by Leslie Meier
Sighing, Lucy rolled over and reached for her phone, checking the time once again. Almost three thirty. She yawned. A promising development, she decided, snuggling up to Bill. Maybe now she’d sleep.
Several hours later she woke to find Bill bringing her a cup of steaming coffee. “Sue and Sid went out and bought croissants for breakfast,” he told her. “We’re supposed to be at the cooking class at eight o’clock.”
“What time is it now?” she asked, reaching for the coffee.
“Almost seven.”
“I didn’t get to sleep until after three,” she said, grumbling.
“I slept great,” said Bill, who was dressed and freshly shaved.
“I know,” grumbled Lucy.
“Up and at ’em,” said Bill in an encouraging tone. “The bathroom is all yours.”
When the Americans arrived at Le Cooking School, which was located only a few blocks away from their apartment, they found their teacher waiting for them outside, standing on the sidewalk in front of his pastry shop. Chef Larry Bruneau was easily identifiable. With his curly red hair and flamboyant mustache, he looked exactly like the cartoon-style portrait on the Le Cooking School sign that hung above the door. Lucy guessed he was about thirty, and noticed he was wearing expensive-looking sports clothes rather than chef’s whites.
Le Cooking School was upstairs, he explained, above the patisserie that bore his name in swirling gold letters. The window was filled with a luscious display of baked goods: glossy fruit tartes, tempting éclairs, and pastel-colored macarons, as well as simpler offerings, like madeleines, palmiers, and the delicious butter cookies called cat’s tongues, or langues de chat.
“They’re absolutely gorgeous!” exclaimed Sue. “Look at those gorgeous Napoleons. I’ve always wanted to learn how to make puff pastry. When do we start?”
Chef Larry gave her an indulgent smile. “We’re going to begin at the beginning,” he told them, speaking unaccented American English. “We’re going straight to the Marché des Enfants Rouges.”
“Did you say red children?” asked Lucy, puzzled.
“Commies?” joked Ted.
“There used to be an orphanage in the area,” explained Chef Larry, “and the children wore red uniforms.”
“Oh,” said Rachel. “And what are we looking for at the market?”
“Les pommes, apples, in particular, and the general experience, to get a flavor of the French approach to food and cooking,” replied Chef Larry, leading the way through the narrow, twisting streets, past trendy boutiques and tired-looking cafés.
“This reminds me of SoHo,” said Sue, who paid frequent visits to her daughter Sidra in New York City. “And not in a good way. It’s very touristy.”
“Not the marché. It’s the real thing,” announced Chef Larry, leading them past some tacky sidewalk stalls featuring watches and jewelry and into a covered area where fruit and vegetable vendors had set up lavish displays of fresh produce.
“My goodness,” sighed Lucy, taking in the huge, colorful arrangements boasting varieties she’d never seen except in garden catalogs. “White eggplant. And look at all that gorgeous asparagus, green and white, too. And the pears and apples . . .”
“Today,” announced Chef Larry, holding up his hand, “we’re going to make a traditional French apple tart. . . .”
“Tarte tatin,” said Sue, letting the teacher know she was no novice when it came to French cooking.
“Just so,” agreed Chef Larry, looking bemused. “And what varieties of apple would you suggest?”
“At home I always use Northern Spies,” said Sue.
“Here we look for a sweet apple, an Auslese or a Tokay. And, of course, this time of year, they are imported.”
“I thought those were grapes,” muttered Ted as Chef Larry led them down the concrete-floored aisle to a stand featuring nothing but apples. All sorts of apples: red and green, yellow and striped.
“Ah, madame,” cooed Chef Larry, approaching the proprietor, a plump woman wearing a flowery, ruffled apron over her gray sweater. “Qu’est-ce que vous avez pour moi aujourd’hui?”
She replied in rapid-fire French, and the two engaged in a lively discussion, punctuated with much gesturing and pointing to the various kinds of apples. In the end, she filled a large bag for him, he handed over an astonishing number of euros, and they all headed out of the market.
Lucy paused, her eye caught by a particularly beautiful display of lettuces, and found she had to hurry to catch up to the others, who were now gathering on the sidewalk outside the market. She was intent on the group and didn’t notice a man who was also approaching the narrow opening between the stalls that served as an exit, and bumped into his shoulders. She glanced at him, expecting him to yield, perhaps with a charming French version of “Ladies first.” Instead, he glared angrily at her, giving her a fleeting impression of dark eyes beneath a flourishing unibrow and a three-day beard, then rudely brushed past without an apology. She watched, stunned, as he charged ahead and went straight for Chef Larry, yelling something at him and giving him a shove. Chef Larry staggered but managed not to fall, the apples spilled, and she heard Bill shouting, “Hey, there!” Then the guy was gone, running down the sidewalk, and they all scrambled to gather up the apples, which were rolling every which way.
“What was that about?” she asked, handing Chef Larry an apple that had rolled in front of her feet.
“Nothing, nothing at all,” he said with a dismissive shrug. “I guess he was in a hurry.”
Lucy wasn’t convinced the assailant was merely in a hurry. She thought he’d attacked Chef Larry on purpose. “Do you know him?” she asked.
“Why would I know him?” he countered. “He probably saw his girlfriend with another man or something. He’s just some thug, a sale mec. This sort of thing happens all the time.” He was taking his time, concentrating on inspecting the apples as he replaced them in the bag. Finally, when the last one had been retrieved and stowed in the bag, he declared, “No damage done. Allons-y.”
The group trailed along, exchanging glances but avoiding discussing the incident, following Chef Larry back to the cooking school. They clustered together outside a door squeezed between the patisserie and the neighboring beauty salon while Chef Larry dealt with the security keypad, then continued on up three long flights of dusty stairs to the school. Lucy shrugged out of her jacket and tied on a starched white apron, which boasted an embroidered version of the same Le Cooking School logo that was on the sign. As she tied the tapes around her waist, Lucy decided that the classroom resembled the home ec classrooms of her youth, with a modern upgrade: the instructor’s demonstration area boasted a huge video screen. The rest of the room was divided into six separate mini-kitchens for the students, each equipped with a generous counter, a sink, a stove, and a tiny refrigerator. The couples distributed themselves around the classroom and waited while Chef Larry got the video system running.
Lucy was tired and found her mind wandering, reviewing the incident at the market, while Chef Larry demonstrated the correct way to cut the apples. He began by peeling and coring them, then divided them into perfectly smooth hemispheres. When the demonstration was complete, he distributed the apples and set the students to work. Lucy yielded the knife to Bill and let him handle the slicing. Chef Larry circled the room, checking on the students’ progress. He corrected Bill’s technique and then went on to observe Sue and Sid.
“Très bien, madame,” he told Sue, giving her neat paring job an approving nod.
“Thanks.” Sue put down her knife. “I make a similar tart at home, you know. I hope we’ll be trying some more advanced recipes.”
“Absolutely. Tomorrow we will advance to pâte à choux, and on Wednesday I will teach my foolproof method for classic pastry dough, pâte brisée.”
“But don’t we need pâte brisée for the tarte tatin?” asked Sue as Chef Larry pulled his cell phone from his pocket and gave it a glance. “And I’m really eager to learn your
method for puff pastry.”
Chef Larry furrowed his brow and replaced his phone in his pocket. “Not today, madame. I have adapted the classic tarte tatin for my students. We will see how far we get, but pâte feuilletée may be a bit ambitious for this group.”
“But you will teach us pâte brisée?” persisted Sue.
Chef Larry reached for his phone once again, giving it only a quick glance before slipping it once again in his pocket. “As I already mentioned, madame, pâte brisée will be taught on Wednesday.”
“Terrific,” said Sue. “And maybe you could demonstrate pâte feuilletée?”
“You are perhaps ahead of the other students,” said Chef Larry, with a nod at Pam, whose attempt to core an apple had resulted in shattering it. “I will be with you in a minute, madame.”
“How come you’re teaching?” asked Sue as he started toward Pam. “I’d expect a young chef like yourself to be working at a top restaurant, apprenticing with a master chef.”
“I like to be my own boss,” replied Chef Larry, reaching into his pocket for the phone, which he glanced at and then turned off. “I don’t want to chop carrots and onions for fourteen hours a day, getting yelled at by some petty tyrant and getting paid only peanuts for doing it.” He stowed the phone in a drawer. “Besides, pastry is my true love.”
“I don’t blame you,” said Sid. “I wouldn’t work for anyone but myself.” He paused. “I’ve heard the taxes are real high here. Is that true?”
“True enough,” said Chef Larry, taking the knife from Pam and demonstrating the correct way to core an apple. “You want to caress the apple,” he said in a velvety tone, “coax it to give up its core, like so. And then we will cook it ever so gently, bathing it in butter and sugar and a touch of vanilla, allowing the true essence of the apple to be revealed in the most delicious way.”
Pam’s chin dropped, and she seemed to loose her footing, almost swooning until Ted grabbed her by the waist. “That sounds wonderful,” she said with a sigh.
“It’s just an apple tart,” snapped Ted.
“Not just an apple tart,” said Chef Larry. “Believe me, your palate will be amazed!”
It was well after one o’clock when the tarts finished baking and were turned out to cool. The aroma was heavenly, and the tarts themselves were beautiful, topped with glistening caramelized globes of apple.
“Tomorrow we will eat!” declared Chef Larry, dismissing the rather disappointed students.
“What now?” asked Lucy as they all made their way down the stairs.
“I vote for lunch at a café,” suggested Rachel. “There’s one across the street.”
Lucy followed her pointing finger and noticed a man lurking in a doorway opposite the patisserie. He was wearing a leather jacket, and she thought he looked a lot like the guy with the unibrow who had attacked Chef Larry in the market, but she couldn’t be sure, because of the distance.
“There’s always a café across the street,” cracked Sue, pulling a Zagat guide out of her purse. “The question is whether it’s any good.”
“We’re in Paris. They’re all good,” said Ted.
“That’s not necessarily true,” said Sue. “There’s quite a lot of second-rate tourist food around. We shouldn’t go anywhere that has menus printed in English, German, and Chinese.”
“We don’t need to be too picky,” said Bob. “I’m so hungry, I could eat a horse.”
“That could probably be arranged,” said Sid with a wry grin.
“Let’s try Les Deux Magots. I read about it in a travel magazine,” suggested Pam. “It’s famous.”
“Nobody goes there anymore,” said Sue, brushing off Pam’s suggestion.
Pam’s face reddened at the put-down. “It was just an idea. . . .”
“The Flore will be crowded,” said Sid, who was reading over Sue’s shoulder.
Lucy didn’t like the way things were trending. As a mother of four, she’d refereed plenty of squabbles, and that wasn’t the way she wanted to spend her vacation. She tapped Bill on the shoulder and whispered in his ear, “I’m too tired for this. Let’s go.”
He nodded in agreement. “I think Lucy and I will head over to the Left Bank,” he said. “I read that Hemingway used to shoot pigeons for his dinner in the Luxembourg Park.”
Sue raised her eyebrows and inquired in the voice that had made her such an effective preschool teacher, “Do you mean the Jardin du Luxembourg? That’s not far from the cafés in Saint-Germain.”
But Bill didn’t answer. He and Lucy were already halfway down the block. Lucy felt her spirits lifting, almost as if school was canceled due to snow. “They’re great friends,” she began. “I love them all.”
“But it’s good to be on our own,” said Bill, taking her hand. “Now, the question is, how do we get to this jahr-dan?”
“Let’s not worry about it,” said Lucy. “Let’s just wander a bit and see where we end up.”
“But first, let’s eat,” suggested Bill, leading her into a tiny, crowded café. They squeezed themselves around a free table, lined up with other tables, all occupied. A waiter appeared, gave them menus printed only in French, a bottle of water, and a basket of bread. Lucy consulted the list of specials and quickly decided on the croque-monsieur, which, the menu stated, was made with famed Poilâne bread. Bill skipped the menu and pointed to the dish the neighbor at his left elbow was eating with great enjoyment, and announced he would have the same. Lucy noticed the waiter’s reaction; he seemed both surprised and impressed at this American’s choice.
The food came, and Lucy chewed her way through a lovely toasted cheese sandwich, while Bill dove into his huge plate of winter stew.
“Parsnips,” he said with approval.
“Do you know what else?” asked Lucy.
“Some sort of meat,” he said, spearing a chunky piece. “Pork?”
“No,” said Lucy, nibbling on a frite. “Veal. It’s actually calf’s head.”
Bill dropped his fork. “What?”
“Tête de veau. That’s what the menu said. It means ‘head of calf.’ ”
Bill studied his dish, slowly turning over a few vegetables and choosing a piece of carrot. “Well, I’ll be darned.” His eyes sparkled, and he grinned. “It’s awfully good. Want to try some?”
Lucy’s first inclination was to decline; then she rose to the challenge. “Okay. When in France . . .”
“Open wide,” said Bill, choosing a piece of meat for her.
Lucy obeyed, expecting something horrible, but was pleasantly surprised. “I don’t think I’d choose it,” she said, “but it’s not bad.” She chewed. “It’s actually delicious.”
After lunch they found themselves walking along the quais lining the Seine River, broad banks paved with stone and dotted here and there with trees, which were now covered with tender green leaves. They weren’t alone. The quais were popular with strollers and dog walkers; from time to time they watched a barge or tourist boat chug past. Eventually, coming to a bridge, they noticed the metal fences looked very odd, and climbed up the stone steps from the quai to investigate. Reaching the bridge, which was near Notre-Dame, they discovered the metal webbing on both sides was filled with locks, many with names and initials, sometimes even a crudely scratched heart.
“I think lovers put them here as a token of everlasting love,” said Lucy. “I bet they throw the keys into the river.”
Bill peered over the side, down into the murky water. “Down there with the rusty bikes and rotting bones . . .”
“It’s a romantic gesture,” said Lucy. “We should do it.”
“I’m surprised the city puts up with it,” said Bill, studying the thickly packed locks with a builder’s eye. “That’s quite a bit of weight. I wouldn’t be surprised if all this metal is putting stress on the bridge.”
“It seems fine,” said Lucy. “I wonder if there’s anyplace nearby that sells locks.”
“I don’t see a hardware store, but I do see Shakesp
eare and Company.”
Lucy followed his gaze and saw the famous English-language bookstore that had served as a temporary home to so many authors, including Hemingway and Fitzgerald. “Let’s go,” she said, forgetting about the locks.
They spent a happy hour browsing among the books, both new and used, and Bill bought himself a used copy of A Moveable Feast, the book Hemingway wrote describing his life in Paris as a young writer.
Lucy disapproved. “Hemingway was kind of a jerk, always punching people out,” she said as they wandered through the twisting, narrow streets. “And he kept leaving his wives for other women.”
“You don’t think he would have put a lock on the bridge?”
Lucy considered the matter. “Nah, he’d spend the money on a drink.”
“Good idea,” said Bill, spotting another corner café.
Clouds were filling the sky and the afternoon light was fading when Bill finished his beer and Lucy drank the last of her Bordeaux. They were tired of walking, so they joined the commuters descending into the Métro station. There was quite a crowd surging through the turnstiles, and the platform beyond was packed with people, as was the train when it arrived. Lucy doubted there was room on the train for them, but found they were carried along by the pressure of the crowd. The doors closed and she let out a sigh; she’d never been in a rush hour crowd like this, not even in New York. But, she decided, looking on the bright side, she didn’t have to worry about pickpockets, because they were all so tightly crammed together that there was no room for a pickpocket to operate. The train sped along the track, and Lucy checked the map on the wall above the windows and discovered they could get off at the next stop, the Gare d’Austerlitz, and switch to the line that ran near their apartment.
