I was sad that I was going home by myself. Flirting with Rick had gotten me all caliente. When you touch and feel and smell things all day, it’s inevitable that you want to eat something too. It’s sad that as a woman I feel like I always have to apologize for wanting to eat—I mean, have sex. Men are horny most of the time and for them there is no shame about getting sex. “It’s like being hungry,” a guy friend once told me. “You don’t feel bad about satisfying your hunger; you just have to eat.”
I walked up to a taxi and looked at the driver. He looked up and acknowledged me and gestured for Bassie to get in. I waved good-bye and took the next taxi in line.
“Rue du Général Rueben, c’est pour la Porte Dauphine,” I said to the taxi driver, using my routine line that would get me home. He nodded and added in his Spanish-accented French, “Isn’t that by Giscardistan?”
“Qui?” I asked in French.
“The former president of France. He lives on the next street. He’s one of the head people responsible for writing the European constitution.”
I just nodded my head since I didn’t know enough French to further the conversation. That explained why there were police guarding his house all the time. I had assumed it was just another embassy.
“Are you from South America?” the taxi driver asked me in Spanish.
“No, I’m North American… Mexican-American,” I clarified for him in Spanish. I wanted to tell him I was a Chicana, but then I would have to give him a cultural and historical lesson that included the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo, and that required more brain cells than were available to me in my inebriated state.
“You’re Mexican?” he asked.
“Yes, I’m Mexican-American,” I reiterated.
“It’s a shame that you should want to call yourself an American. I like that you are Mexican, but I guess you can call yourself whatever you want. But I like South Americans better. Mexicans are fine people. I like them better than Americans.”
“Me too. I like Mexicans better than Americans, and look, I know Americans are not liked anywhere these days. I was born in Mexico, and at five years old my parents took me to live in Los Angeles. So yes, I am Mexican, but I am also American. Mexicans are also American because we live in North America and we are part of the Americas.”
He didn’t say anything for a few seconds, but he stared at me through the rearview mirror. “When you get home you should look up a map and you’ll see that Mexico is not North America,” he advised me.
“Yes, it is,” I replied.
“No, it isn’t. Just check,” he shot back at me confidently.
“Hmm…” I really thought about it for a few minutes and wished I wasn’t drunk so that I could argue back with certainty. “Wait a minute: yes, it is North America, because it’s not in Central America. All my years living in the U.S., Mexico has never been referred to as Central America.”
“Well, it is.”
“No. You know how I know Mexico is considered North America? Because I remember that the price for a U.S. postage stamp for Canada, the U.S., and Mexico was the same amount; it was the same amount for all of North America. The government runs the U.S. Post Office. How can the governing administration of the U.S. make a mistake like that—?”
“Look at the war in Iraq. That’s where your government made a mistake,” he said righteously.
By now I was used to hearing everyone, from taxi drivers to waiters to bakers, complaining about the war and the evils of America. I wanted to tell them to shut up and let me get on my soapbox and give them better and more specific facts about how bad it was, but right then I just wanted to get to bed. He continued talking about how proud he was of being Spanish.
“I have been in France for over twenty years and my daughters were born here. But if you ask them what their nationality is, they will tell you that they are Spanish.”
“How old are they?” I asked.
“They are eight and six.”
“Well, just wait until they are teenagers and they will tell you that they are French. Spanish-French if you are lucky. You may always be Spanish, but your daughters are French too,” I informed him.
“No, they are not,” he replied firmly.
“It won’t be up to you to determine their identity; it’s up to them. They’ll probably marry Frenchmen and for sure they will call themselves French.”
“Never,” he responded, completely dismissing me.
“You may not understand what it means to grow up in two cultures and form a new identity, but your daughters will,” I said, tap-dancing on his nerves.
“Well, we’ll see.”
“Your grandchildren will only speak French,” I said, pushing his last button. He got quiet and said nothing.
Ten minutes later the taxi arrived on my street and I handed him his money, which included a tip.
“Gracias,” I said and he said nothing back to me. I knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep that night thinking of the day one of his daughters would shout back, “I am not Spanish! I am French!” Would he slap her and tell her she was Spanish until the day they died or would he understand? None of my business—it’s for him to figure out in the next few years. Or maybe someday they will all just be “European Unioners” or whatever would be the appropriate term if they all agree to pass the European constitution.
I told Henry I would pay for the Eurostar ticket once my ATM card arrived. He insisted it was a gift. I was excited to finally get on the Eurostar and cross the English Channel underground.
About three and a half hours later we arrived at the Waterloo train station in London and quickly took a taxi to his friend Max’s flat. It was Max’s thirtieth birthday party and we were getting there empty-handed. I pointed to the liquor store.
“Shouldn’t we get your friend a present?” I insisted.
“I’m already bringing Max a present,” Henry replied. On our way there I told Henry that I actually appreciated his offer to be my “erotic guide” and was open to learning and trying new things with him. He kissed me, told me he knew I’d agree, and grabbed my ass in public. I blushed and pushed his hand away, but after a few seconds I grabbed his hand and put it back on my ass. We marched up to the fifth floor and when I arrived I was out of breath. Henry knocked and a tall guy with glasses opened the door. Henry hugged him and introduced me. A skinny blonde with long hair kissed Henry on the cheek and immediately looked me up and down. I hate it when women do that to me. I do it too, but I don’t do it viciously.
After looking me up and down, the blonde spoke: “Hi, I’m Max. Welcome to my little ol’ flat and my birthday party, sweetie.”
We entered and saw there were a few friends of hers staring at us. We drank wine and passed around a joint. I shook my hand and turned it down when it was offered to me because pot turns me into a horny Chihuahua. Before I know it I end up on someone’s leg moving up and down. I was about to fall asleep on the couch when Henry whispered in my ear to go into Max’s bedroom. I fell asleep—I don’t know for how long—and I woke up with my eyes covered by a blindfold. I could smell Henry’s alcoholic breath as he kissed my neck. I tried to hug him, but my wrists were tied to the bedposts.
“Henry, did you tie me up?” I asked, pulling my legs and answering my own question.
“Just lie back and enjoy it, darling.” His hands touched my whole naked body. I felt my nipples and my navel being licked. Then I felt something cold on my nipples.
“Is that ice?” I asked Henry.
“No, it’s a beer bottle. Do you like it, doll? Does it turn you on?” Henry half-laughed and pushed air out of his mouth as if hushing someone.
“Yeah, I really like it. Keep doing it,” I ordered him. Henry rolled the cold beer bottle around my stomach and I got goose bumps. My vagina got wet and I let out a loud gasp. He then grabbed my breasts with his hands and squeezed them like they were running away from him.
“Ouch,” I uttered.
“Sorry, love, I’ll be gentle.” I
could feel nails scratching my chest and long hair brushing against my cheeks.
“Henry, is someone else here?” A woman’s giggle grew louder. Henry hushed her, but the pussy was out of the bag. Max got on top of me and stuck her tongue in my mouth. I spat her tongue out and she slapped me. Henry pushed her away.
“Didn’t you say she was my present?” demanded Max, who was very drunk and talking like a baby.
“Henry, untie me,” I ordered.
“No, Henry, you promised we were going to have fun with her,” she squealed.
“Untie me right now or I’ll scream,” I threatened. Henry untied me and Max grabbed my breast again like I was a blow-up doll.
“Come on, Henry, I’ve never been with a Latina. I thought this was my fantasy,” she begged. I pushed her hands away and started to put my clothes on.
“Canela, I’m so sorry. I should have told you about my plans. You said you were open to trying new things so I figured—I wanted to surprise you.”
“Well, you did.” I was about to walk out the front door when I remembered I was in London and had no money. Henry begged me to stay and I did, but I told Max she was going to have to settle for a scented candle for her birthday or whatever Henry could buy for her at the liquor store next door, but she was not getting her sloppy hands on me. Max grabbed Henry by his cock and practically dragged him to her bedroom. He followed her to keep his family jewels intact, but when he had a chance he pushed her onto her bed and tied one wrist to the bedpost. In the morning she would not remember how it happened, but Henry felt good knowing she wasn’t out on the street harassing other men and potentially getting herself into trouble.
On the sidewalk I walked ahead of Henry, trying to ditch him, but I couldn’t get far without him. I finally turned around and let him have it. I didn’t care that he was my ride back; I was pissed.
“Look, I know this is just sex and we’re just having fun! I know I’m disposable because there will be another stupid American girl in the next class who will play along, but I can’t believe you were using me like that! Why didn’t you tell me your intentions? You should have given me the choice—”
Henry kissed me and shut me up. We fell against a chain-link fence and kissed until we ran out of breath.
Henry and I ended up at a cheap motel that night. I find cheap motels so romantic. I’m a migratory soul and, like a maxipad, my soul has wings. I have fond memories of cheap motels. Maybe it was because I made love for the first time in a motel so cheap it made the whole experience richer: two young people so in love we could transform the pastel peeling paint into our palace.
“Canela, I do care about you. I’m sorry I tied you up without your permission. I thought maybe you’d appreciate the surprise and find it a real turn-on. I wanted to continue what we didn’t finish at the libertine club.” When I saw the sincerity in his eyes, I was touched by Henry’s words.
“Max is pretty sexy… I just didn’t like the way her nails carved into me. I literally felt like a piece of meat,” I confided to Henry. I then wondered if the African-French man at the libertine club had felt that way being my fantasy doll. No, I think most men don’t take issue with being “objectified” like women do; lucky them.
“You know, I was almost ready to come right before I heard Max giggling,” I confessed to Henry. “I was pretty turned on when I was tied and blindfolded. I was frightened at first, but I… really enjoyed it.” What I really wanted to say, but didn’t dare, was that I’d felt so peaceful surrendering to him when I was blindfolded. Henry jumped off the bed and looked through his carry-on suitcase and pulled out a few ties.
“Canela, may I?” he asked, holding up the ties. Henry tied me up again and he made love to me. I didn’t fight him at all; I felt completely connected to him and safe. When we came together I had my eyes closed and said, “I love you.” Two seconds after it accidentally slipped out, I muttered, “Shit” and wanted to take it back. I regretted saying it and felt so naked beyond naked; I felt vulnerable and weak telling him that. Only a minute of silence had passed, but I already felt the miles of distance he’d run while lying next to me in bed. He untied me and quickly went to the bathroom. When he came back clean, he was another man: a stranger who had unloaded all his attachments to me and flushed them down the toilet.
INTERMEDIATE CUISINE
CHAPTER 10
Blood of the Earth
By the time we returned from London my credit and ATM cards had arrived. I had been in Paris almost five months and I was finally feeling like I had found my groove. Now armed with my credit card and my groove, I knew I could let myself feel settled. I was ready to take on even more adventures. I had heard about how essential it was to take a wine class and enrolled in the introductory wine course, hoping it would work out with my Intermediate Cuisine class schedule.
“Yves is such a good teacher. He is one of the best sommeliers in France,’’ the administrator in charge of registration assured me.
I got to my first Intermediate Cuisine demonstration early, but most of the front seats were already occupied by young Korean women gossiping. I managed to squeeze in and sat next to a square pole. The class filled—there were almost sixty students in Intermediate. Most of them were continuing together from the last class and had been on break while the crash courses were happening. I turned around and saw the United Nations behind me. Students from all over the world were represented. More Americans and Japanese students were present, but to my surprise six Mexicans were also there.
Chef Chocon, the chef who’d reprimanded me for bumping into him in the practical room, welcomed us. He said he was the chef in charge of our class. He was very happy about overseeing the Intermediate course because he personally felt this was the most important one.
“Intermediate Cuisine is a culinary tour of France,” translated Henry, who didn’t make eye contact with me. I had considered moving to a row in the back to avoid Henry, but I needn’t have bothered. He had already erased me from his radar.
“We will cook specialty dishes from the many wonderful regions of France. We are so lucky to have such an amazing country because we are able to produce the best products in the world. We are blessed there is no other place like this on earth,” he said with a smile as if Saint Peter were giving him passage through heaven’s gates.
A student raised his hand. Henry pointed to a tall blond guy with a nice tan.
“What about California? Aside from the cheeses, California is an agricultural capital with the most variety—”
Chef Chocon, who did not speak English, but could understand “California,” cut him off with a shake of the head. He wagged his index finger to the sides and said, via Henry, “No, no, no. It does not compare. What you take pride in saying is ‘organic’ is just natural food for us. Everything here is cultivated with respect for the animals and land and with the best methods.” Chef Chocon did not care for a rebuttal and quickly moved on with his lesson.
“Today we will be cooking three dishes from Normandy: fish stew with dry cider, pan-roasted guinea fowl with Calvados sauce, and an apple tart with honey butter,” translated Henry. The chef explained the importance of apples and cider and Calvados to cuisine from Normandy. He reminded us that before we left France we should visit Mont-St.-Michel in Normandy and go to a restaurant that makes l’omelette à la crème de la Mère Poulard, omelettes the size of cakes. “Do you want to hear a story?” he asked, knowing that we would. We answered yes and via Henry he explained how he’d learned cooking and gained an appreciation of food from his grandmother.
“My grandmother sewed me a cooking apron that said, ‘I’m the chef and what I say goes in my kitchen.’ She assured me that if I ever pursued cuisine I would be a great chef,” translated Henry. Chef Chocon wiped a tiny teardrop from the edge of his eye when he recalled that, on her deathbed, he’d made her a soup that was so delicious she’d told him after she ate it, “Now I can die.” We all practically cried too. He quickly cheered up and re
called more memories of his exciting culinary career.
“When I was sixteen, I studied cooking and won many prizes for my aspic decorations. I have pictures,” he said. A large photo album circulated with pictures of Chef Chocon’s prize-winning buffet presentations. Looking at the pictures I realized that all the decorations had been created with vegetable peels and clear gelatin. I appreciated seeing him in the photos as a thin, handsome young man who’d once had joy and hope on his face. Wow, he was actually young and happy once. He wasn’t always an abrasive know-it-all jerk, I thought to myself.
The chef poured the cider into the sauce and asked us, “What is the difference between champagne and cider?” Everyone threw out responses and then he said, “The price.” He got caught up in his joke and a story and burnt the tart. His face turned red and he made excuses. I secretly smiled inside, knowing that even a chef who has worked at the best restaurants for over twenty years burns the occasional tart.
After the demonstration, I put away my things in my locker in the corner and sat down on the chair next to it to put my socks on. Bassie expressed her disappointment at having been put in a group where she knew no one. I could sympathize; I also didn’t know anyone in my group and didn’t look forward to being the odd man out. I went upstairs and was the first to arrive in the practical room. I quickly stationed myself closest to one of the sinks and the service elevator. I would have the advantage of being close to all the ingredients and the sink, where the mixers and Robot Coupes (high-priced blenders) were kept. I immediately placed my plastic planchette on the counter to reserve my cooking station. More students arrived and no one said “hello” or “bonjour” to me; they just got their planchettes and placed them at their stations. I recognized a young Japanese man named Yoshi from the demo and we exchanged a quick smile. He placed his planchette next to mine and I explained that I was at the end. He moved to my other side and settled in.
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