“I never joke about French!” Zia said. “It’s pronounced wee but spelled O-U-I. It’s all you’ll want to say when you’re sitting at one of the thousands of little cafés that line the streets and you’re looking at a menu full of foods you just want to eat for days. And then you wake up early, and the sun is rising in shades of pink over the white buildings as you make your way through the sleepy streets until you’re upon the fresh markets!”
“Like in Naples!” Alfie said. His parents gave him a curious look, so he quickly added, “I mean, like you’ve said about Naples, right?”
Without missing a beat, Zia said, “There are markets all over the city of Paris. When you live there you find the ones you like the best and shop each morning for the day’s foods. My favorite was Rue Marche. It had everything I needed, and I went every morning.”
“We like to do big shops,” Alfie said. “That way Mom and Dad only have to go to the store once or twice a month.”
Zia waved off the comment with a roll of her eyes. “We had the Rue Montorgueil, Rue Mouffetard, Rue Cler for people-watching—I once saw France’s first lady there!”
“Rue, rue, rue,” Alfie mimicked. “Oui, oui, oui.”
“I wish I could go to Paris,” Emilia said.
“You would fit right in, cara ragazza,” Zia said. “Now, two tiny pinches of the cayenne pepper, and we will almost be ready. One pinch for each of you.” She held out the dish of burnt-orange spice. They each tossed a pinch into the bowl.
“Voilà!” Emilia cheered.
As Zia collected mugs she asked Mom and Dad, “You don’t want any, do you?”
“No, you go ahead,” Dad said. “We’re heading upstairs; we’ve both got some work to do.”
“And not too much now,” Mom said. “I want you both to clear the table and have your teeth brushed and be in bed in thirty minutes. Understood?”
Zia gave the mixture in the pan a final stir and then carefully poured it into the mugs. Steam rose up and the smell of rich chocolate washed over their faces.
“Maybe if I give Coach some of this, it’ll help him calm down and see that I need to be back in the starting lineup,” Alfie said. “You think it’ll work like that, Zia?” He took a sip and couldn’t believe how rich and delicious it was. It was like drinking straight-up melted chocolate. He took another sip. It was warm and thick, like the center of a molten-lava cake. He took another sip, and then another.
“Not in that exact way,” she said. “But I think you’ll figure this whole thing out. You just need a little perspective. Warmed chocolate can give you that. So what do you think of the hot chocolate, Emilia?”
“Mmm,” Emilia said. She took a careful sip and, closing her eyes, said, “Oh . . . my . . . gosh . . .”
Zia smiled at her grand-niece’s reaction. “Parisians take their work quite seriously, but they take their enjoyment of the little moments just as seriously. Sometimes sitting in a café with close friends or family and enjoying a shared plate of macarons is just as important as sitting in an office working. You know, some Parisians start their morning with a mug of hot chocolate.”
“Really?” Emilia asked, taking a fourth and fifth sip.
“The chocolate is like medicine to take away your troubles and help you see that life is sweet. Go on,” she said, gesturing that they should take another sip. “Taste how sweet it is . . .”
As Alfie took another sip of the sweet, thick chocolate drink, he felt the air shift around him, and an odd feeling welled up in the pit of his stomach. Before he could grab Emilia, he found himself standing on a cobblestoned street. He knew it had happened before, but still—he couldn’t believe it! They had been transported again!
“Oh . . . my . . . gosh . . . ,” Emilia said. Alfie was glad to know his sister was there, too.
They still held the mugs of hot chocolate in their hands, and Emilia was on the verge of spilling the rest of hers as she spun and looked around.
Alfie, seeing the strange street and bustle of activity, thought one thing: Naples! He’d get to see his friend Marco again!
“What street are we on?” he said, trying to get his bearings. Alfie had an uncanny sense of direction and hoped that if he saw some street names he could find his way back to Trattoria Floreano, the restaurant owned by Marco’s family.
“Oh my gosh, oh my gosh, oh my gosh,” Emilia continued.
“Calm down,” he said. “We need to figure out where we are so we can get to Marco’s café.” Maybe they could play soccer down by the Gulf of Naples and Marco could give him some pointers.
Alfie figured they had to be in an unfamiliar part of town, because the streets were wider than he remembered. The buildings looked different, too. The buildings he remembered in Naples had been a golden-yellow color with dark orange roofs. These were white with steep black roofs and had wrought-iron balconies.
“Are you blind?” Emilia said. She hopped on her feet like an eager puppy while pointing her finger. “See?”
Alfie followed her finger down the street where he saw, clear as the mug still in his hand, the Eiffel Tower.
“We’re in Paris!” Emilia squealed. “Wait till I tell Felicia. She’ll die of jealousy!”
“Paris?” Alfie said. He’d been excited to see Marco, and now they were going to have to figure out all over again how to find their way back home. “Great, now what do we do?”
“Aren’t you excited?” Emilia said. “Oh my gosh, we have to get croissants and go shopping and eat cheese and walk along the river and—”
“We have to focus,” Alfie said. “We can’t just hang out here. It doesn’t work like that.”
“We don’t know how it works because we still don’t know what it is,” she said. “Zia Donatella is the greatest great-aunt in the entire universe! Can you believe she sent us to Paris? Look at that woman’s high heels and handbag and sunglasses—she’s so chic!” Emilia said of a woman who passed them.
Alfie didn’t often pay attention to what his sister said, but he was pretty sure she’d never used the word chic before.
They started down the street. Emilia gushed over everything in sight. Alfie expected her to say how beautiful the trash cans were.
“Maybe we should find a café,” Alfie said. That was how they met Marco. Maybe it would work again.
“Of course we should go to a café,” Emilia said. “Paris is famous for them!”
Alfie spotted a group of kids about their age standing with some adults down the street. Maybe it was a guided tour or something that could help them figure out how to get home.
“Let’s go down there,” he said. “Maybe we’ll meet someone who can help.”
“Let me do the talking,” Alfie instructed as they got to the back of the group.
He tapped a boy on the back who rested his knee on a dark blue suitcase. “Psst,” he whispered. “Excuse me, um . . .”
The boy turned and looked at Alfie. He raised a questioning eyebrow.
“Um,” Alfie began, “well, this is going to sound really strange, but . . .” Beside him, Emilia began drifting away from the group toward a nearby shop that sold vintage hats and gloves. Alfie grabbed her wrist and pulled her back, as if she were a balloon floating away.
“You’re late,” the boy said.
“Late?” Alfie asked.
“You two!” called one of the adults at the front, snapping out each word like a firecracker. The man was short and stout with round glasses and a thin mustache. “Welcome to the Young Chefs School of Fine French Cooking. You’re off to a terrible start. You must never be late!”
“Monsieur, please,” said the woman next to the angry man—who towered over him. She looked at Alfie and Emilia and said, “Welcome, children. We’re happy you’ve joined us.”
“Glad you had time to stop for a drink,” the man said, eyeing the Bertolizzis’ mug
s. “Marcel, check these late arrivals off my list,” he said to the younger, skinny guy beside him.
“Name?” Marcel asked, looking down at a clipboard.
Alfie said, “No, you don’t under—”
“Emilia and Alfredo Bertolizzi,” Emilia said with total confidence.
Marcel searched his clipboard for their names, but of course they weren’t listed. He kept flipping the pages back and forth, panic growing in his eyes.
“Ah, Marcel!” the round man said, throwing his hands up in the air. “You’re always messing things up! Two missed students, unbelievable. Good thing we have extra beds. Madame Rousseau, can you accommodate these tardy children?”
“Of course,” she said, smiling so the corners of her eyes crinkled. “We’re very happy to have you.”
“Thank you,” Emilia said, and Alfie wanted to pull his hair out. What was she doing?
“Now!” the man called. “As I hope you all know, I am Monsieur DuBois, and I run this course along with Madame Rousseau. We have one week to teach you the basics of French cooking, and you will utilize every single lesson, demonstration, and task we teach you. Your parents may think this is a fun camp during your half-term break, but as far as we’re concerned you are here to learn, same as at your school.”
“We’re here to go to school?” Alfie said, but Emilia nudged him quiet.
“Monsieur DuBois,” Madame Rousseau said gently. “We are here to have a little fun.”
“Humph,” Monsieur DuBois grumbled.
“You can take your bags up to your rooms,” Madame Rousseau said. “Since this week is all about food, we begin by going to dinner, so come right back down. We’re going to have a great—”
“If you’re late, you’ll stay here and peel potatoes,” Monsieur DuBois said.
Madame Rousseau shook her head. “I’m sure everyone can get back downstairs in ten minutes. Right, students?”
The students grabbed their suitcases and headed inside. Emilia followed.
“Hey, where do you think you’re going?” Alfie asked. “We’re not staying.”
“Then what are we supposed to do?” Emilia said. “Hello? This is a cooking school. That means we’re going to be surrounded by food and eating the entire time. Food is what got us here and what took us home last time. We have to stay.”
Alfie thought about his soccer game tomorrow. He didn’t want to miss it. When they went to Naples they’d only been there for a day, so he had to think the same thing would happen here in Paris. Right?
“Okay,” he said as they followed the others to find their rooms. “But we should definitely stay under the radar. I don’t know what’ll happen if they find out we’re not supposed to be here. Agreed?”
“Yeah, whatever,” Emilia said. But Alfie could see in the distracted way she looked toward the stairs that this might not be possible. The last thing they needed was to be asked a bunch of questions that they couldn’t answer.
Alfie entered the room just as the other boys were filing back downstairs for dinner. As several boys pounded down the stairs past Alfie, one stopped just in front of him.
“Come on, you’ll be late,” he said. It was the boy from outside. He had dark brown skin and light brown eyes. “Trust me—you really don’t want Monsieur DuBois yelling at you more than once in a day.”
Alfie smiled. He set his mug down. A gigantic orange cat wrapped itself around Alfie’s leg. “Where’d the cat come from?”
“That is Lardon, the fattest cat in Paris and unofficial mascot of the school,” he said. “Remember him from the school’s brochure?”
They started back down the stairs with Lardon leading the way with heavy paw-steps. “Right,” Alfie said.
“Don’t leave any food out or he’ll eat it,” the boy said. “He ate a whole pack of bacon when he was just a kitten. That’s how he got his name. I’m Andre, by the way.”
“I’m Alfie.”
“Where are you from?”
“America,” Alfie said. “You from Paris?”
“Yes,” Andre said. “Well, I am, but my grandparents are from Gabon, in West Africa. We all live here together.”
“Like my family,” Alfie said. “My grandparents—and also my parents—they were all born in Italy, but we live in America. So we have something in common.”
“The most important things,” Andre said. “Family and home.”
The students gathered in the lobby to be escorted to dinner. Even though it was a small class, Alfie didn’t see his sister. He’d lost her for a time in Naples and couldn’t bear for it to happen again. Then he heard a gaggle of kids laughing and clomping down the stairs. He turned to see a group of girls. In the center of them was Emilia—wearing a completely new outfit.
Alfie stepped closer to her and said, “Um, hello? Where’d you get all these clothes? We’re supposed to be staying under the radar.”
“I am,” Emilia said, stepping discreetly away from the girls. “By blending in with everyone. I look good!” She held the ends of the skirt, which had big pleats and a squiggly pattern. “I told them the airline lost our luggage, so Claudette let me borrow this, and Natalie loaned me the top, and then Madeline was like, ‘You can’t not accessorize,’ so she loaned me her bracelets. Aren’t they pretty?” She jangled a wrist full of metal bracelets in his face.
“Please be—” Just then Andre came and stood near them. “Emilia, this is Andre. Andre, this is my sister, Emilia,” Alfie said.
“Hello,” they said to each other.
“And this is Madeline,” Emilia said, pulling the girl closest to her in for introductions.
“You’re Alfredo,” she said to Alfie with a smile.
“Hey,” he said with a little wave.
“We’re both named after foods.”
Alfie had no idea what kind of food she was named after, so he just smiled and nodded.
“Okay, students!” Monsieur DuBois said, clapping his hands. “We go to dinner now! Follow me and stay together, please.”
Emilia let out an excited squeal. “Dinner! In Paris!”
“Just remember to pay attention to the food,” Alfie told her quietly.
“Yes,” Andre said, overhearing. “You’ll taste flavors you never thought possible. Is this your first time in Paris?”
“Yes,” Emilia said.
“Well, then,” Andre said, “I think you are in for quite a treat.”
Evening was coming on, and the sun began to slip behind the buildings, giving the city a warm glow that made the buildings seem dipped in yellow and pink pastels. Emilia walked ahead of Alfie and Andre with her new friends, talking over each other like they’d all been friends since kindergarten.
The restaurant was not like the chain restaurants the Bertolizzis were used to visiting. Sure, since Zia came to town they’d been eating lots more meals at home. But before all that, if they didn’t order pizza they might go out to Wallobee’s or Manny’s House of Yum, where the waiters made you wear balloon hats and shook noisemakers at your ears if anyone suspected it was your birthday.
This restaurant didn’t even have a television in it. It had white tablecloths and the waiters—mostly older gentlemen with white hair—wore white shirts with black vests and long black aprons that reached their ankles.
The class sat at a long table filled with more silverware than Alfie had ever seen. As menus were passed out, the class went around the table and introduced themselves. Emilia, who sat next to Alfie, enthusiastically said her name and that she was just so happy to be here in the City of Light.
City of Light? Please! Alfie kicked her under the table, but she ignored him.
Alfie’s and Emilia’s eyes ran down the menu. They had no idea how to begin or what to order. When the waiter came around, Alfie simply pointed without any idea of what it was. Emilia ordered the same as Madeli
ne, who sat on her other side.
Monsieur DuBois ordered several appetizers for the table. When they arrived Alfie and Emilia followed everyone’s lead and picked up a tiny fork and speared something that looked like a chicken wing.
“Tell me, class,” Monsieur DuBois began, “what flavors do you taste in this?”
Alfie tasted the meat. It flaked like fish but tasted like chicken. He liked it, but the other kids started talking about all the tiny little subtle flavors they tasted. Madeline said lemon. Andre tasted garlic. A boy named Jacques said there was a hint of parsley.
“Very good, students,” Madame Rousseau said. “Excellent palates!”
“It’s really good, huh?” Emilia said, chomping through her last bite. “You gonna eat that?” She pointed to the other half of Alfie’s appetizer. He wanted to finish it, but his sister obviously liked it, so he decided to be nice and let her have it. Besides, there were plenty more appetizers on the table to taste. He helped himself to a little fried potato chunk and took a bite. It tasted buttery and creamy.
Emilia bit into the appetizer she had snatched from Alfie’s plate. “Yum!” she said, and Alfie couldn’t help but laugh at his sister’s enthusiasm.
“They’re good, right?” Madeline asked Emilia.
“I love them,” Emilia said. “Alfie, we gotta make these back home.”
“For sure,” Alfie answered, scooping up some gooey cheese with a few crusts of bread. He slathered the cheese on the bread and said through a full mouth, “They don’t taste like any chicken wings we’ve ever had.”
“Chicken wings?” Madeline said. “They’re frog legs.”
Emilia immediately began spitting out the last bits of food into her cloth napkin.
“Are you joking?”
Madeline stifled a smile. “No, they are.”
“Emilia, you said you liked them,” Alfie reminded her. He scooped another bite of the cheese and bread—it was warm and oozed slightly over the edge of the bread. He added a slather of purple olive spread, which gave each bite a tangy flavor.
Paris! #2 Page 2
