Hungry Woman in Paris

by Josefina López

  “Ten weeks is hard, but four months of this is crazy,” Pepa said. I kept listening to Pepa and wanted to cry too. I’d thought that after doing Le Coq Rouge I would be able to do amazing things in the kitchen, but at this moment, despite my promise, I felt even worse about my cooking skills. I was glad I didn’t want to be a chef, because it was really gut-wrenching and soul-shattering. From observing what all the students here went through, I’d learned that food is about who you are. It’s like being undressed and saying, Look at me naked. Do you like what you see?

  “I’m sure we all passed because they already printed the diplomas,” Miguel Angel said, trying to console her.

  “Yeah, but they can easily tear them up,” responded Pepa.

  “I’m sure we all passed.” Miguel Angel insisted, trying to cheer her up. “You’d have to burn the food and set the kitchen on fire for them to flunk you. There’s no way you can’t pass after what you’ve been through.”

  Pepa smiled back at his kindness. “Yeah, I’m sure we all passed.”

  “If you didn’t pass, they’ll have to tell us not to show up to the three-star restaurant and the graduation,” Alexandros said. We all laughed and looked at our watches, wanting time to go by faster.

  “Should we go find out?” asked Miguel Angel. “They must be done by now. We can go to the jury room and ask for our grades.” Pepa, Bianca, Miguel Angel, and I looked at one another and nodded and went for our scores. When we got to the jury room, we waited around, still a bit unsure if we wanted to go in. Then we were told to come in and see the plates.

  There were four plates in one section and six in another. One of the retired chefs came in and saw us and welcomed us to the exciting and fulfilling world of cuisine. He explained how the four plates set aside were the acceptable ones and the other six were not. I instantly recognized my plate in the unacceptable bunch, and my heart sank. All my childhood nightmares of being an immigrant and an outsider, of not belonging and not being normal flashed through my unconscious mind and I felt a punch in my solar plexus. It’s just food, I reminded myself so the tears would not come out in public. Pepa and Bianca also recognized their plates in the unacceptable bunch and lowered their heads with shame. Miguel Angel smiled when he recognized his plate in the acceptable section, and I tried to be happy for him. Our plates looked like crap, like a carcass of a cow in the desert or a decaying pigeon on the pavement. It was so humiliating. Chef Papillon came in with his head down, disappointed in us. I looked over to the acceptable plates and recognized Blanca’s dish as well as Craig’s and Dick’s. Part of me thought, Oh gosh. I bet you Dick’s going to win; he’s going to come in first. I prayed Blanca would come in first and then maybe Craig and then Miguel Angel, but I was certain Dick was going to get first place. Chef Papillon commented on how the portions on the unacceptable plates were too big. When I look at it now, I know he’s right, but at that moment I’d just wanted to get it on the plate and meet the deadline.

  Chef Papillon grabbed the plates and started throwing the food into the garbage. We watched this and it stung because he discarded the unacceptable plates first. We’d put so much work and creativity into making those dishes and they ended up being dinner for the garbage can. As my plate sailed into the garbage, I took one last look and asked myself, What did I do right? The tomato confit, the stuffing; I loved it. It wasn’t perfect, but it was part of me and I loved it.

  CHAPTER 18

  Au Revoir les Euros

  Madame Bodé stopped me at the entrance to my apartment building and handed me a letter. I was about to open it when she informed me herself in French, “You have to move out at the end of the month.”

  “That’s next week,” I replied in French, raising my voice.

  “Oui.” She smiled.

  “You’re not the landlord of my room,” I reminded her.

  “I spoke to your landlord and Rosemary is the only person who is supposed to live there, not you,” she informed me with righteousness.

  “But she said I could stay in her apartment if I paid her rent!” I yelled back. She lifted her shoulders and made a face in the usual annoying French way and said, Ce n’est pas mon problème. Au revoir. Madame Bodé climbed up the stairs with a smile of satisfaction. I took the servants’ elevator upstairs and when I got to my floor I was in tears. Marina was waiting for the elevator and saw me crying.

  “What happened?” she asked in Spanish. After I explained she filled me in on the whole situation. Madame Bodé was trying to get rid of all the servants who were sans-papiers before winter because French law did not permit her to kick people out in winter. Marina lamented that it was just a matter of time before Madame Bodé and the Minister of the Interior, whose last name sounded like a disease, would find a way to kick the sans-papiers out.

  “They are trying to get rid of us. Everyone in France hates immigrants,” she said.

  “No, not just in France—they hate us in the United States too,” I added and made her crack a tiny smile. She asked me about the United States and I told her about how Latinos are such a large population that life is slightly easier for undocumented people there. Marina shared with me that she looked forward to the day when her daughters were old enough to apply for French citizenship and she could finally rest for a few days. Every day she had to work just to survive and carve out a miserable existence.

  “When I was told I was going to be brought to Paris, I imagined a wonderful life, but life in Paris as a sans papier is just as miserable as being back in Colombia,” she lamented. I hugged her and said, “Adios.”

  I didn’t want to show up early to Ledoyen, the three-star restaurant where we were celebrating our graduation, looking all pretty when I knew Dick was going to show up right on time like the big nerd that he was. I walked around the restaurant, famous for being the place where Joséphine met Napoléon, admiring the many floral arrangements with burgundy calla lilies. So what if the French were rude? They knew how to celebrate beauty in every form, and therefore they were forgiven. Blanca arrived at the entrance and I walked up to her, admiring her dress. Out of uniform we were hotties. We climbed the stairs to the small but beautiful and exclusive room set aside for our graduation. I saw Craig downing champagne and we commiserated. It made me happy to know that Akiva had been allowed to graduate and that no one, not even Blanca or Dick, felt great about their dish. The sous-chef of Ledoyen welcomed us to his restaurant and posed for photos. Lunch was served, and after our four-course meal we drank more champagne and prepared ourselves to receive our diplomas.

  The diplomas were large and ridiculous-looking, but they were certainly impactful and precious once received. In regular classes the students were not allowed to give speeches because all combined there were over one hundred, on average, but because we were only a class of fourteen we were encouraged to say a few words. The names were called in alphabetical order and Pepa was awarded third place. She was relieved that she had placed at all despite her undercooked lamb. She gave a heartfelt speech about the wonderful people who’d shared the same difficult journey. Craig was called to receive his diploma but refused to give a speech and feign gratitude to anyone, especially the stingy school. Blanca’s name was called; she had not placed. I applauded loudly for her and was disappointed she hadn’t won.

  The biggest shock came when they announced Bianca’s name and said she had come in second. Pepa’s jaw dropped, but she quickly closed it and applauded loudly to cover up her horror. Her face wore the collective shock of the entire class. I was happy for Bianca and thought maybe she just surprised the chefs. Maybe her dish had been so great after all; it counted for 45 percent of the grade. Then my intuition whispered a thought that made me feel disgusted… Maybe it was the bubbles in the champagne, but I understood why Bianca had come in second. They probably mixed up Blanca’s grades with Bianca’s, because there is no way she could have beat me either. Her lamb had been undercooked and her plate had been judged “unacceptable.” I shook my head and drank m
ore champagne, hoping it would force me to vomit and maybe Dick would just happen to be there when I did.

  Miguel Angel was called up to receive his diploma, and his parents, who had flown all the way from Mexico, cheered him on. He gave his speech in Spanish and thanked his parents for believing in him. How I wished I could have had someone special there to witness that moment for me. Françoise, whose derriere had grown into a “ghetto booty” over the course of my studies, called my name. I debated whether I should speak about Dick being a dick, but I knew that if I said anything resembling the truth my words would be considered sour grapes. I would look like a jerk bad-mouthing him. I knew Dick had won and there was nothing I could do about it. I was awarded my diploma and Chef Chocon placed the official Le Coq Rouge chef’s hat on my head. Françoise placed the silver medal bearing their emblem over my neck and I got emotionally overwhelmed, like a typical Latina.

  “I have worked so hard for this. I have shed blood, sweat, and tears for this… I even have the scars to prove it,” I said, displaying my five-inch burn. “I realize now what it takes to be a chef and I know that it’s too hot, and that’s why I’m getting out of the kitchen,” I said, trying to hold back the tears. People applauded, and I let the moment wash over me, soaking in both the celebration and the sadness.

  Of course the next person after me was Dick. They called his name and announced that he had won first place. Dick got up and his wife cheered him on.

  “Since I was a little kid I wanted to become a Le Coq Rouge chef,” he said and started crying. Françoise and all the Le Coq Rouge staff ate that shit up and got emotional too. “This is the happiest day of my life and I feel so blessed for having so many wonderful chefs help me become who I am.” Now I knew he was going to be a serial killer someday. A person like him could not possibly be that emotional and yet so thoughtless of other people’s feelings. I know I have been accused of being sick, but maybe that qualifies me to point the finger. And yet this kind of person seemed familiar… You see, Dick always wins. He gets to be the chef, or the CEO of a giant corporation, or even the president of the United States. How wonderful that I got to see that even though I’d left the United States to avoid Dick, here he was again, giving a speech and telling lies through his teeth without a care in the world or remorse for all the damage he had done to others. Yeah, no matter where I go, Dick is there. I pray to God that I have the strength and courage to continue exposing the Dicks of this world with my writing.

  After the graduation ceremony we were ushered back to the school grounds and into the courtyard for the customary class photo with our chef’s hats. We set ourselves up in two rows and I positioned myself away from Dick. When the photographer said, “C’est tout,” That is all, I was relieved that it was over. I no longer had to feel like a dishrag.

  Henry passed by the courtyard on his way to the men’s locker room and saw me with a long face. He walked up to me and smiled.

  “It wasn’t so bad. I actually liked your food. The filling was quite original,” Henry acknowledged.

  “You’re just being nice,” I said, feeling sorry for myself.

  “No, I actually tasted it,” he said.

  “I know you’re lying, but thanks for that beautiful lie,” I said and kissed him on the cheek.

  “Are you doing a stage?” he asked.

  “No. I’m getting kicked out of my apartment next week and I have just enough money left to catch a plane back to the U.S.,” I told him.

  “What are you doing after this?” he asked me.

  “We’re supposed to go drinking. Why?”

  “Come to my apartment when you’re done. I have a graduation present for you.”

  “Liar,” I joked.

  “I know I was an ass to you, but come to my place—I want to make it up to you,” Henry insisted.

  “What did Bassie tell you?”

  “Nothing. I just need to see you before you go back home.”

  “I’m tired,” I lied.

  “Please, Canela. Give me a chance to say I’m sorry,” he pleaded.

  I agreed to meet him no matter how late it was.

  I congratulated Blanca and Pepa and wished them luck in their future careers as chefs. Blanca saw my disappointment and put her arm around me like a big sister.

  “Canela, you, too, are entitled to call yourself a chef,” she reminded me.

  “No, I’m just somebody who has a diploma that says I graduated from Le Coq Rouge. I’m not a chef.”

  Pepa turned to me and proclaimed, “Of course you are a chef now. You can cook just like the rest of us.”

  I smiled, touched by her words, but I shook my head. “You see, cooking for you is your passion. Writing to uncover truth is my passion. I had forgotten that for a while, but I remember now. I’m a writer and that’s what I should be doing.”

  We walked to the metro and said good-bye forever.

  CHAPTER 19

  Last Mango in Paris

  I arrived at Henry’s building and hesitated before going upstairs. Why should I give him a second chance? He’d been so cold to me after I’d said, “I love you.” True, I had nothing better to do right now, but I needed a better reason than boredom. I thought about it for a few more minutes and I knew I would regret not seeing him before I left Paris. I also had to see what he’d meant by a present. The curiosity was killing me, and I had to admit I did care about Henry, at least enough to know that it would be nice to say good-bye properly and complete things. I, too, wanted to see him one last time, so I was glad he’d been the one who’d made the request and insisted I see him. Yeah, sex with Henry was amazing, but now that I had distance from him I could laugh a little at how serious I’d been about having sex with a stranger and about Max and… it was just sex. I could finally enjoy sex for sex.

  I knocked on Henry’s door, hoping I was not so drunk that I was bothering his neighbor. He opened the door wearing an apron and nothing else. When I walked in he had his small table set up for dinner. He made me sit and put a chef’s hat on my head. Henry had cooked for me. He had prepared duck à l’orange and made macarons from scratch. I must have been drunk, because I started to cry. Henry put his hands on my face.

  “Why are you crying, silly girl?” he said with his cute little accent. I was so embarrassed to admit to him that I was so touched because this was the first time someone had acknowledged an accomplishment by making me dinner. When I told him he didn’t believe me.

  “You’re joking,” he said, dismissing my claim. I insisted that it was true.

  “What about Chef Sauber? He cooked for you,” he said, pouring the sauce on my duck.

  I turned to him. “How did you hear… ?”

  “Little Henry knows everything because he has many ears and many mouths and many tongues,” he said. I took a bite of the duck and complimented Henry, trying to change the subject.

  “What about Mohammed—did he make couscous for you?” Henry continued.

  “Did you keep track of all my lovers?” I asked.

  “I don’t need to; I already know you’re my kind of girl,” he replied.

  “And what kind of girl is that?”

  “One with an appetite.” He poured red wine and I tried to stop him because I had already had too many glasses of champagne.

  “Come now, this is a celebration, Miss Canela. Let me make a fuss, my little gourmand,” he insisted until I decided, Why not? I’m already going to hell.

  “You should do a stage, Canela,” Henry suggested.

  “Henry, I have no money. I maxed out my credit cards and spent all my savings and I don’t have rich relatives,” I went on.

  “Maybe I can get you a stage where they actually pay you—not a lot, but enough to get by until you can prove yourself or get a better job. Would you consider staying if I got you a job?”

  “Hmmm… I don’t know… Maybe… But I’m not a good cook.”

  “Of course you are. Now you’re a perfectionist, but you can cook. I know you can. Y
our sauce and stuffing today were delicious, actually.”

  “Honestly?” I looked up to see how sincere he was being. He knew he didn’t have to lie to get sex from me.

  “Canela, you have the talent to be a chef, and a good one. Now it’s up to you to decide whether you want to work to be a great one.” Henry’s voice was so sincere, I had to turn away so he wouldn’t see me blushing.

  “Maybe I could work at a Mexican restaurant… ,” I said, imagining myself working at a Tex-Mex restaurant, since that’s mostly what they had in Paris. I could actually see myself in a kitchen, speaking Spanish and slinging tortillas onto plates. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe I could do that for a while until I got a job as a writer for an American newspaper or found a way to write for a tourist paper in English.

  “You know, I might know some people. I’ll make some calls,” Henry said, bringing me back to reality.

  “Henry, I have to decide tomorrow what I am going to do,” I said.

  “Fair enough. Give me a day to change your mind,” he requested. I was so drunk I think I fell asleep at the dining table.

  “Canela, get up. I have something to show you,” Henry said, waking me up in the middle of the night. I woke up hoping it wasn’t an erection he was talking about. “Look at the moon.” He pointed through the window. It was a full moon looking perfectly beautiful, with the Mona Lisa smiling in it.

  “It’s a lovers’ moon. We have to go make love under it and all our dreams will come true,” Henry exclaimed like Peter Pan. We put on trench coats quickly and went to Pont Neuf to kiss under the moon. He put his hands through my trench coat and caressed my naked body. My nipples were already hard from the cold. We kissed as a large boat passed under the bridge. We leaned in to watch another small boat pass by. Henry got behind me and lifted my trench coat. He penetrated me and I laughed when my derriere was exposed to the cold.