Spread tuna mixture on the bottom croissant, cover, secure with a toothpick (if that’s your thing), and serve immediately.
We are indeed much more than what we eat, but what we eat can nevertheless help us to be much more than what we are.
—ADELLE DAVIS
After lunch I poked around the house for a few hours, hoping I might find a stray photo sticking out that would answer all of my questions.
Not surprisingly, I found nothing.
I even tried the locked door Sandrine had described. For the sake of curiosity, I examined the door and its frame. I could see the hinges, but they were inset in such a way that I couldn’t pull the hinge pins free without first dismantling the door frame. Even then, the door had a bolt, so in all likelihood I wouldn’t be able to open the door without a fire ax.
After dinner Neil and I took a walk around the lavender fields. The late-evening light cast long shadows over the rows; a light breeze teased the ends of my hair.
“There’s a locked door,” I said. “At the chateau.”
“Oh?”
“Sandrine can’t open it, and none of the keys fit it.” I looked out on the fields. “There was a key in Grand-mère’s prep table. It looked old.”
“You think it might fit the door?”
“Hard to say, but it’s not like I brought it with me. Stupid.”
“Hey.” He elbowed me in the side. “You didn’t know there would be a mysterious locked door.”
“That’s true.” I took a deep breath. “I love the lavender. All problems seem smaller in a field of lavender.”
Neil grinned and lifted his arm, leading me in a twirl. I spun, my skirt flaring out, my head tilted back with joy. “I think lavender makes me giddy,” he said.
“I don’t mind.” I squeezed his hand as we continued down the row. “My tickets out of Charles de Gaulle are nontransferable, nonnegotiable, non-everything. There are things I want to accomplish in Paris, and I certainly can’t dig into my Italy time, but…”
Neil’s hand slipped to the small of my back. “I don’t really want to leave here either. I keep thinking about what it would be like to stay.”
“Yeah?”
“Do you think I’d make a good lavender farmer?”
“Oh, the best,” I said. “Immunology is kind of like botany, right?”
“People have cells. Plants have cells. There’s a lot of crossover.”
“I’m glad we have that settled. So…Paris?”
“Parree,” Neil drawled in his best fake French accent. Or worst. They were probably interchangeable. “The city of lights!”
I grinned at his enthusiasm. “Have you been?”
“Nope. But I’m glad I’m going with you. I get the feeling you know your way around the city.”
“Not like some,” I demurred. “My sister Cat is the Paris savant. She knows all the back alleys and roads, the best baguette stands, the best boutiques. I’ve only been a couple times, and it’s been years.” I paused. “I realize that sounds terrible. Most people haven’t been to Paris at all.”
“Not unless you’re counting Paris, Texas.”
“Or Paris, Illinois.”
“Paris, Maine,” Neil countered.
“Paris, Idaho,” I added with a nod. “And Paris, Arkansas.”
“There’s a Paris, Arkansas?” Neil asked, eyebrows high.
“Yup. Kentucky too. And a couple others…”
“How do you know this?”
“A potent blend of Where in America Is Carmen Sandiego?, curiosity, and the Internet.”
“Who said technology never offered anything useful?”
“I’m guessing victims of e-mail scams.”
Neil snorted.
“Shall we head out tomorrow, then? Maybe around ten or so? It’s not a short drive, and if we leave early we can take a break or something before dinner.”
“You’re the tour guide,” Neil said. “When you come to Memphis I’ll have more input, but here—it’s entirely up to you.”
“Ten o’clock, then.” I slipped my arm into the crook of his elbow. “Let’s go tell Sandrine and Auguste.”
Sandrine was sad to hear we would be leaving, but understood. “You must visit Chez Paul, on Rue de Charonne. The charcuterie is very good. Ah! But we will miss you both. You will come back, yes?”
“Of course,” Neil answered before I had a chance. And I knew, looking at his earnest face, that he meant it.
Auguste bade us good-bye with tears and kisses on each cheek, as well as jars of his prized honey and wedges of lavender-infused cheese.
Saying good-bye to Cécile felt more bittersweet. “Oh,” she said, patting my hand. She paused as if she were considering something, and then patted my hand again. “Bon voyage.”
I gave her a hug; for a small moment, it felt like hugging Grand-mère.
The drive into Paris felt interminable, with heavy spring rain that started after Riom and bouts of sluggish traffic that drove us both a little crazy—never mind the fact that we were driving separate rental cars for the first leg.
“I live in Memphis,” Neil said after we turned in his car. “I didn’t think people could drive any worse.”
“It’s not worse. It takes skill to drive close enough to someone to be able to shake the other driver’s hand.”
Neil shook his head. “All those Top Gear episodes. I thought I’d be better prepared.”
We made it to the hotel just before dusk. At least I think it was dusk. At any rate, the sky shifted from wet and overcast to dark and wet and overcast.
Living in Portland, I considered myself fairly waterproof, but it was a lot of water for a summer evening. We schlepped our luggage inside through the rain, and retired to our separate rooms for a nap before dinner.
When I awoke, the rain had stopped. I stretched, fluffed my hair, and checked my e-mail, sitting up straighter when I realized I had an e-mail from Élodie Armant.
To: Me, [email protected]
From: Élodie Armant, [email protected]
Bonjour, and welcome to Paris! I was so delighted to hear from your sister that you were in town. We must have tea and pastries—I know the perfect place. Do you have a mobile with you?
Bisous!
Élodie A.
By the time I met Neil outside the hotel, the clouds had begun to clear and a particularly Parisian variation of petrichor filled the air. We walked together under an umbrella—loaned to us by the gardienne—until we reached Chez Paul, where we dined on hearty bistro fare, balanced by a green salad spiked with dandelion greens and vibrant yellow dandelion petals.
“The secret of French food,” I told Neil between bites, “is that nothing goes to waste. After so many wars, the French learned how to cook everything. Which,” I noted, loading my fork with sole, “is usually in a large quantity of butter.”
He chuckled. “Everything is better with butter.”
“Well, to be technical, there are four mother sauces. But butter goes in most of them. Anyway, the dandelion greens—leave it to a Frenchwoman to decide they make for good eating.”
“It was a woman who decided that?”
“Would a man get adventurous with weeds?”
“Good point.”
We laughed together, and I reveled in the joy of being in Paris and having someone to share it with.
“Caterina helped me get in touch with a friend of hers,” I said, changing the subject. “She’s a food blogger here in Paris. We’re working on plans to go to tea.”
“I thought everyone around here drank coffee.”
“They do, but tea salons are in fashion.”
“Well, I’m glad you’ll be able to meet,” Neil said, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “How does Caterina know her?”
“The thing about Cat,” I explained, “is that she knows everybody. Six degrees of separation and all that gets a lot slimmer when she’s in the mix, and not just because she helped cater an event attended by a coup
le Kennedys. With Élodie, I think they went to school together at the University of Oregon. Cat went to business school after culinary school. Élodie was studying abroad at the time; I think they met in one of Cat’s Italian classes.”
“Cat didn’t already speak Italian?”
“She did, but she wanted to make sure she could teach it, not just from a native speaker’s perspective. And the form of Italian we grew up with has its own regional bent; Cat is nothing if not thorough.”
“I’d like to meet her sometime.”
“She’d like to meet you. You have no idea.”
After a flurry of text messages, Élodie and I met the following day for tea and pastries at La Pâtisserie des Rêves, on Rue de Longchamp. “Juliette!” she said when she saw me approach. Despite having never met in person, we clasped hands and exchanged air kisses. “I would have recognized you anywhere!” Élodie exclaimed. “You look just like your sister.” She looked over my shoulder. “And…you are alone?”
“Neil’s at the hotel. He had some work to do.”
Élodie’s lower lip jutted. I would have looked ridiculous had I made the same expression, but it made her look charming and, well, French. “That is too bad. Caterina asked me to take a picture of him if he came. She’s very jealous, you know, that I get to see him first.”
“If she asked me,” I said dryly, “I would send her a picture.”
“Ah, but where is the fun in that?” She laughed. “Bon! Let us go inside.”
We stepped through the glass doors and greeted the proprietor. While the front was borderline nondescript, the inside sparkled in citrusy sorbet tones—lime green, hot pink, and orange—with the palette grounded in crisp white.
The shelves along the walls were lit, highlighting the contents of each cubby—an assortment of shining viennoiserie, such as brioche and croissants, as well as packaged items such as brightly colored fresh marshmallows. In the center of the room stood an island, which featured domes suspended from cords connected to the ceiling.
Beneath the domes were beautifully arranged pastries, both protected and highlighted by the glass.
“It’s incredible,” I breathed, taking in the display.
“The domes are actually plastic, quite light,” Élodie explained. “And see at the top? They’re counter-weighted, so you can pull the cord. Underneath, you see, it is refrigerated slate to keep them chilled. C’est bon, non?”
“C’est très, très bon.” I looked around to figure out the system. Unlike most Parisian bakeries that kept all of their goods safe in a glass-enclosed pastry case, this bakery appeared to be mostly self-serve. I watched, curious, as another woman told a waiter she wanted one of the tartes au citron featured under a dome. The waiter left, disappeared to the back, and returned with a tarte on a plate for her.
Mystery solved, we made our choices. Élodie ordered a pot of tea for us to share. I ordered a Paris-Brest, daisy-shaped and filled with praline cream, as well as a chocolate-wrapped éclair.
I could always take up running when I got home.
We took our goods to the seating area, where white tables and chairs waited with inviting red and magenta-hued cushions.
“So tell me,” Élodie asked as we sat at the last open table, “what brought you to Paris? Caterina was vague—not that you need a reason to be in Paris.”
I told her about the restaurant that Nico and I were opening, and how we were using Grand-mère’s patisserie space. “But the real reason I’m in Paris,” I said, “is that I’m trying to find out more about our grand-mère.”
“Ah, bon. What are you trying to find out?”
The waiter interrupted with our tea. I thanked him before answering.
“I know she went to pastry school,” I said, “here in Paris, in the late thirties.”
“Which school? Do you know the name?”
“L’école de Paris de Pâtisserie. It was rare, you know. Rare enough for a woman, but she came from a good family in Provence.”
“Not working class, then.”
“No—her father was a lower baron. But she loved working with pastry, so my great-grandfather allowed her to study. I’d like to find out more about her time—school records, that sort of thing. And”—I chose my words carefully, remembering that she and Caterina were friends—“she had a friend. Gabriel Roussard.”
“A friend?” Élodie lifted an eyebrow.
“She mentioned him in letters to her sister. I know he was a Jew.” I took a sip of tea to look casual. “I was just curious about him.”
“And he was in Paris?”
“Oui. Also, I think he may have had a relative who worked at Van Cleef & Arpels. Anyway, I was hoping to find more information while here.”
“You have how many days in Paris?”
“Three more.”
Élodie pressed her hand to her heart. “You do not want to spend any of your three days in Paris waiting in line to talk to a record keeper who is not going to tell you anything. And while your accent is near perfect, you sound enough like an Américain that a particularly unpleasant individual might pretend not to be able to understand you.”
“I know.” I bit into a forkful of éclair. “This is really wonderful. This chocolate wrapping…it’s perfect. Not too brittle.”
“Monsieur Conticini is a genius.”
“The waiting in line bit—I’ve braced myself for it. The rudeness too. What can I say?” I gave a shrug and took another bite. “My naiveté springs eternal.”
“There are too many places for you to go, things for you to see—and eat! No, I cannot allow it. You must let me help.”
I couldn’t help but stare back blankly. “You want to help?”
“But of course! You are Caterina’s sister, and my friend. If it were not for Caterina, I would not have passed my first Italian class and would have eaten at all the wrong restaurants. I owe her many favors, and since she is not here, I will use some of them for you. Now,” she said, cutting into her grand cru decisively, “write down, please, the names of everyone you wish to find out about, and any information you have. Dates, places—anything at all, even if you do not think it is of use.”
“Are you sure?”
“Certainment. And I have contacts and resources you do not have. Please, you must let me help.”
“Thank you,” I said, finding myself breathless. “Thank you so much!”
“I do require a small payment, though,” Élodie said, holding her thumb and forefinger close together. “Un petit prix.”
“Yes?”
“You must take me to meet your Neil.” Élodie’s eyes sparkled. “And I shall take a picture. It’s the least I can do for your sister.”
“I’ll give him a call,” I said. “You’re welcome to come with me in my car. He and I are sharing the rental.”
“Then we shall drive to him.”
I put my hand on Élodie’s arm. “This research…I have not told my family much, because I don’t know what it all means, not yet. I would appreciate your discretion.”
“But of course,” Élodie answered immediately, responding the way I’d hoped she would. To the French, discretion was next to godliness. “I will not say a word to Caterina.”
“Thanks,” I said, feeling both calmer and more excited. With Élodie’s help, I might learn something new about my mysterious grandfather, Gabriel Roussard.
~ NASTURTIUM AND SPRING GREENS SALAD ~
For the salad:
1 generous handful mixed spring greens
2 strawberries, sliced and cut into matchsticks
1 tablespoon slivered almonds
1 ounce parmesan cheese, grated
Small handful nasturtium blossoms
For the dressing:
1 tablespoon champagne vinegar
1 tablespoon extra-virgin olive oil
1 tablespoon orange juice, preferably fresh-squeezed
1 tablespoon honey, to taste
1½ teaspoons dijon mustard
&nb
sp; 2 teaspoons poppy seeds, optional
For the dressing, whisk together all ingredients.
Toss greens and almonds with salad dressing. Sprinkle parmesan cheese and strawberries over the salad. Place blossoms over salad whole; serve immediately.
A clever cook can make good meat of a whetstone.
—ERASMUS
To: Me, [email protected]
From: Caterina, [email protected]
I CAN’T BELIEVE ÉLODIE GOT TO MEET NEIL!!!!! I knew she would try, but I thought you were wily enough to fend her off. AND SHE TOOK PICTURES!
I’m not offended. Not at all.
DO YOU HEAR THAT?? I’m NOT OFFENDED.
C
To: Caterina, [email protected]
From: Me, [email protected]
That’s very big of you. I’m sure Élodie was very ladylike and didn’t rub it in.
If it would help, I can supply you with his last name, as well as some keywords that would help you when you’re Googling him.
I’ll be meeting his parents when I visit him in Memphis, hopefully in a couple months or sooner. If you’re very helpful keeping this quiet w/ the family, maybe I can get my hands on a couple baby pictures for you.
Xoxo, J
To: Me, [email protected]
From: Caterina, [email protected]
That’s playing dirty.
But yes, on all counts. I want to know what my future nieces and nephews will look like when they’re fresh from the oven.
C
To: Me, [email protected]
From: Caterina, [email protected]
Thought of what to bring you from the trip. I made arrangements to source our olive oil from a supplier in Montalcino. He gave me two bottles—one goes to Nico (who will give it his final blessing and possibly set up a shrine to it—it’s that good). You can have the other bottle. I’ll mail it to you once I’m back, or hold it for ransom.
Xoxo, J
Reservations for Two Page 4
