work the next day and let him know that he’d be a very welcome distraction.

  Just as I was beginning to think he might have gotten lost on the way, I heard a pounding on the front door. Worried he’d wake Clotilde and the rest of my apartment block, I rushed to let him in. He stumbled past me, mumbling something about having been at a dinner, and giggled as he whipped off his jacket and spun it around his head, humming a striptease ditty. I laughed as I looked at him; I couldn’t remember ever having seen him this drunk before. I whisked him into my room so he could continue the show.