THREE MONTHS AND THREE DAYS after my glorious first—proper—date with Serge, I was still in Paris to see the city transform back into its beautiful, sunny best. I’d now been living here long enough to see the influx of spring tourists and the slow decline of Parisians who, with the arrival of the sun, all began to escape to the coastlines for long weekends and public holidays. Occasionally, I’d stop to help a group of lost-looking foreigners and point out where the Louvre was or how to get to the Champs-Élysées. I finally felt at home.
Since that wonderful day driving around the Loire, things between Serge and me had been smoother than a slice of Brillat-Savarin. I finally told him the details of my breakup with Paul, about how I started dating him when we’d been visiting Paris and how I’d been wooed by his “knowledge” of French cheese. Funnily enough, I’d filled the void that Paul had left in my life with the exact two things that had brought us together, ultimately to have them both lead me to Serge.
Billie had been right when she’d told me I’d been dating the wrong type of guy. I had no idea I could be so happy with another person.
To celebrate my one-year anniversary of arriving in Paris, I organized a Sunday lunch at Serge’s apartment—our apartment, although I still wasn’t used to calling it that. I’d invited my odd collection of Paris-based friends and colleagues and had been cooking up a storm—or at least Serge had—all week in preparation.
The first guests to arrive were Clotilde and Papa Jean. Since we’d moved out of our little flat, I didn’t see Clotilde or her father as much as I would have liked, and when I met them at the door their embraces were wonderfully warm and familiar. Papa Jean handed over a magnum of champagne as an anniversary gift, and as soon as Clotilde wasn’t listening, he thanked me again for helping his beloved daughter through her “rough patch with the feet.”
I laughed and looked over at Clotilde, who was as radiant as ever. She was the face of the new Balenciaga campaign, adorning magazines and billboards all over Paris. Camille’s tenure had been short-lived after she was caught sleeping with an art director on set. From then on, Clotilde’s modeling career had really taken off and she was constantly traveling—so much so that she was rarely in our apartment. Eventually, she and her father decided to sell it. Now when she was in Paris, she stayed in lavish hotels or with Papa Jean. Thankfully, he’d relaxed his stance on her modeling. As long as she remained clothed, properly shod, and classy, he gave her his blessing.
Clotilde offered to assist Serge in the kitchen and I rushed to assure her that everything was under control. From experience, I knew that she could do as much damage in five minutes as I could do in an hour. I asked her to pop open the bottle of champagne instead, a task she excelled at. As we clinked glasses, I had a pang of longing for our old apartment and the good times we’d shared getting to know each other.
When the time had come to move out of Clotilde’s, Serge had suggested I move in with him. I’d thought it was too soon and had told him I preferred to just look for another share house, but he’d insisted.
I’d remained apprehensive, telling him that when I’d lived with Paul, I’d gotten lost in our relationship, something I wasn’t in a hurry to repeat. But as my search for a new home became as painful as the first time around, Serge had begged in his irresistible French accent to give it a try, and I’d finally caved and said yes. Deep down, I knew I was a different person now and I could hardly lump Serge in the same boat as Paul. He’d even told me that if he saw me changing, he’d kick me out on the street and force me back to Australia. And while his threat seemed a little dramatic, I trusted him.
Next to knock was my favorite Parisian barista, Chris. He arrived armed with a takeaway coffee for me, which was cold from his commute, but I loved the gesture. He joked and said that Flat White wasn’t the same without his favorite dish pig although I was sure he was exaggerating. I missed working there on weekends since I’d resigned, but thankfully, I could still always count on him for a good flat white. He saw Clotilde inside and smoothed down his hair. In the end, I don’t think he’d ever built up the courage to ask her out on a date but judging by the look in his eyes, all hope was not lost.
Before I had time to shut the door, Tim rushed up the stairs announcing, “Ella, we closed the funding round.”
I looked at him, lost.
“We’ve got more money coming in!” he said.
“Seriously?”
Tim had been working tirelessly to attract investors to raise Food To Go Go’s biggest round of funding yet. His baby girl had arrived safely a few days before Christmas and he’d turned into a very serious and driven boss, at least when he wasn’t falling asleep at his desk.
“No more slumming it for us, girl. I think we’ll even be able to get our own office.”
I smiled thinking about how cramped we’d been getting in the tiny coworking space we were renting. The company had been growing rapidly over the past few months, so much so that a month earlier, Tim had offered me a full-time gig that included a pay rise and a working visa, one that allowed me to legally stay in Paris. He made his way around the room saying hello to everyone before stopping to share the good news with Serge.
I saw Serge nodding despite looking completely lost, probably baffled by Tim’s Scottish accent but too polite to ask him to slow down.
When we were all collected at the table—my boyfriend, my boss, my barista, my best French friend, and her dad—I made a terrible speech thanking everyone for their support over the past year. It was sappy and embarrassing but I felt like I needed to mark the occasion somehow, and I couldn’t help getting emotional thinking about the life these people had helped me create here.
Although it’d been an easy decision for me to stay in Paris, Mum hadn’t taken the news so well. Thankfully, Ray and I had been emailing beforehand and he’d helped me arrange a surprise trip for them to return at the end of summer. She was touched to find out that we’d been scheming something together and I think it helped soften the blow of me not moving back to Melbourne. I couldn’t wait for them to get to know Serge better.
As for the cheese challenge, I finally resigned myself to the fact that I probably wouldn’t succeed in tasting 365 types of cheese in 365 days. I’d certainly tried and had come close to hitting the goal—320 tasted—but I knew I’d never be able to get through another forty-five varieties in the time that remained, at least not healthily.
Of course, I still relished trying new cheeses at every opportunity and discovering their unique origins—which Serge continued to describe to me in wonderful detail—but trying all 365 varieties within the year had lost its urgency. I wanted to savor those that remained.
When I ate cheese with Serge now, my enjoyment was on a different level. When I’d first arrived in Paris, eating cheese gave me purpose. It provided me with some structure to my days and I had clung to the challenge like it was my raison d’être. It was also my entrée into French culture and—in hindsight—a way to get closer to my cheesemonger. Now my consumption was for sheer pleasure. I did however quietly continue with the Instagram account, both to keep my still-increasing number of followers happy and to share the joys of French cheese with the world.
A few weeks earlier, when Serge had been probing me about the bet, he admitted he’d thought I’d only get around to tasting maybe one hundred types; he was impressed at how wrong I’d proven him. Thankfully, he found my obsession with cheese—and my seemingly endless appetite for it—endearing and he encouraged me to make a final effort to reach my goal. I considered pushing through but ultimately decided that 365 types of cheese was far too many to try in one year. I finally admitted to him—and to myself—that the world of French cheese was untamable, even with my greedy nature. This seemed to quieten him and he begrudgingly agreed. I think his real motivation behind seeing me succeed was because he still wanted to take me to dinner at La Tour d’Argent, which was sweet—but now that we were dating, it didn’t seem necessary.
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Serge and Clotilde cleared the lunch plates and disappeared into the kitchen. Just as I was considering going to check on them, I spotted Serge’s large wooden cheese trolley making an entrance into the dining area. The smell hit us before we were able to take in the full effect. I was momentarily stunned, seeing what looked like half the contents of Serge’s fromagerie on display.
“What have you guys done?” I asked.
“To wish you a happy Paris anniversary, we got you forty-five new types of cheese to try,” said Serge, standing next to a beaming Clotilde.
“But how did you know? How did you know which ones I haven’t already tried?” I asked, stunned.
“Well, I’ve kept a rough list of the cheeses you’ve tasted from my store,” Serge said. “Because honestly, I was worried you might exaggerate your efforts slightly. And then Clotilde hunted through your Instagram account to help me piece together what was missing. Turns out you have quite the diary of your cheese adventure on that social media thing.”
“You guys! I can’t believe you’ve done this,” I said, more tears welling in my eyes.
“Now you’ve just got to sample everything here and you’ll know more about French cheese than the majority of French people,” Serge said. “And I’ll get to take you to dinner, of course.”
We got to work on the trolley while Serge told us the individual names for each one and gave us tasting notes along the way. Chris and Tim looked like they’d just waltzed into the best lunch of their lives and Clotilde and Papa Jean embellished Serge’s descriptions with anecdotes. Then we stumbled across a cheese that nobody but Serge had tasted; everyone’s first bite was met with a sort of sacred silence.
My adoration for Serge in that moment was at bursting point. Without him and Clotilde, I certainly wouldn’t have had such a great first year in Paris and I probably wouldn’t still be here to celebrate finally feeling at home. I’d needed to dump my Australian boyfriend, move to the other side of the world, and struggle to find my place in France for it to happen, but it had all been worth it.
Of all the cheese I’ve tasted, Comté still remains my favorite, and I quietly thank it for luring me to Paris, pushing me to explore different types of cheese, and, ultimately, discover a new type of love.
Acknowledgments
WHEN THIS BOOK WAS STILL a draft, my sister asked why Ella was always drinking champagne. It’s probably because a lot of my writing was fueled by glasses of champagne (or sparkling wine when the budget was grim). Sometimes drinking when working is disastrous, sometimes it’s magical; for a book based in Paris, it felt necessary.
France (and its whole array of food and wine) has been an ongoing source of joy and inspiration. From the first time I lived here when I was sixteen, I fell in love, and now much more than a decade later, I’m still finding things that surprise and delight me.
But perhaps more important than the place that inspired this book are the people who helped me finish it.
Thanks first to my agent Gregory Messina for his excitement and determination to bring this story into the world, and to my UK editor, Emily Yau (and the teams at Quercus and Amberjack), for being the first to see its potential and making it a reality.
A huge wave of gratitude goes to my family. To my ever-encouraging mum and two sisters, Lorna and Jules, for their enthusiasm and insightful feedback; and to my dad, both for reading outside his usual genre, and for making up fabulous stories when I was young. The Hollow Log was probably a precursor to arriving here.
Thank you to my favorite tea companion, Shaz, for making writing a book seem easy—oh, they were the days; to Robin Wasserman (and the instructors at the Paris Writing Workshop) for motivating me to keep going and for giving me the tools to do so; and to all my friends who have endured the soul-searching that accompanied my writing.
Finally, thanks go to my adorable daughter, Clementine, for giving me a nine-month deadline to start wrapping things up. And to my husband, Jamie, it’s hard to express how much I appreciate your continuous support. Thanks for reading the very first (and very terrible) draft and then the better versions that followed. You’re my Serge.
About the Author
VICTORIA BROWNLEE is an Australian-born food writer. She’s spent the best part of the last decade eating her way around the world, including a two-year stint in China where she was the Food & Drink Editor at Time Out Shanghai. In 2016, she traded dumplings for cheese, and is now settled in Paris with her husband and daughter.
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