Albertine and I took our time because we weren’t up to anything else. “I don’t like standing on top of towers,” I said. “It’s scary.”
35
ATM Shopping
Jason
While I was eating with colleagues in the Galerie du Cloitre, a long, narrow area with arched windows, Albertine Guillot and my wife marched in. “Jason, you forgot to leave me money or a credit card,” said Carolyn.
“I shared our euros yesterday,” I replied and made introductions.
“Well, I don’t even have enough for lunch, and we’re going shopping.”
Much to my chagrin, several of my colleagues repressed chuckles. “My credit card’s in my name, Carolyn, but I have some cash.”
Albertine eyed me as if I were an abusive husband. “I’ll take your ATM card,” said my wife. “We have the same PIN.” Beaten but worried, I complied. “We’re going to Hiely Lucullus tonight with the Guillots,” she announced and left with my card.
Albertine smirked and added, “Hiely is somewhat expensive, but it has wonderful food. Adrien and I will come by at eight.” Then she followed Carolyn, leaving me to worry about what the shopping expedition and the dinner were going to cost me. Because my lecture was scheduled for that afternoon in the Herses Notre Dame, which held 230 people, I needed to put financial matters out of my mind. Unfortunately, I was also troubled because Carolyn had noted Mercedes’s presence at the table. The girl had plopped herself down uninvited, but I knew Carolyn was taking it amiss.
Carolyn
Albertine chose our lunch venue, Venaissin on Place de l’Horlage, and she wanted to sit outside. It hadn’t warmed up at all, but they had heaters, the chairs were comfy and padded, and we could look out at the beautiful square. I had a lovely Provençal vegetable soup with pistou, and Albertine had Croque Monsieur, over which she outlined her plan to wean my husband away from his student.
“She was at his table again, which is not proper. Of course, she cannot join us tonight, but tomorrow is the tour of the palais and, in the evening, the banquet. No doubt she will attend both. Therefore, we are going shopping to buy clothes that will divert his attention from her to you.”
“I really shouldn’t spend too much,” I murmured, breaking off a piece of French bread.
“Indeed you should. A beautiful dress and elegant shoes. A man who is tempted to stray must pay the price that will bring him to a proper appreciation of his wife.”
“What do you mean by elegant shoes?” I asked suspiciously.
“High heels. Why do you favor such boring shoes? When we have chosen your outfit for the banquet, you will be the most beautiful woman in the hall. Your husband will not be able to look away from you.”
That sounded good, but I did mention that high heels hurt my feet and made me taller than Jason, which he wouldn’t like.
“Sometimes pain must be endured for the sake of fashion, and your husband will learn to tolerate your height. Jacques has adjusted to Victoire’s.”
“But they both have lovers,” I protested. I didn’t want to attract a lover. I wanted my husband back. However, Albertine was determined. She paid our bill, which was high, although we were only eating lunch. Then we found an ATM, and I reimbursed her while getting cash for myself. Flush for shopping, we went off to a street with no cars and many lovely shops.
Of course, she insisted that I take the black dress, which was beautiful but quite revealing. If the weather didn’t warm up, I’d freeze at the banquet. How could they adequately heat a huge hall with high vaulted ceilings? The skirt was long and split in front, but not long enough to cover my ankles, which meant, according to Albertine, I had to have shoes that flattered said ankles. Soon I was wobbling around in spike-heeled, satin sandals. My ankles did look good, but the shoes hurt dreadfully.
I hadn’t worn heels since college, much less heels this high. When I complained, Albertine said, “Get used to them. Practice in your room. I do hope you have something dashing to wear tonight. Something that will go with those shoes. They are très chic.”
“If I wear them tonight, I’ll be crippled by tomorrow,” I groaned. “And what if I fall down?”
“One must take chances and make sacrifices for love,” said Albertine, and told the saleslady to wrap up the purchases and include a pair of sheer black hose. When I saw the bill, I had to go back to the ATM for more money. At least Jason wouldn’t realize what I’d spent until after we flew home.
On the other hand, if the terrorist came after me tonight or tomorrow night while I was wearing the heels, I’d have no chance to escape. My only comfort was the thought that a banquet involved a lot of sitting. And I’d be sitting at dinner tonight, but I certainly hoped Hiely Lucullus was close to the hotel. “Are you picking us up in your car tonight?” I asked hopefully.
“It’s not that far,” said Albertine, shocked that I’d even ask. Well, she wouldn’t think so. She was the woman who’d trudged all over the fort and up into the tower wearing heels.
I was so glad to get into my nice, comfy flats and return to the hotel, where I lay down and put my feet up on Jason’s pillow. Of course, I should have been out exploring Avignon, but I didn’t even want to put on those miserable but flattering heels and start practicing. What I wanted to do was go to sleep, and I did. I’d practice later.
Pistou is the pesto of Southern France and used to flavor soup as well as other Provençal dishes. Its most powerful ingredient, garlic, provides a wealth of stories and comments. Horace thought it repulsed the ladies, but Henry IV of France was reputed to have been baptized with a clove of garlic, to have eaten it often, which made him not only a famous lover whose affairs confirmed its reputation as an aphrodisiac but also a man with very strong breath.
Alexandre Dumas claimed that the air of Provence was healthful because it smelled of garlic, and in Marseilles in the eighteenth century, garlic soaked in vinegar and then used to impregnate a pad through which one breathed was believed to fend off plague.
However the priestesses of Cybele in Rome allowed no one with garlic breath to enter their temple, and King Alfonso of Castile in the fourteenth century barred knights with garlic or onion breath from entering his court or talking to his courtiers for four weeks after the offense.
Provençal Vegetable Soup with Pistou
• Soak 1½ cups of dried navy beans (or cannelloni or flageolet beans) in cold water overnight, drain, put in saucepan, cover with cold water, set to boiling, lower heat, and simmer 1 hour or until tender. Drain well. Set aside.
• Make pistou by putting 6 garlic cloves, 1 cups basil leaves, and 1 cup grated Parmesan into food processor and running until finely mashed. Then add ¾ cup olive oil slowly while running motor to mix thoroughly. Cover with plastic wrap and set aside.
• Heat 3 tablespoons olive oil. Add the white and tender green parts of 2 medium leeks cut into thin rings, 1 finely chopped onion, and 5 fat, fresh cloves garlic, peeled and quartered lengthwise. Cook over low heat until softened but not browned.
• Add 1 chopped celety stalk, 3 diced carrots, and a bouquet garni of several fresh bay leaves, sprigs of parsley and thyme tied with kitchen twine. Cook, stirring occasionally, 10 minutes.
• Add 4 diced potatoes, ¼ pound small, chopped green beans, 2 cups chicken stock, and 7 cups water, and simmer 10 minutes.
• Peel and chop fine 3 tomatoes, discarding core, dice 4 zucchini and add with white beans, 1½ cups vermicelli snapped into pieces, and 1 cup fresh peas. If using frozen peas, add them at last minute. Cook 10 minutes. Season to taste.
• Serve with half pistou on top, divided between four soup dishes. In separate dishes serve the other half pistou, ½ cup each freshly grated Parmigiano-Reggiano and imported Gruyère. These can be stirred into soup as desired by diners.
Carolyn Blue,
“Have Fork, Will Travel,”
Fresno Clarion
36
Haute Cuisine Provençal
Jason
My
talk went well—good attendance, interesting questions, and afterward, congratulations from colleagues, including Mercedes, who was overly enthusiastic. My argument with Carolyn that morning had made me uneasy around the girl, hardly an auspicious situation for research collaborators. Then when Adrien mentioned our evening at Hiely Lucullus, Mercedes invited herself along. Patting her on the shoulder in an avuncular way, Adrien said that this outing was for her elders, but he had a graduate student who longed to meet her. He actually led her over to a young man, who looked quite happy to receive the introduction. Maybe they’d fall in love and relieve me of a troublesome situation.
When Adrien returned, he expressed surprise, given the probability of parking problems, at Albertine’s insistence on taking their car to Hiely Lucullus. It occurred to me that the idea might have been my wife’s. She isn’t an enthusiastic walker, even if there is some place of historical interest within walking distance. I’d boarded many a bus, tram, and train while traveling with Carolyn, when left to my own devices I’d have preferred to walk.
The talks ran late because we would be losing the afternoon to the palais tour the next day. Therefore, it was seven-thirty when I got home, just enough time to take a shower and dress for what I assumed would be a fancy and expensive evening. Carolyn didn’t renew our argument, for which I was very thankful, and she looked quite lovely in a dress the color of the Mediterranean on a sunny day—why did French women always dress as if they were in mourning?
At any rate, we climbed into the Guillots’ black car—good heavens, what if Carolyn noticed the color and again accused them of returning to Avignon to run me down? No one had mentioned that Hiely Lucullus was on the second floor of the building, and we hadn’t thought to look upstairs, so we lost time driving around, after which locating a parking place took more time, and it was distant from the restaurant. Both Guillots were short-tempered by then, as was the maitre d’ because we were late for our reservation.
After that, things went more smoothly, although the prices were, as I had feared, high. Still, the food was good, and Adrien and I had a stimulating conversation about a paper we’d heard later that afternoon.
Carolyn
Albertine had looked grim when she saw that I wasn’t wearing the high heels, but my feet still hurt from the practice session. Then Adrien grumbled all the way to the restaurant, and she hissed, “If you were not going to take my advice, you might have told me before I offended my husband by insisting that we drive.”
I did my best to settle that problem by saying to Adrien, while we were waiting to be shown to our table, “It was so kind of you to drive. I must admit that I’m still feeling wobbly after my concussion, and I do appreciate your thoughtfulness.”
I gave him my sweetest smile—if Jason wanted to flirt with other people, why shouldn’t I?—and Adrien responded that I wasn’t to worry in the least; he was glad to save me from excessive walking, no matter how ridiculous the parking situation in Avignon. Evidently I had appeased him, because he suggested driving us to the banquet the next night. What a relief that was! I could please Albertine by wearing those shoes and not have to walk very far in them because her husband was so chivalrous.
And the restaurant was beautiful, simple, and elegant, all white and gold with drapes spanning windows that overlooked the Rue de l’Republique. I was enchanted with both the place and the food.
“I still don’t know what to think about Charles knocking Catherine down this morning,” said Albertine, studying the menu and deciding on hen with peaches, which she said was a Provençal favorite.
“Mon dieu!” exclaimed her husband. “The wretched dog must be in love again. That is just what he did to Carolyn the first time he saw her. I thought he was over falling in love with women. Maybe we should have him—what is the English?—deprived of manhood, or doghood.”
“What a terrible idea! Have you any idea, Adrien, what fees Charles commands when he makes puppies? And a dog of his excellent lineage has a duty to reproduce.”
“The money is welcome, but his behavior is deplorable when he’s on a breeding mission.” Adrien then recommended cod fish with berries.
Was it that nasty salt cod so popular in Southern France and Catalonia? I didn’t take his suggestion, at which he frowned. Men always think you should do what they want. Having been reminded that the dog was supposed to protect me that morning, not irritate Catherine, I glanced around the restaurant, just in case there was a terrorist lurking at some secluded table, not that I imagined terrorists came to restaurants like this.
At least four busboys looked somewhat Arabic to me, so I leaned over to tell Albertine, and she muttered that she would have brought Charles, except that Adrien had objected. “Let us hope,” she murmured back, “that all the terrorists are busy torching cars in St. Denis and attacking cruise ships off the coast of Somalia.”
“I think the cruise ship incident was due to pirates,” said Adrien. “May I suggest that we order Châteauneuf du Pape, 2002, Blanc de Blanc?” Everyone agreed.
“If you’ve been attacked by pirates,” I said to Adrien, “you’d see very little difference between them and terrorists. And surely the French government will control the rioters before they move out of their own districts. I think I’ll have this and this,” I announced, pointing to items on the menu. They turned out to be a sort of ratatouille cake on red salad leaves, followed by a tender white fish in a citron sauce.
“Do you even know what you’re ordering, Carolyn?” Albertine asked, laughing.
“I feel adventurous,” I replied, and my choices were tasty. Jason picked out a salmon salad and veal liver in a balsamic reduction. His sauce was wonderful, but I had no desire to eat liver, even if it came bathed in gold that I could take home and put in the bank.
Adrien commended him on his choice and advised him to get a half bottle of red wine to go with the liver. He didn’t commend my choices, but I later placated him by telling him that the wine was marvelous. Men always like to be thought wine connoisseurs. Maybe he was. I’m not, but it did taste good with my appetizer and entrée. Jason ordered the half bottle of red, and I had a bit of that with my dessert. But as soon as we’d ordered, the men started talking toxins, while Albertine and I kept watch on suspicious busboys. Happily, nothing untoward happened.
I ended my meal with a beautiful little dessert plate containing a honey-soaked doughnut, a cup-shaped fruit cake, a torte alternating thin cake layers with white chocolate and liqueur-flavored pastry creams, and a nice tart. So much for resolutions about skipping dessert. Jason ate most of my tart, which was probably the least high cal of the four offerings. Then we went home.
As we were getting ready for bed, I commented on how wonderful the dinner had been. Jason agreed, but he did mention what it had cost. “It was Albertine’s choice,” I pointed out, “and L’Epicerie was mine. My meal last night wasn’t all that expensive. Tell me, Jason, how much did yours cost?” I had him there. His had been about twice as expensive because at his table they’d ordered three courses and wine from the wine list.
“I hope you didn’t spend a lot today,” he grumbled.
“I had soup for lunch, and everything I eat is tax deductible. You might remember that.” I didn’t mention the shopping trip. He’d see the results of that tomorrow night, and I hoped that he’d be impressed enough to pass up asking what my outfit had cost. At least we hadn’t spent the evening with Mercedes in tow.
“I’m being difficult, aren’t I?” asked Jason somewhat ruefully.
“Absolutely,” I replied, “and I appreciate your admitting it.” Then I climbed into my bed, separated from Jason’s by tucked sheets and blankets. Not very romantic.
“Then maybe you’ll admit,” said Jason, climbing into his, “that you were difficult this morning. It’s not much fun to get out of bed on the day of your paper and be accused of all sorts of things.”
“I suppose so, but Jason, I’m not the only person who notices that Mercedes is always trai
ling after you.”
“It’s her first international conference. She’s probably feeling shy and—”
“Shy?” I exclaimed and snapped off the light. “She’s not shy.” How could Jason be so dense? Or maybe he wasn’t that dense. Maybe he enjoyed having a pretty young thing clinging to him in front of other men his age. She’d looked even better today because she’d abandoned the silly curls and let her hair go straight and long. Maybe Jason was—I’d never get to sleep if I kept thinking that way. I closed my eyes tight and listened to the wind. Was that a mistral blowing in from Africa? I imagined it picking up sand from the Sahara, fluttering the robes of Arabs in the markets, tugging at their turbans, exposing the hair of the veiled women in Tunisia, and swooping across the Mediterranean, kicking up waves that rocked the cruise ships, where passengers were worrying about pirates, and . . . I fell asleep.
More vegetables, fruit, and herbs are grown in Provence than anywhere else in France, also the most olives and the best olive oil, and ratatouille is the best of all the Provençal’s many wonderful vegetable dishes, in my opinion. It’s hard to believe that olive oil was once thought to be too important for its medical and religious uses to be wasted in cooking. Also Greeks and other early Mediterranean peoples used it to rub on their skin and to light their lamps. What a waste.
I learned just lately that once you’ve opened a bottle of olive oil, it should be refrigerated. Who knew? But it will last unopened in a dark, cool, dry place for two years.
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