“But I—,” I started to protest.
“Hear me out. Just for a moment. You’re the one who found the photo in the cookbook, went searching through Grand-mère’s effects to find her mementos of Gabriel, and found the letters in Provence. They didn’t mean a whole lot to Mom; she had other priorities at the time. But they meant—and continue to mean—a lot to you. And maybe that’s enough.”
Caterina gave an uncharacteristically quiet smile. “Maybe,” she said, “these stories are for you.”
To: Me, jdalisa@twobluedoors.com
From: Rose Warner, rose@thefeistybaguette.com
First off, I can’t tell you how thrilled to the depths of my bones I am that you found us. My parents spoke very little of the war; my father has mentioned a few things about his life before the war since our mom died.
I spoke with my dad over the phone, and he’s extremely excited to meet you and learn more about your family and your grandmother.
If you’re willing to come visit, my father and sisters would like to meet you as well (and your sister, and whichever family members would like to come along for the ride). I could try having my sister take him to you, but at his age he doesn’t travel distances well (and Chicago is a distance for him).
Rose
To: Rose, rose@thefeistybaguette.com
From: Me, jdalisa@twobluedoors.com
Dear Rose,
Caterina and I would be delighted to come to you! The five of us can come Monday—if you’re running a bakery, I figure that’s the most convenient day for you as well. It’ll be me and my older sister Caterina, as well as her husband and twin four-year-old boys.
How does lunch on Monday sound? Caterina is fond of reminding me that anything worth doing should be done over food.
Juliette
To: Me, jdalisa@twobluedoors.com
From: Rose, rose@thefeistybaguette.com
Juliette—
Your sister and I will get along. Lunch Monday, make it 1 p.m., at my house— 1482 Whistlewoods Way, St. Louis, MO. My sister Lisette will join us, and she’ll bring Dad. Vi will join us if she can. Call me at the bakery if anything comes up.
Rose
To: Nico, ndalisa@twobluedoors.com
From: Me, jdalisa@twobluedoors.com
Nico—
Longish story, but we found Gabriel’s brother Benjamin, and we’re visiting his daughter (our cousin—once removed? Or something?) Rose (who’s a James Beard Award–winning pastry chef, naturally), who’s invited us to visit and meet all of them on Monday. We’re all going, Damian isn’t catering those days, and Cat’s pulling the boys out of school—road trip!
!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Could you mail a few things to me? I’d like the photo of Gabriel (the one from the cookbook), the cuff links, and the letters. All of them are in Grand-mère’s trunk in my room, behind the secret panel in the lid (not because they’re secret, it just seemed logical). Please pack them VERY carefully and FedEx them overnight to Caterina’s (just tell me how much it is and I’ll reimburse you).
Thankyouthankyouthankyou, you’re the best!
J
To: Me, jdalisa@twobluedoors.com
From: Nico, ndalisa@twobluedoors.com
What the what? You found Benjamin? And his kids? And we have a JB Award–winner in the family?
I thought you were just going to Chicago to chill out for a while. That’s some effective work.
How much am I keeping on the hush? Why don’t you just call Dad and tell him so that I don’t blurt out to Sophie that I just mailed stuff to you in Chicago so you can show it to our long-lost relatives? She’ll have a panic attack about the expansion of her Christmas gift list less than a month before Christmas.
Which would be kinda funny. Not gonna lie.
Also, we have to talk about the Christmas Eve menu. I can’t decide between Cornish game hens or prime rib. We could do turkey again, but man, I hate plating turkey. It’s like plating sawdust. I don’t understand America and turkey. Turkey is the protein for people who hate themselves.
I hate turkey.
Nico
To: Nico, ndalisa@twobluedoors.com
From: Me, jdalisa@twobluedoors.com
I like the idea of Cornish game hens, wondering if we should save them for New Year’s? I mean, the turkey was a big moneymaker. Maybe do the turkey the way you’d do duck? Prime rib makes me feel cringey. Lamb?
Thanks for mailing stuff! You’re right, I’ll call Dad. And Sophie. I’ll have Caterina call Alex.
Also, I’m not great at this relaxing thing.
What do you think about turkey wrapped in turkey bacon?
Etta
To: Me, jdalisa@twobluedoors.com
From: Nico, ndalisa@twobluedoors.com
I think that’s the worst idea.
Ever.
But I do like the idea of Cornish game hens for Christmas. They’re ready for a comeback, I think. If cupcakes can be a thing, game hens can be a thing. Same concept. Maybe we’ll call them cupchickens. Cupchicks. Chicken pops.
I’m still working on it.
Nico
To: Nico, ndalisa@twobluedoors.com
From: Me, jdalisa@twobluedoors.com
Follow your heart. Do the Cornish game hens. May they be your Christmas miracle.
J
~ TAGLIATELLE WITH BEEF RAGU ~
1 pound fresh tagliatelle
1 tablespoon sea salt plus
1 teaspoon, divided
2 tablespoons olive oil
2 pounds chuck roast, cut into large cubes and trimmed of excess fat
2 tablespoons olive oil
1 celery stick, minced
1 onion, minced
1 large carrot, minced
3 cloves garlic, minced
1 28-ounce can Italian diced tomatoes
1 cup dry red wine
4 sprigs fresh thyme
¼ tsp dried whole fennel
8 ounces cremini mushrooms, halved
Salt and pepper
Grated parmesan cheese
Preheat oven to 325 degrees.
Dry the beef with paper towels, and salt and pepper the pieces. Heat the oil in a dutch oven, and brown the pieces on all sides in batches. Once browned, remove the beef and add the celery, onion, carrot, and garlic, and give them a stir. After a minute, return the beef to the pot, followed by the tomatoes, wine, thyme, and fennel.
Cover and place in the oven. After 2½ hours, add the mushrooms and stir. Cook for an additional one hour. Remove from oven, and use two forks to gently shred the beef. Taste and adjust seasoning as necessary.
For the pasta, fill a large pot with water, add 1 tablespoon sea salt, and heat to a boil. Add fresh pasta, cook for 3–4 minutes, or until al dente. Gently drain and rinse the pasta. Serve immediately with heaping quantities of the sauce and plenty of parmesan cheese. Leftover sauce may also be frozen.
Serves 4.
Cookery is not chemistry. It is an art. It requires instinct and taste rather than exact measurements.
—MARCEL BOULESTIN
Four and a half hours in a car with two four-year-olds will really mine a person’s collection of road-trip games. We played I Spy, looked for letters on signs and license plates, and sang along enthusiastically with Abbey Road.
After a while, we turned off the freeway onto a thoroughfare, winding our way onto progressively smaller streets until we reached Rose’s neighborhood, ultimately pulling up beside a house largely obscured by the front garden.
“Is that it?” Caterina asked. “That looks like the right number.”
“Fourteen eighty-two,” Damian said. “That’s it.”
“It looks scary,” said Christian, casting a critical eye upon the untamed arrangement of plants covered in snow and ice.
“It looks like a witch’s house,” Luca observed.
Caterina rolled her eyes and turned aro
und to face her boys in their booster seats. “Boys. We are about to meet cousins we’ve never met before. Remember how Chloé is your cousin?”
They nodded.
“Well, these nice ladies are cousins too, but they’re even better. They’re like grandma-cousins.”
Christian scrunched his mouth to the side. “I miss Grandma.”
Caterina’s voice softened. “Me too, honey. But we get to meet the grandma-cousins, and that’s exciting. So we’re going to be very nice to them. Can each of you think of a nice compliment to give to Cousin Rose?”
“Cousin Rose is a grandma-cousin?”
“Yes. And it would be very rude to be unkind about her garden.”
Christian looked out the window. “I like that some of the plants have red on them.”
Caterina nodded. “That is a good compliment. Luca? Did you think of one?”
Luca shook his head.
“That’s okay,” she said, unbuckling her seat belt. “Just keep thinking.”
We piled out of the car, a puff of snow landing in our faces as we disembarked.
Caterina, Damian, and I herded the boys past the gate and through the yard, which featured raised beds waiting for a new year of produce after the snows subsided.
We tromped onto the porch, likely sounding like a team of Clydesdales; I knocked on the door and waited, my heart thudding.
A wiry woman with steel-gray curls, skinny jeans, and a blanket cardigan threw open the door. “Hello! I’m Rose. I’m so glad you all made it.”
“Hi, Rose, I’m Juliette. This is my sister Caterina, my brother-in-law Damian, and my nephews Luca and Christian.”
“Yes, yes, come in—all of you. That’s a long drive for you boys,” she said, looking down at Luca and Christian once everyone had shuffled in. “Are you two ready for lunch?”
“Your red plants are pretty,” Christian said.
“The holly? Thank you,” Rose answered with a pleased nod.
Luca scrunched up his nose. “Can you do magic?”
Damian groaned.
Rose knelt down to look Luca in the eye. “Young man, I make dough from flour, oil, yeast, and water, and I put it in the oven and out comes bread. If that’s not magic, I don’t know what is.”
Luca considered this. “I like bread with butter and jam.”
“That’s good,” Rose said. “There’s bread inside. Follow me, you’re family. And not in an Olive Garden way, you’re all actually family. Come in, don’t worry about your shoes, everyone’s inside.”
Caterina grinned at her. “Thanks for having us today.”
“What are you talking about? It’s my pleasure! Thank you for driving,” she said, leading us deeper into the house. “Everyone’s here. We’re so excited. Dad! Look who’s here!”
We followed her down the hallway, which was—appropriately enough—covered in photos and paintings of breads and pastries. Soon enough, we were surrounded by more relations, women who looked like variations on a theme and what I assumed were husbands and children.
In swift succession we met the other sisters. Vi, the oldest of the three, had very dark hair and a love for bright lipstick. She pulled each of us into an enthusiastic embrace, waving away any comments about the fact that she’d flown in from New York.
Lisette, the youngest, was softer than her sisters—more petite, a little rounder around the edges, her hair falling in gentle blond curls. Christian in particular warmed up to her instantly.
And finally, the sea of people parted, and Rose introduced us to Benjamin.
I could see some resemblance between the man in front of me and the photo of Gabriel I’d found so many months ago. The resemblance to Nico remained strong—in some ways, it seemed as though I were seeing into the future. I suspected that Benjamin’s face and features were longer than his brother’s, and I harbored hopes that he might have pictures of himself as a younger man.
Benjamin looked up at us, his eyes welling with tears as he clasped my hand. “Gabriel’s granddaughters—and great-grandchildren. I—I never thought. I never thought we’d be so blessed as to find each other.”
Instant tears flowed down my face. “I’m so, so very glad to meet you,” I said. I felt as though I hadn’t said anything else for the last fifteen minutes, but the sentiment remained deeply true.
Benjamin embraced Caterina as well and exchanged handshakes with Damian before leaning down to meet the boys. He coaxed a smile out of Luca and a laugh from Christian before Rose announced lunch.
“I’ve been told that anything worth doing should be done over food—” she started.
“Amen!” Caterina interrupted gleefully.
“—so let’s take the party to the sunroom and get some grub,” Rose finished, before reaching to unfold a walker for Benjamin.
We made a slow parade to the sunroom where a long table waited, piled high with food. Rose handed plates to everyone and herded us to the buffet while explaining the offerings.
“There’s a baked ziti that will warm you right up—not too spicy, just a kick, I promise—some roasted sweet potatoes, brussels sprouts, and a green-bean salad. There are some carrot sticks for the boys too, and if you need something else, we can raid my fridge together.”
“This looks great. The boys should be fine,” Caterina said, “though it can change with the phases of the moon.”
Once everyone had a plate full of food, we settled in at the long farmhouse table to eat and share stories. I sat next to Benjamin and Vi, with Rose close by and the other family members tucked in around the table.
“Tell us all about yourselves, Juliette, Caterina,” Rose prompted. “We want to hear everything about you and your family.”
Caterina took the lead, which I appreciated. My gut told me that what Rose really wanted to know was how I’d found her, and that would require a longer explanation, as well as a dive into a deeply unpleasant chapter of her father’s life.
History could wait for lunch. For the time being, we focused on Caterina’s family in Chicago: Damian’s catering business, Caterina’s language and cuisine courses, and the boys.
Shortly after, the conversation shifted to the Portland family. I explained about our mother’s passing but focused mainly on my siblings and their lives.
Rose and Benjamin, in particular, were delighted to hear how many of us were trained chefs and worked in the food industry.
“Gabriel was such a master of pastry,” Benjamin said. “When Rose began to bake, at a young age, I recognized it instantly.”
“I was lucky,” Rose admitted. “So many other parents would have seen me and simply said I’d make a good wife and homemaker someday. My father pushed me to go to culinary school and open a boulangerie.”
Benjamin shrugged. “I knew she would not be happy unless she spent at least half of her life covered in flour up to her elbows.”
Lisette shared about teaching kindergarten for thirty years, and raising her son and daughter. Vi talked about her years as a high-school French teacher, as well as her daughter who now lived in New York City, a cellist for the New York Philharmonic.
Both Lisette’s and Vi’s husbands had tagged along, but seemed content enough letting the women do the talking.
Once we’d finished lunch, Rose served coffee and sent us into the living room.
“Tell us how you found us, Juliette,” Rose prompted me as she handed me a slice of chocolate cake. “You explained a little on the phone, but I’m sure it’s a longer story.”
“It is,” I said, taking a bite before sharing the story—how I’d inherited the prep table after Grand-mère’s death and found her favorite cookbook, with the photo of Gabriel pasted inside the dust jacket.
I reached into my skirt pocket, where the small drawstring bag rested. “I found these in Grand-mère’s trunk. Tracing them led me to the name Roussard.” I opened the bag and poured the contents into my hand carefully—the ring and cuff links that Benjamin had made.
“Oh. Oh my,�
� Benjamin said, holding them close to his eyes with hands that shook with age.
Rose leaned closer. “What is it, Dad?”
He cleared his throat. “I made these, when I worked for Van Cleef & Arpels. The ring I made for Mireille when I worked at Van Cleef & Arpels. The cuff links were commissioned by Mireille to give to Gabriel.”
“Every Van Cleef piece has a number,” I said. “I discovered that the ring was purchased by a G. Roussard. And the cuff links were purchased by Madame Roussard, which told me that they were married.”
Vi cackled at that. “I’ll bet you were relieved! Until then, he could have been anyone! Didn’t she remarry?”
I nodded. “She did; she married Gilles Bessette. He was the grandfather I knew.” This was the part I didn’t know how to explain. “My grandmother had her reasons for keeping her secrets. I don’t know what happened during the war.”
I went on to explain about the letters I’d found at the chateau the summer before, how they’d detailed Mireille’s school days, romance with Gabriel, and marriage. How I’d discovered that Benjamin had been the one to make the rings, and all about Mireille and Gabriel’s life with the twins. And then how, suddenly, there was the cryptic letter to Tante Joséphine about Gabriel’s death.
“I don’t know what happened, and I don’t know how the letter wound up in the collection. Truly, I don’t know how the letters became such a complete collection.”
Benjamin shook his head. “I only know what my parents told me. Alice and I left France before the worst of the trouble started. We were in New York when I had a letter from my parents. They told me that Gabriel had been shot in Paris, during the Vel’ d’Hiv Roundup.”
“I’d wondered,” I said. “At least about the roundup. The dates lined up.”
Benjamin turned to the other family members. “The Vel’ d’Hiv Roundup was a collaboration between the Parisian police and the Nazis to remove Jews from the city. There had been previous arrests, but the Vel’ d’Hiv took women and children, as well as the men. They were held in the velodrome on the outskirts of the city for weeks. Later, they were taken to labor camps. Concentration camps.
Together at the Table Page 11
