by Ruth Reichl
I was beginning to regret this little jaunt; we were in the middle of nowhere and we had not passed a single car. Danielle was looking nervous.
“At least we won’t starve,” I whispered, giving myself up to the adventure as Monsieur turned into a small driveway. Sheep looked up sleepily as the car passed, and then went back to munching grass. The air hardly stirred. The car stopped in front of a small wooden house and we all got out. It was odd; sniffing deeply I could still smell the sea.
A woman emerged, wearing a pink dress with white polka dots and a pair of sneakers. Her flyaway blonde hair was pulled off her face into a sort of chignon. She had big teeth and a beautiful smile. “Vous désirez?” she asked, opening the door and motioning us in.
Danielle looked at her watch. “We have to be back in an hour,” she said urgently. “We should not have come!”
“Don’t worry,” I said.
“But we aren’t near anywhere,” she said unhappily. “We can’t leave until they do.”
“How long can it take to look at a little cheese?” I asked.
I had underestimated Madame. Before the cheese, the sheep. Only after we had examined them, and discussed what they ate, could we go to the cheese-making room and watch the woman demonstrate how she washed the curd, pressed it into little rounds, and put it on mats to drain. She let us taste yesterday’s cheese, which was as fresh and mild as cream cheese, and then one that was a week old. It was soft in the mouth, with the distinct tang of sheep’s milk. “Now this,” said Madame Deveau approvingly, “has real character!” She scooped up a second piece and popped it in her mouth. “We have nothing like this in Paris,” she said happily. She was beginning the negotiations when she spied something else on the shelf. It looked like a lump of coal, completely covered in black mold.
“We do not sell that,” said the woman. “It is for us. We age it a few months.”
Madame Deveau’s eyes gleamed; she had discovered a rarity. She had to have it. She began pulling bills out of her pocketbook, offering more and more money for one of the family cheeses.
“But, Madame,” said the woman, “you have not yet tasted it.” She looked at us and made a fast moue with her mouth.
“I know it will be excellent!” said Madame flirtatiously. “Your sheep are fed on the healthy island grass and the cheese ages here in this clean air. I know that there will be nothing like this at home. My friends will be so envious.”
The woman made a grand display of giving in. “But first,” she insisted, “let me show you my other products.” She led us back into the house and offered us a cool drink. “Some of my lemonade perhaps?”
Madame fanned herself and plopped down into a chair. She thought some lemonade would be perfect. “We have to go,” said Danielle pointing to her watch. It was three o’clock and she was looking pale and scared. The siesta ended in half an hour.
If we left right that instant we might just get back in time. But Madame Deveau was not going anywhere. The cheesemaker had brought a tray of lemonade and now the real show began.
Four kinds of jam. Honey. A duck confit that she made herself. Madame tasted everything and greedily bought it all. “Oh,” she kept saying, “it is so delicious! My friends will be so pleased. Isn’t it so, Henri?”
Monsieur was in a corner chair, dozing a little. “Oui, ma chèrie,” he said, dutifully rousing himself. “It is just as you say.”
The cheesemaker appeared slightly dazed, but she seemed to have come to the end of the show. She looked around for a moment and then left the room. When she returned she was carrying a beautiful blanket. “My sister-in-law spins her own wool,” she offered, holding it out. It was dark colors, purples, browns, and deep blues, with the subtlety of an Amish quilt. I reached out to touch it, but Madame Deveau said dismissively, “You can’t eat blankets.”
“I don’t suppose,” asked Madame wistfully, “that you make foie gras?”
We were in luck; she didn’t. We would be late, but not late enough to be fired. Color returned to Danielle’s cheeks.
But the cheesemaker had another thought. “Do let me bring you a taste of my tarte aux framboises,” she said. “My tartes are famous all over this island.”
“I am a little hungry,” conceded Madame. “Shopping is such exhausting work.”
Monsieur Deveau woke up with a snort. “A little snack might be nice,” he agreed.
Danielle looked as if she were going to cry. “What are we going to do?” she said, chewing her nails.
“Have a piece of tart?” I suggested. “We are prisoners.”
Danielle took her finger out of her mouth and took a bite. I watched her. She took another. And another. I took a bite myself.
It was magnificent. The fruit was intoxicatingly fragrant and each berry released its juice only in the mouth, where it met the sweet, crumbly crust. “Why is this so much better than other tarts?” I asked.
Madame Deveau looked at me with something like interest. “The American wakes up,” she commented. “It is that the products here are so good,” she said. “Good butter from fat cows and wild berries grown in the island air.”
If the cheesemaker took offense at this slight to her talent she did not show it. But Danielle did. “Madame,” she said coldly, “my aunt makes her own butter and I assure you it is very fine. And when she makes a tart I myself gather the berries. She is said to be a very good cook. But never have I tasted a tart that could equal this one.”
Monsieur Deveau looked at her with a certain respect. “Bravo, ma fille,” he said. “Credit must be given. We are in the presence of real talent.”
The cheesemaker blushed but she did not deny it. “I have a good hand with a tart,” she said simply. She began to clear the plates and Danielle and I jumped up to help her. When we walked into the kitchen Danielle pointed to her watch: it was four o’clock. We were sunk. As the kitchen door closed on Madame Deveau, who was slicing herself another piece of tart, Danielle began to cry.
I was startled to see her lose her composure so completely and I did not know what to do. “I’m sorry,” I said helplessly, “it’s all my fault.”
The cheesemaker put her arms around Danielle and produced one of her beautiful smiles. “What is it, mon chou?” she asked. “What is the trouble?”
“I should never have been so stupid as to come,” sobbed Danielle. “We will be so late getting back to camp that I will be put at the door. I will be sent home and my parents will be furious with me. I have ruined my life!”
“No such thing,” soothed the cheesemaker. “You will tell Monsieur le directeur that you were with Marie. And you will present to him, with my compliments, a raspberry tart. He will not fire you, I promise.”
She was so certain of the power of her tart that we believed her. Danielle looked happpier. Then a cloud crossed her face.
“I have no money,” she said.
“Do not trouble yourself about that,” said Marie. “You have already brought me good luck. I have never had anybody buy so much in one afternoon. And at such prices! I charged them double. And they will send their friends and I will double the prices again.”
Danielle murmured her thanks. She looked as if she wanted to say something but didn’t know how. I watched her struggle with herself as Madame Deveau called from the front room, “Alors les filles! On y va?” Danielle headed for the door, then turned back again.
“Madame,” she began shyly, “can I ask you a question?”
“Oui, ma fille.”
“Will you teach me to make the tart?”
“When is your day off?”
“In four days.”
“Come back. I will teach you. And bring your friend.” For the first time all day Danielle looked truly happy.
As we got into the car, Madame Deveau stared jealously at the tart. As we drove off, she began trying to buy it. Danielle looked shocked. “It was a gift!” she said, so earnestly that Madame Deveau let the matter drop.
The trip back se
emed to take forever. Madame Deveau prattled on about her great good luck in finding such a talented woman, seemingly oblivious to the nervous silence in the backseat. By the time we reached the gates of Maison Heureuse the siesta had been over for two hours. We had no idea what to expect. We said good-bye and climbed out of the car. Madame cast one last, longing look at the tart and then they were gone.
“What an awful woman!” said Danielle as we walked stealthily through the woods to the beach. There was one anxious moment when she tripped on the root of a tree, but she clung steadfastly to the tart and it was still intact when we reached the top of the bluff.
“I can’t look,” said Danielle. “Are they there?” I peeked over the edge, looking down. Nikili was banging Roland over the head with a shovel and Monique was lying with her head on George’s stomach.
“All there,” I said.
Nikili gave me a knowing look when we got to the beach, but I think he was the only one who had noticed our absence. Monique had simply marched our boys off with her own and not one of them had the nerve to question her. “We can eat the tart ourselves!” I rejoiced.
“Certainly not,” said Danielle, shocked. “It would be stealing. Marie gave it to me for the director.”
“But he will want to know why,” I said. “You’re just asking for trouble.”
“I hadn’t thought of that,” said Danielle, struggling with her conscience.
“Monique could have been fired for covering for us,” I urged. “You owe it to her.”
Danielle was wavering.
“Marie gave the tart to you, not to him,” I urged.
Her face closed up. “But she would not have done so if I hadn’t told her I was afraid of being fired,” she said primly.
“You are truly French,” I sighed. And let it drop.
All that evening Danielle pondered the morality of the tart. She was loath to let simple self-interest dictate her decision, but I had complicated the issue by bringing up a competing claim. Each time she decided in favor of Monique she questioned her own motives. The director could not be denied his tart simply because she was afraid to tell him where we had been.
“The tart’s going to be too old to eat by the time you make up your mind,” I teased, but I secretly admired her struggle.
“Leave me be,” she said, going off by herself.
When she returned there was a determined look on her face, and she went up to Monique and solemnly presented her with the tart. “This is for you,” she said. “You took a risk for us and I am very grateful.”
“Thanks,” said Monique. That night when she and Georges went into the woods they were carrying the tart.
“Why are you letting her eat the evidence?” I asked Danielle as we got ready for bed.
“I think it is what Marie would have wanted,” she said sleepily. She turned out the light. “Next week, when she shows me the recipe, I will bake a tart for the director. It is the correct thing to do.”
SERAFINA
Most freshmen arrived in Ann Arbor with their parents in tow. I watched enviously as they moved desks into the dorm and went off for farewell celebrations. My mother was still in Europe, trying to finish her book, and it never occurred to Dad that I might like company on my first trip to college. Anyway, had he asked I’m sure I would have told him to stay home.
But when I climbed down from the bus in front of the Student Union I realized that there were 30,000 students at the University of Michigan and I did not know one. I picked up my bag and headed in the direction of Couzens Hall, praying that my roommate would be there.
She was not; all I found was a note saying she had gone home to Detroit and to take whichever bed I wanted. I snooped through the things she had left behind, but they weren’t very telling: I now knew she was small and thin and that her name was Serafina.
When Serafina finally showed up two days later I realized it was probably a good thing my mother hadn’t brought me to college after all. Mom wasn’t thrilled about the University of Michigan, and I was going to have to prepare her for my roommate. Serafina was beautiful, with big liquid brown eyes framed by straight, short, shiny black hair. She was smart and funny with an offbeat sense of humor. And her skin, even in winter, was the color of a perfect tan.
But Mom never gave me a chance to prepare her. One day in early October I walked in from English 101 and Serafina said, “Your mother just called. She’s flying straight from Paris and she’ll be here tomorrow. She said she wanted to meet my parents.”
“Uh-oh,” I said. Serafina’s parents were the most generous people I had ever met. They had been in America a long time but they still spoke with a Caribbean lilt, caressing every word before releasing it. When they talked of Guyana it was as if they had just come to Detroit for a visit and would be returning any time. I tried to imagine my mother in their modest apartment but I couldn’t picture her there, surrounded by the smell of curry and coconuts.
But Mom didn’t ask to go to their apartment. She came barging into the dormitory with a big smile that fell apart when she saw Serafina. She struggled for control, gathered her face together, and held out her hand. “Serafina?” she said hesitantly.
Later she apologized to me. “I just can’t help it. I guess I’m a prejudiced person. It never occurred to me that your roommate would be Negro.”
“Oh, she’s not,” I said fervently, parroting what Serafina herself had told me. “Her family is from Guyana. They are of mixed French and Indian blood. They are not Negro.” And to prove it I gave her some of the coconut bread that Serafina’s mother had sent.
“That’s a relief,” said Mom, helping herself to a piece.
COCONUT BREAD
1 cup warm water
½ cup sugar
2 packages active dry yeast
4 cups white flour, plus extra for kneading
½ pound butter
2 eggs, beaten
1 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
½ medium-sized fresh coconut
Put water in a large bowl. Add sugar and stir until dissolved. Add yeast, stir, and let sit a few minutes until it foams.
Add 1½ cups of the flour and mix until smooth.
In another bowl, cream butter, eggs, salt, and vanilla until very well mixed.
Remove coconut from shell, chop, and put in blender. Grate finely and add to butter mixture.
Add coconut-butter mixture to flour and mix until it forms a smooth dough. Add remaining flour, a little at a time. Turn out dough onto a floured surface and knead until it forms a smooth, elastic ball, about 10 minutes.
Put dough into a lightly greased bowl, cover, and let rise until doubled.
Punch down, shape into a freeform loaf, and set on an ungreased baking sheet. Cover with a towel and let rise ½ hour more. Preheat oven to 350°.
Bake for 50 minutes to an hour. Let cool on a rack.
“I knew right away you were a rich kid,” Serafina told me later. We were sitting in our room late at night, sharing the pizza we had ordered. I was worrying about the calories, but eating it anyway; besides, Serafina, who had a perfect figure with full breasts, a flat stomach, and tiny waist, was eating most of it.
“I’m not rich,” I said, already regretting the pizza; I had burned the roof of my mouth and I kept touching the spot with my tongue.
“You must be,” she said. “I’ve never seen anybody who had such bad manners in restaurants.”
“Hunh?” I said, genuinely puzzled. “Bad manners means I’m rich?”
“No,” she said. “Bad manners in restaurants means you’re rich. Sitting there with your elbows on the table! You act as if going out to eat was something you did every day of your life. I never take my hands out of my lap.”
Serafina, I was to discover, paid attention to things that other people missed. Her parents had sacrificed to send her to Catholic school and they were delighted when she got a full scholarship for college. Serafina took a more jaundiced view: she
was insulted that the Opportunity Award included a summer session to acclimate her to university life. “Just because we’re poor,” she fumed, “they think they have to teach us how to behave.” She took another bite of pizza.
I pointed out that arriving early did have a few advantages; by the time I got to Ann Arbor she already had a boyfriend. Rob was small and cute and followed her worshipfully around, eager to drive her to classes, take her to dinner, and show her off to his fraternity brothers.
Serafina looked down into the box. “I’m taking the last piece, okay?” she said.
“Be my guest,” I replied.
“Do you want to come to the dance next week at Rob’s fraternity?” she asked, licking her fingers with the grace of a cat. “I can get one of his fraternity brothers to take you.”
Of course I wanted to go. But when I went downstairs and found Rob dwarfed by a 250-pound quarterback named Chuck Mason I almost turned and fled. Chuck was stuffed into a black suit and carried a small corsage box in his giant paw. He, I could tell, was not much impressed with me either. We both swallowed bravely and held out our hands.
Chuck, who was from Marietta, Georgia, was disappointed to discover that I had given up alcohol. He devoted most of the evening to tales of his drinking feats back home. We danced a little, never touching. I was bored. Then Serafina came glowing up to us, holding something proudly in her hand.
“Look,” she said. It was Rob’s fraternity pin. “Rob has asked me to wear it.”
“That’s great!” I said, slightly jealous. For a moment I wondered what she had that I didn’t. Then I noticed that Chuck had stiffened perceptibly. “What’s wrong?” I asked. He pulled me aside.
“When a man gives a woman his pin,” he said pompously, “she becomes part of the fraternity.”
“Yes?” I said politely.
“She can’t,” he said flatly.
