Our solitary moment was suddenly broken by the sound of a car pulling into the driveway.
We glanced out the window. “It’s your father. In Danny’s car,” Mom said, in a complete change of tone, hurriedly rising. “And there’s Deirdre and her family in the car right behind them, back from shopping. The twins were so determined to get Daddy released from the hospital in time for Christmas!” she said, automatically putting on her happy face. I felt a familiar pang of sympathy for her, seeing how hard she was trying to please everyone. Instinctively I stayed close to her as we rose to meet them.
I heard several car doors slam, and I saw from the window that the twins, now in their late forties, still looked to me just as they had when they were kids—lanky, sandy-haired, freckled, with that unspoken conspiratorial air between them—except now they were stretched into grown-ups, with children of their own. I had the same thought I always do at the holidays, which was, Maybe now we can finally be a happy, harmonious family. But this wish faded as my father got out of Danny’s car, appearing a little more bent and grey-haired these days. As usual Dad’s face looked like thunder. Something was already pissing him off.
“Please take this now,” Mom said urgently, handing me back Grandmother Ondine’s notebook. “Put it in your suitcase before everybody comes inside—and don’t tell them that I gave it to you. After all, it’s what Grandma Ondine asked me to do. But we don’t want Deirdre to feel jealous.”
I dutifully went and zipped up the notebook in my bag. When I returned to the kitchen, the twins and their kids were milling around, carelessly wolfing down Mom’s specially prepared desserts despite her mild protests that these were supposed to be served after dinner. We all kissed and hugged, and I admired how quickly the children were growing up, yet they were still touchingly eager to be approved of by their Aunt Céline who lived in Los Angeles and knew movie stars.
Deirdre was in the parlor checking out the wrapped gifts under the tree, but now she came into the kitchen to look me over. Danny informed her, “Céline’s been home with Mom all afternoon.”
I watched him exchange a significant look with his twin in the telegraphic way they’d done since childhood. “Oh? What have you been doing all this time, Céline?” Deirdre asked. The sharpness of her tone surprised me. Mom glanced up at me nervously, which made me think that perhaps the twins were trying to gauge if she’d blurted out the recent “updating of the wills” to me. Apparently she wasn’t supposed to tell me. If my father discovered she had, he’d be mightily displeased.
“Mom’s been showing me some French recipes,” I said truthfully enough, nodding at the Christmas treats. Mom was busy settling Dad into his favorite chair in the parlor, fluttering solicitously around him, seeing that he was snappish and irritable. He hated being an invalid. I noticed with concern that Dad still looked pale. Then he glanced at me appraisingly, and out of habit I felt my guts freeze.
“Still fooling around with powder puffs and lipstick out in Hollywood?” he asked.
Mom smiled proudly. “Céline was nominated for an Oscar this year, for the best makeup category—I told you that, remember?” she said encouragingly, nudging my father.
“My team and I,” I said. “I worked with a guy who’s been in the business for ages.”
Danny said quickly, “But you didn’t actually win the Oscar. Right?”
“Champagne, everyone!” my mother said brightly.
—
JUST BEFORE NEW Year’s, Dad had to go back into the hospital. I sat with him in his room while he was waiting to be wheeled into surgery again, and he was unexpectedly warm and friendly. He even allowed me to hold his hand awhile as we chatted about a safe topic of mutual interest—old Hollywood movies. In retrospect, I think he was scared, though he wouldn’t admit it. The surgery went well, and the doctors thought his outlook was good. But later that night, his body was ultimately unable to withstand the shock of another operation. He died before dawn, before we could get back in time to say goodbye.
When I went to his hospital room to collect his things, I burst into tears at the sight of his empty bed, and his leather shaving kit that held his comb, toothbrush and razor. Despite everything, Dad had been such a brooding, dominant presence that permanent absence seemed impossible. Now all I could think was, Where did he go? I felt a sudden, deep sorrow for his lonely soul, which I pictured floating on a raft, drifting farther and farther away into a blackened sea, because he used to scare us on our summer vacations by swimming very far out, to show off, waving back at us and enjoying our consternation.
My mother had, I think, been bracing herself for this for some time, because she seemed calm and resigned at the funeral. Deirdre went on one of her terrifying “organizing” binges, packing up Dad’s clothes and things so Mom wouldn’t have to face it. Friends and neighbors swarmed around my mother, clasping her hands in theirs, murmuring their condolences, so I didn’t have much time alone with her.
I had to leave right after New Year’s for a movie assignment in Germany, but just before I left I told her I could stop back here in springtime to visit her again on my way home, and I asked if she’d be okay in the house alone until then, adding encouragingly, “Mom, I know it might be scary at first, but being on your own gives you a chance to think about what things you like to do and how you like to live.”
She nodded, brightening. “Yes. I’ll be fine. Deirdre invited me to spend a few weeks in Nevada with her, to get away from all this cold weather. So, go do your work, and I’ll see you here when you come back and we’ll do nice things together.” She glanced over her shoulder to make sure no one was watching before she pressed a new key into my hand. “Dad had the locks changed last month,” she murmured.
“See you soon,” I promised. She remained standing there at the front door, blowing kisses as I waved goodbye from the cab.
—
MY NIGHT FLIGHT to Germany was quiet, because I’d been booked into the business-class section where most passengers were trying to sleep. The communal hush was soothing. And as we were crossing over the Atlantic Ocean in that inky darkness, I found myself drowsily wondering what had really happened to my Grandmother Ondine, that year when she and Picasso crossed paths.
Ondine and a Party of Three, 1936
SHORTLY BEFORE EASTER THE TELEPHONE rang at the Café Paradis, and Ondine’s ears perked up when she overheard her mother using the code name for Picasso, saying in her warmest manner, “Certainly, Monsieur Ruiz. We would be happy to accommodate you.”
But when Madame Belange ended the call, her tone changed entirely. “How do you like that? He says he’s got two guests coming from Paris today and asks if you could cook lunch up at the villa!”
Ondine, recalling how she’d blundered into claiming entire credit for the bouillabaisse, said quickly, “Don’t worry, Maman, I can do it.”
“Well, you’ll have to,” her mother answered, sizing up the situation pragmatically. “We’re already overstretched—it’s Holy Week, for heaven’s sake! Men never consider what work a holiday is. But what on earth will we serve Monsieur Ruiz’s lunch party on such short notice? Your father just went over the accounts and once again says we must cut costs. I suppose we’d better keep it simple, with plenty of cold dishes.”
“No!” Ondine exclaimed vehemently. At her mother’s surprised look, Ondine said more quietly, “It’s a special occasion, so we mustn’t fail this Patron. His visitors are Parisian and you know how they chatter when they travel! The talk will be all up and down the Côte d’Azur if they love it or hate it.”
“Then what will we feed them? Look in your notebook. What does he like to eat?”
Ondine sat down on the chair in the corner and quickly flipped through the pages of her careful notes. Cooking for Picasso had settled into a comfortable routine. Each time she went into his kitchen she laid out his prepared lunch while he was rustling about upstairs in his studio.
Yet, quiet as he was, the Master was clearly hard at work.
The smell of paint wafted downstairs, but more than that, his intense focus and steely ambition were palpable, as if he were an unstoppable, hardworking furnace that, once fired up, could heat the entire house and illuminate every room. Ondine sensed in her very skin and bones that wonderful things were happening here.
And sure enough, she soon discovered the results, for he had the habit of scattering his paintings throughout the house—propped up against a wall here, a chair there, a table beyond—while they were still wet. Monsieur Picasso put them out to dry, just like a woman hanging her wash, Ondine had noted, amused.
Within a week there were four paintings in this impromptu art gallery—strange, compelling pictures in pastel Easter colors, composed of circles and triangles with eyes and noses in unexpected places; and in the backgrounds were seashell-shaped spirals and cornucopias with trees sprouting from them, everything at once celestial yet warmly earthy, an explosive burst of spring fever. In one of them she recognized the Mediterranean’s pale beaches and blue sea as a backdrop for what seemed like a whimsical-looking, kite-shaped face.
When later she returned to collect the lunch dishes, she sometimes found him smoking thoughtfully in the back garden, and he would nod politely without a word, looking absorbed. He seemed to feel no compunction to thank her or to offer any other critique of the meals at all, good or bad.
The only way Ondine could get any inkling of his tastes was by studying each plate he left behind; and soon she was able to read those crumbs for very subtle distinctions, just like a soothsayer interpreting tea leaves. If Picasso had enjoyed his meal, all the dishes would be wiped clean. But if his work was going especially well, although he would eat, he’d leave behind signs of his preoccupation—his napkin fallen to the floor unnoticed, a plate of cheese and a half-eaten apple in an odd place like the small table at the foot of the stairs—indicating that he’d been impatient to return to his vision. And on a rare day when a meal was not quite to his liking, or perhaps his mood was gloomy, he politely covered the leftovers with another plate, as if to save them for someone else.
Ondine always recorded her impressions in the notebook. So now, when her mother asked about Picasso’s tastes, Ondine said thoughtfully, “He liked the beef miroton when we made a sauce of butter, onions and vinegar; and the deep-fried rissole pastry filled with ground lamb and cumin; and the veal braised with carrots and turnips. He prefers more rustic, country meals instead of fancy ones with creamy sauces. He especially liked our spiced stew,” she reported, shutting the notebook.
“But there’s no time or supplies to make a stew!” her mother exclaimed.
“Let’s see what we’ve got,” Ondine replied, undauntedly peering into the icebox. “Well, there are some langoustines for an appetizer. For the main course…here’s some garlic sausage, and a little duck confit, a bit of slow-cooked lamb shoulder and some roasted pork. Some beef that hasn’t been cooked yet, and marrow bones, fine. I’ll use the goose fat to make the crust…”
“That beef is for Monsieur Renard’s lunch,” her mother objected. “And there isn’t enough of anything else that I can spare for your artist and his guests!”
Undeterred by the appetites of the Three Wise Men, Ondine made more discoveries. “White beans already cooked with pork rind! Here’s tomatoes, carrots and onions, good…and a bouquet garni. I can make a splendid cassoulet,” she enthused, feeling inspired. “Then, I’ll bake a special cake for dessert.”
Madame Belange insisted, “But a cassoulet has to simmer for hours! You can’t do that with beans that are already cooked.”
Ondine determinedly pinned back her hair and tied on her apron. “Don’t worry, Maman. The beans and confit are nearly perfect already. I’ve got enough time to make the beef with the aromatic vegetables before blending it with everything else. It will be more delicate for the Parisian guests; they usually prefer a lighter version of what they call ‘peasant’ food anyway. Remember when Isadora Duncan and her friends ate here?”
“Yes, like nervous birds pecking at their food,” her mother replied, finally conceding, “All right. It’s the best solution we’ve got. I’ll find something else for Monsieur Renard to eat today. Go ahead, do it. Get as much cooked here as possible.”
“Where is the cassole?” Ondine asked. Madame Belange handed her the special earthenware pot that was never washed but simply wiped clean after every use, because each new cassoulet contributed good flavors to the pot, thus “seasoning” it for the next stew.
Ondine set to work, seized with a frenzy of inspiration that was fueled by something deep inside her which had apparently lain in wait for just such a chance. This strange hidden vitality now propelled her through the risks and pinpoint timing that gastronomie required; she was, after all, literally playing with fire, like a high priestess making incantations over an altar—and the more dramatically the meat sizzled in the hot pan or the more dangerously the sauces threatened to boil, the more she felt her own exuberance and daring rising within her to meet the challenges.
—
WHEN ONDINE ENTERED Picasso’s kitchen, she could hear male voices engaged in a spirited discussion in the studio upstairs. “His guests have arrived already!” she gasped, feeling her heart beating faster. Who were they? Would her menu please them? Suppose she was wrong?
Resolutely, she unpacked her hamper. She’d made a small, perfect cake for dessert—gâteau le parisien, a real beauty, layered with almond cream and candied fruit, crowned with meringue. Even her mother had been pleased, stepping back to admire it, saying, “This will impress.”
With great pride now, Ondine enthroned it on a raised cake dish upon a small table tucked away in a corner of the kitchen. Picasso and his guests mustn’t see it until it was time for dessert, she decided.
After she turned on the oven she quickly set the dining room table for three, on a pale yellow tablecloth. Then she returned to the kitchen for the real work. Carefully she cut the cooked meat—duck, pork, lamb, beef—into triangles. In the cassole pot she made alternate layers of the meat, then the white beans with cooked tomato, and some sliced rings of the spiced garlic sausage. She seasoned it all with freshly ground black pepper, and a violet-scented salt harvested from the marshes of the Camargue by saulniers who raked it by hand. Finally she topped the whole thing with bread crumbs and goose fat.
“We’re doing just fine,” Ondine assured herself, briskly pushing it into the oven, then scurrying to the larger kitchen table to prepare the appetizer. But she was moving too quickly now; when she whirled around she stubbed her foot on the leg of the little table where her cake sat so proudly. Stumbling, she regained her balance—but right before her horrified eyes, the cake wobbled and began to slide off its throne.
“No!” she gasped, reaching out to catch it with her bare hands, meringue and all. For a moment she had it, too—until the delicate frosting cracked, and the cake slipped right through her fingers, promptly tumbling to the floor with a soft sweet plop! that shattered it into a mess of frosted lumps.
At first all Ondine could do was to stare in utter disbelief at this disaster. The shame and the weight of her responsibility felt, for the first time, like more than she could handle. “This can’t happen today!” she groaned. For a moment she wished her mother had come with her; yet she also knew what Madame Belange would say if this happened to her. No tears! Start over, make another.
But when Ondine glanced about wildly, taking hasty inventory of the pantry ingredients she kept here, she wailed, “I can’t make another one! I don’t have enough flour.”
Fiercely she blinked away tears of frustration as she swept up the cake debris. She reviewed her supplies as if they were a jigsaw puzzle. After washing her hands, she instinctively found herself chopping butter into tiny pieces with what flour she had, adding salt and a little ice-cold water to work it—mixing, flattening, folding—until she had a pastry to press in a pan, trimming off its edges. “I’ll have to skip the cheese-and-fruit platter and use it for this
,” she panted, reaching for a soft curd cheese to mix with sugar and egg yolks. She chopped nuts, orange peel and fruit into this filling, added raisins and brandy, then poured it all into the piecrust. Finally she made a crisscross of the trimmed pastry strips for a lattice top. Père Jacques called it crostata di ricotta—a sweet Easter cheesecake pie.
Breathless, Ondine checked on the appetizers, then peered into the oven at the cassoulet. It would be done soon and she’d be able to put the pie in. The cooking fragrances filled the air, and now a thunderous herd of hungry beasts came pounding downstairs enthusiastically.
Ondine smoothed her hair, took a deep breath and went out to greet Picasso and his guests.
Two men stood in the parlor with Picasso, arguing about his new painting which he now propped on the fireplace mantel. “Well, let’s hear it!” he was saying.
His well-dressed guests had been discussing the painting in low murmurs as seriously as if they were bank executives in a meeting. There was an older man who looked to be in his sixties and moved with calm, deliberate gestures. He was tall and dapper in an immaculate suit and tie, large round black-rimmed eyeglasses, and a perfectly groomed white beard and moustache. The only bohemian aspect of his appearance was the hat which he hadn’t bothered to remove, made of straw with a wide brim, slightly curled up at the edges. He doffed it now in deference to a female’s presence, and as Ondine took it from him the guests gave her a frank, curious stare. She glanced back shyly, equally intrigued.
“Merci,” he said to her in a gentlemanly voice with a beatific smile.
He’s not showy enough to be a politician, Ondine was thinking, and not as buttoned-down as a businessman.
Picasso, having already spotted Ondine standing in the dining room awaiting his signal to serve, had given her a broad grin. “Ah—here’s my young chef!” he exclaimed now.
Cooking for Picasso Page 7
