A Table by the Window: A Novel of Family Secrets and Heirloom Recipes (Two Blue Doors)

by Lodge, Hillary Manton

  “You’re going? I was wondering if Mom and Dad were going to continue with the trip.”

  I shook my head. “It’s too much, what with Mom’s treatments. She’ll just be starting radiation around then.”

  “Want to do some wine tasting for the restaurant while you’re there? I’d like six or seven Italian wines on the wine list.”

  “Where would I find a winery?” I asked, smirking. My uncle’s home, where our nonno lived, was in Montalcino, in the heart of Tuscany. You could pretty much throw a rock in any direction and hit a grape.

  I was about to tell Nico how I wanted a couple of French wines on the list as well when I felt a light bulb switch on in my brain.

  Italy was next to France.

  Grand-mère’s sister, Cécile, still lived in the family château.

  I thought of my own sisters—Grand-mère may have been able to hide things from her children, but her sister?

  Sisters have a way of remembering secrets.

  “That sounds like a good idea,” I heard myself respond casually. “I could go to France too. There might be some wines and cheeses we’d be interested in. And then there’s the Bessette family château,” I said, trying to sound offhand. “You know they make their own honey. We could incorporate that into some of the dishes. The lavender too.”

  Nico clapped his hands together. “Bene! You will enjoy the trip. It’s been a while since you crossed the pond, hasn’t it?”

  “It’s been a few years,” I agreed. “And I haven’t been to the château since I was a kid.”

  “Are you sure the tagine can’t come out of storage?”

  “I’m going to bed, and so should you. Besides,” I said, “eating Moroccan food this late will only make you dream about Bob Hope or Bing Crosby.”

  “Not Dorothy Lamour?”

  “Not usually.”

  He rubbed his mug handle with his thumb. “I would have liked to open a new place with Éric.”

  I gave a sad smile. “Some things just aren’t meant to last.”

  MOROCCAN ORANGES

  1 orange, very sweet

  1 tablespoon sugar

  Juice of 1 lemon

  ¼ rounded teaspoon cinnamon

  2 to 3 mint leaves

  Peel orange, using a sharp knife to remove as much of the outer pitch as possible. Slice the orange; quarter the slices, if you like. Arrange on a plate. In a separate bowl, whisk the sugar, lemon juice, and cinnamon. Pour the mixture over the orange slices. Garnish with mint leaves or sliced almonds and serve.

  When we eat together, when we set out to do so deliberately, life is better, no matter what your circumstances.

  —THOMAS KELLER

  I woke up the next morning with heady beams of sunlight filling my room. My spirit still felt frayed around the edges. I reached for my phone and wrestled with my apathetic self, the one who didn’t feel much like getting out of bed.

  The mail icon on the screen gave me reason enough to lift my head just a little.

  Just because I had sun and an e-mail did not make everything okay.

  And yet I opened the e-mail just the same.

  Dear Juliette,

  Sorry it’s been a few days, but I didn’t want to rush writing you back. In all honesty, I’ve written and rewritten this e-mail a few times.

  In one of your last e-mails, you said, “Is it strange to say I miss you, when we haven’t exactly met?” My answer is no; I don’t think it’s weird. My reasons might be different than yours.

  A long time ago, you were very clear about not wanting a romantic relationship. I respected that and have enjoyed your correspondence in friendship.

  Here’s the thing—I’m going to be in Portland next month to meet with a colleague at Oregon Health and Science University. While I’m in town, I’d really like to meet you in person.

  I know you’re busy and there’s a lot going on in your life. But if you’ve got time for me, I’ll be in town from Wednesday the 14th to Sunday the 18th. If you’re free, I’d like to see your face.

  Neil

  I put my phone down, stunned.

  Meet.

  Before I could lose my courage and talk myself out of it, I hit the Reply button.

  Dear Neil,

  Consider my calendar marked. I look forward to seeing you :-)

  J

  I typed quickly and hit Send before I lost my nerve. To my surprise, another e-mail arrived a short moment later.

  I’m glad. May I take you out to dinner on the 15th? I know it’s a Thursday, but to be honest I’m not sure I can wait until Friday.

  Neil

  I smiled and wrote a quick reply.

  I like Thursdays :-)

  J

  My family came over for dinner that night to see how I was getting along in Grand-mère’s apartment.

  Sophie used it as her opportunity to share her news. Before we sat down to dinner, she told her tale of woe. “That’s what my doctor said,” she ended, with a tragic shrug of her delicate shoulders.

  My father shook his head.

  My mother crossed herself.

  Nelson patted Sophie on the back.

  Nico laughed out loud.

  Sophie threw a pillow at him, and the moment was over. Blessedly over.

  “Come on, Soph,” Nico said. “There is more to life than cheese. At least you don’t have to give up eggs—I can still make you pasta with olive oil and tiny tomatoes. I’m starved. Anybody else starved? Etta? Is dinner ready?”

  “It is.” I leaped from my seat and made a beeline to the kitchen, where the roasted chickens rested. After making sure the vegetables were sufficiently glazed and seasoned, I plated everything and carried it into my little dining room.

  Every seating surface had been called in for duty. I would have been fine with a dinner eaten in the living room, but my parents had been traumatized enough for the evening. Each person sat cozily elbow to elbow, but no one complained. In truth, Nelson was likely the only one who would even notice. We settled in to eat, prayed for the meal, and passed plates around.

  “Aunt Juliette?” Chloé asked as she handed me her plate. “Since we haven’t looked inside the trunk yet, can we do it tonight?”

  I froze.

  I’d meant to move the contents of the secret compartment and replace them with something else for Chloé to find.

  But I’d gotten distracted.

  Whoops.

  I cleared my throat. “Sure. Absolutely. Good memory there, Chloé.”

  “The trunk?” my mom asked. “What trunk?”

  “The trunk,” I said, aware of how strangled my voice sounded. “Grand-mère’s trunk? In the bedroom. Who wants carrots?”

  “It’s supercool,” Chloé continued, her eyes bright. “We saw one just like it at the antique store yesterday.”

  “Another old trunk?” Sophie tucked her napkin over her lap.

  “It was just like Grand-mère Mimi’s. The lady at the shop said it was a Goyard or something. But what was cool was that it had a secret compartment. It was totally hidden in the lid. Juliette and I are gonna look at Grand-mère Mimi’s.”

  I had to say this for my niece—her factual recall was quite strong.

  “Your grand-mère Mimi brought that trunk here from France,” my mother said, taking a delicate bite of chicken. “It was quite old. I didn’t know it was a Goyard, though.”

  “It’ll wait until after dinner,” Sophie said, handing Chloé’s plate back to her. “Eat up.”

  At last, something Sophie and I agreed about.

  “You think Gran had something secret stashed in there?” Nico asked Mom.

  Mom lifted a shoulder. “Not that I know. But she was a very private lady. Very French.”

  I processed that information. One way or another, I had to get to my room and move the tin out of the secret compartment.

  I served up everyone’s dinner before retreating to the kitchen, removing my apron, and walking back out with a bottle of chilled white win
e. “Chenin Blanc, anyone?”

  Half of the group raised glasses, and I walked around the table to accommodate. By the time I reached for Nico’s glass, he was midstory and gesticulating riotously, per usual. If I timed it just right …

  I poured the wine into Nico’s glass, positioning it in the line of fire. And sure enough, his hand hit the glass, sending a slosh of white wine over my blouse and jeans.

  “Don’t worry,” my mother said. “It’s white. It’ll wash.”

  “It’s so cold!” I said, in a tone I feared sounded too theatrical. “I’ll let you finish your own glass, Nico. I’m going to change into something dry.”

  And just like that, I was out.

  In the bedroom, I went straight to the trunk, removed the tin, and hid it in a shoebox before sliding the shoebox beneath my bed. In its place I put a few items of jewelry I’d found in the back of one of the bureau drawers, wrapped in a lacy handkerchief.

  With the family scandal hidden away—for the time being—I shrugged out of my damp clothes and used the edge of my bathrobe to absorb the last bits of wine from my skin.

  I shrieked when the knock sounded at my door.

  “It’s just me,” said my mom’s voice. “I just wanted to know if you needed any help setting your clothes to soak.”

  My eyes darted to the trunk. Closed.

  She’d never know. At least not tonight. “I … um …” I pulled on a pair of dry jeans and a jersey Tracy Reese top before opening the door. “Sorry. I just had to get zipped up.”

  I received a blank look. Nudity for a Frenchwoman is less of a deal than nudity to an American. I could have opened the door stark naked and she’d never have batted an eyelid. “Do you think I can just throw the clothes in the wash? It was just white wine, after all.”

  “I suppose that’s fine. What’s your blouse made of?”

  “Rayon.”

  A slight wrinkling of the nose. “Oh well, then, I suppose it’s fine.”

  I smothered a smirk. My mother hated synthetic fibers. I doubted if a thread of poly had ever touched her skin.

  “You’ve done a very nice job with the apartment,” she said, taking in my bedroom. “I want you to make it your own.”

  “I’m not ready for that,” I said plainly. “And besides, Grand-mère had very good taste.”

  “She did.”

  Maman cast a critical eye on my ensemble, squinted, and then handed me a bracelet from on top of my dresser. “There,” she said, satisfied once it encircled my wrist.

  “Thank you.” I clasped her hand as we walked back to the dining room together.

  After the meal, Chloé practically bounced from her seat. “Can we go look at the trunk now?”

  “Oh, right,” I said casually, as if I’d forgotten. I brought a cheese plate and a carafe of coffee to the table for the men, while Chloé, Sophie, and my mom followed me down the hallway.

  “See?” Chloé said when she spied the trunk. “Just like the one at the shop! It’s got the red and everything.”

  “You’re right,” I said as she lifted the lid with reverence.

  “Be careful,” Sophie told her, stepping forward to help.

  My mom placed a gentle hand on Sophie’s shoulder. “Let her open it,” she murmured ever so softly.

  If Chloé caught the exchange, she didn’t show it. Her eyes glowed as she carefully slid the panel back and peered inside. “There’s something in here!”

  Sophie’s eyebrows flew up in surprise. “Really?”

  Chloé’s hand disappeared inside and returned, holding the handkerchief gingerly. When she saw the necklace and earrings inside, she gasped.

  “She must have tucked them inside for safekeeping and forgotten,” Mom said.

  “They’re so pretty.” Chloé held the necklace up to the light, examining the gold chain and enameled pendant.

  “You should keep them,” Mom said, taking the necklace from her hands and opening the clasp. “If you like.”

  Chloé nodded, wide-eyed.

  Mom fastened the necklace around her granddaughter’s neck and examined the effect. “C’est belle.”

  Chloé glanced up at her mom, still holding the earrings. “If I had pierced ears …,” she said, her voice trailing off.

  “Not until you’re thirteen,” Sophie reminded her firmly.

  “You can save them,” I suggested. “They’ll keep.”

  Chloé beamed, and I basked in the happy family moment, trying not to think what might have happened if they knew the truth.

  SIMPLE ROAST CHICKEN

  3 to 4 pounds free-range chicken, giblets removed

  1 lemon, halved

  3 cloves garlic, crushed

  5 sprigs fresh thyme

  3 sprigs fresh rosemary

  4 tablespoons butter, softened

  3 tablespoons herbes de Provence

  Coarse sea salt

  Fresh cracked pepper

  1½ cup mini carrots

  1½ cup fingerling potatoes, skin pierced

  1 sweet potato, peeled and cubed

  3 shallots, quartered lengthwise

  Allow chicken to sit out for 1 hour until room temperature.

  Position oven rack to the lower position, remove upper racks, and place a cast-iron skillet or roasting pan onto the rack. Heat oven to 450°F.

  Prep spices by placing them into small finger bowls.

  Dry chicken thoroughly with paper towels.

  Place lemon, garlic, and fresh herbs inside the bird’s cavity and fasten the legs together with cotton twine.

  With your fingers, coat the chicken with the softened butter, both on top of and beneath the skin. Be generous!

  Sprinkle the herbes de Provence all over, followed by a generous amount of salt and pepper.

  When the chicken is ready and the oven is hot, remove the skillet and place the chicken inside, breast side up.

  Roast chicken for 45 minutes, remove from oven, and rotate chicken with a long fork and tongs until it’s breast side down in the pan.

  Baste chicken with the buttery pan drippings. Add veggies to pan, toss with pan juices, and sprinkle with salt and pepper. Continue to roast for another 20 to 25 minutes or until a meat thermometer registers 165°F.

  Remove from oven; return chicken to breast-side-up position and allow bird to rest for 15 minutes. Serve with roasted vegetables and fresh crusty bread.

  Let’s face it, a nice creamy chocolate cake does a lot for a lot of people; it does for me.

  —AUDREY HEPBURN

  Mireille’s Chocolate Cake

  When I was a little girl, my grandmother made chocolate cake.

  It’s a common enough occurrence; most French women have a chocolate cake in their repertoire. But this one was hers, which is what makes it special to me.

  I love historical recipes. I love recipes with a past, with meaning. And as much as I love new flavors—whatever pomegranate/sweet potato/quinoa concoction we celebrate now—I love finding recipes that remind us where we’ve been.

  Less concerned with fat, that’s one thing, or antioxidants. Whether we’re healthier now than we were at another time … that’s a discussion for another day. But what I love about old recipes is how unselfconscious they are. They’re not trying to be hip, only tasty. I think that singular aim lends itself to more focused food—food without an identity crisis, food that knows its station in life.

  This cake is just a chocolate cake. It’s not a Mexican chocolate cake, not a salted caramel chocolate cake, not a fudge cake. It’s just chocolate. Can’t chocolate be enough, sometimes?

  Don’t get me wrong—I do love a complex mix of flavors. But sometimes simple can be just as—if not more—satisfying. Give the recipe a try and see if you don’t agree.

  FRENCH CHOCOLATE CAKE

  ½ cup plus 2 tablespoons granulated white sugar, divided

  10 ounces good-quality semisweet chocolate

  ¾ cup unsalted butter, room temperature, wrapper reserved

 
; 2 teaspoons vanilla extract or vanilla bean paste

  5 eggs, separated

  ¼ cup sifted all-purpose flour

  ½ teaspoon sea salt

  2 tablespoons confectioners’ sugar

  Splash of lemon juice

  Preheat oven to 325°F. Line the base of a 9-inch springform pan with parchment paper. Use the butter wrapper to grease the paper and sides of the pan.

  Reserve 3 tablespoons of the sugar. In a medium-sized, heavy-bottomed saucepan, melt the chocolate, butter, and ½ cup sugar together. Watch the chocolate carefully and stir constantly to prevent the chocolate from burning. Once the butter and chocolate have melted and the sugar has dissolved, remove the pan from the heat and stir in the vanilla. Set aside to cool.

  Once the chocolate mixture cools to body temperature, whisk the egg yolks into the chocolate, one at a time, mixing thoroughly each time.

  To add the flour, sprinkle over the top of the mixture before stirring it in.

  Dampen a paper towel or cheesecloth with lemon juice. Wipe the juice around the inside of a large mixing bowl to remove any remnants of grease. When dry, beat egg whites until foamy.

  Add salt to the egg whites and beat until stiff peaks form. Add reserved sugar and beat until whites become glossy. Fold ⅓ of the egg whites into the chocolate mixture, before carefully folding in the remaining whites. Pour batter into the prepared tin.

  Bake until the cake has risen and a tester inserted into the center of the cake comes out clean—about 45 minutes to 1 hour. Check the cake after 30 minutes: If the cake appears to rise unevenly, rotate. If the cake starts to crack or brown too quickly, place a piece of foil over the top.