Freedom Fries and Cafe Creme

by Jocelyne Rapinac

  ½ cup (100g) crumbled blue cheese (such as Roquefort, Stilton or Danish)

  2 tbsp sour cream or crème fraîche (optional)

  1. Heat the butter in a frying pan. Season the steak and cook in the butter until done to your liking (about 2–4 mins each side for a 225g steak). Set the meat aside, covered, to rest.

  2. Return the pan to the heat and sauté the spring onions in the meat juices for 2–3 mins. Add the port, cheese and cream, if using, and heat gently until the cheese is completely melted and the sauce is bubbling. Season to taste. Pour the sauce over the steak on serving plates and serve with potatoes and a green salad.

  April

  Smart Food Shopping

  ‘The gentle art of gastronomy is a friendly one. It hurdles the language barrier, makes friends among civilised people, and warms the heart.’

  Samuel Chamberlain, 1829–1908,

  American soldier, painter and writer

  At last, I finally had a little break. A quick glance through the window at the park and I decided to go outside. It was a lovely day, and, to my mind, spring is just the best time of year. The sight of the fresh blossom on the trees would put me in a better mood, I knew, and the dazzling colours of the tulips were enough to raise anyone’s spirits.

  A little icon at the top right of my computer screen told me that I had an IMPORTANT email message. I noticed it was from Mariette and so I opened it straight away.

  Hello Claudia

  I’ve met a terrific man! I’m hoping it could lead to something serious because of where we met. Can’t be wrong this time! When you know the whole story, it’ll get you thinking. You may even want to give it a try yourself. Can we meet today around 6 p.m. at Fontaine and I’ll tell all?

  Mariette

  I replied right away. I’m always happy to meet up with Mariette.

  Mariette, I’ll be there. I can’t wait to hear your news!

  C.

  Then I emailed my friend Kelly to tell her I wouldn’t be able to see her after all. She’d understand, knowing that I always put my grandmother before everyone. I decided to give Mariette the banana bread I’d made for Kelly. I knew she’d be pleased.

  A few minutes later I was sitting smoking on a sunny bench among gorgeous red and yellow tulips, and gazing at the beauty of the park in bloom.

  Some passers-by scowled at me as if I were committing a crime with my cigarette. I wanted to tell them that my health was my business and no concern of theirs. And I dug the ash into my pot plants to help keep the parasites away.

  I’d resolved to stop smoking only if one guy – the right one – told me to do so. So I could be puffing away for a while yet …

  Aaah … I took another deep, comforting drag. It was so pleasant to be able to relax for a moment, away from that fake red-haired witch at the office.

  I thought about Mariette, who’d just turned sixty-three and had met a terrific man.

  Well, actually she’d met a few of them since Grandpa died ten years before. Mariette was having much more fun in her sixties than I was at twenty-five. She actually met men! If I had to wait until I was sixty-something to meet the guy who was going to make me quit smoking, I feared I might well die of lung cancer first!

  I wondered if it was because Mariette had a lot of free time that she had so many dates. Working people just thought about their careers and making more and more money. If you didn’t work with nice guys – and I didn’t – where would you meet them? I disliked encounters in bars because I never knew if the men were sober or drunk. And the internet? No, I wasn’t that desperate.

  Unfortunately I’d become a bit of a workaholic, though not by choice: if I wanted to keep my job I had no alternative. And if I wanted to eat, and sleep under a sound roof every night, I’d got to work crazy hours and put up with my ghastly boss. I could have looked for another job, of course, but even the thought of it made me feel tired, and anyway, it might turn out not to be any better. At least I worked downtown, near the pretty Boston public garden.

  On the other hand, why was I worrying about meeting somebody? I was only in my mid-twenties. My mum and Mariette had got married pretty young, and I wasn’t sure they’d made the right choices.

  I preferred to take care of myself and spend some quality moments with my family and friends in what little free time I had. That thought made me realise it was time to get back to the office.

  I kept my cigarette butt to throw it in the first trash can I passed. I smoked, but I didn’t litter.

  In fact, the park looked much cleaner now that the city had introduced so many green bags for garbage and pink ones for paper recycling. They were everywhere, and the anti-terrorist cops were able to see right away what was in them since they were transparent and not too big. And they got replaced frequently. Very clever!

  The city also looked much nicer since the mayor had decided that it had to be cleaned every two days. You saw more and more street sweepers around. At least my taxes were being well spent, and the cleaning initiative created jobs too.

  On that positive note I went back to the office.

  The rest of the afternoon passed so slowly that I had trouble staying awake. Fortunately, my fierce boss was there to snarl at me to make sure I did.

  Six o’clock, finally! I couldn’t wait to see Mariette. I flew out of the office, even though I hadn’t quite finished my filing.

  Fontaine’s inviting terrace was open on that warm April night. I loved the ancient fountain with its cherubs, at the centre of the terrace, surrounded by tables. It added a little old-world charm.

  Mariette waved when she saw me. She looked stunning as usual. But what was with this new outfit? Long, black flouncy skirt, a red matching top with baggy sleeves, and big hoops in her ears …

  But she didn’t give me time to ask about her clothes.

  ‘Hey, girl, you look tired. I bet you’re working too hard,’ she said as she kissed me.

  She was always so energetic, and I always looked so weary ‘Thanks for reminding me of that.’ I frowned.

  ‘When you think that so many machines have been invented to help us avoid unpleasant tasks, and allow us to work less … Yet it seems that everyone just works harder and harder.’

  ‘Mariette, I’m stuck in the system. Like most folks around here. And you know I can’t move to a country like Germany, where I’d have six weeks’ vacation a year. Please spare me all this.’

  ‘And you’re not a teacher with four months’ annual vacation. You should have been a teacher. I’ve told you that so many times …’

  ‘I can’t cope with kids. They are rotten, spoilt brats nowadays.’

  ‘Except the ones you’ll bring into this world one day.’

  ‘Sure.’ We both laughed mirthlessly.

  ‘Not all of them are brats, though there certainly are plenty that could drive you nuts. I’m glad I retired. It was hard at the end. TV and the internet were more important to them than anything I could say. And since they had no discipline at home, how could I ever hope to civilise them? And—’

  I was eager to change the subject; I’d heard enough about this one over the years. Besides, I wanted to know about the new guy she’d met. But first we needed to order our beers. Roasted fat-free, salt-free soybeans were brought to us.

  Yum yum … I took a good handful.

  ‘Extremely well-mannered,’ Mariette said suddenly, talking about our waiter after he’d taken our order.

  And extremely good-looking, but he’s obviously …

  I sighed, thinking it a pity that handsome, gallant men were so often gay.

  ‘So what about the new guy?’ I asked, looking away from the gorgeous waiter.

  ‘His name is Juan José. He’s—’

  ‘Juan José?’

  This hinted at exoticism and might explain Mariette’s Spanish look. I told her I’d noticed.

  ‘Yes, how do you like it?’ she asked, standing up and pirouetting.

  ‘Fabulous!’ I told her, a little jeal
ous of my grandmother’s style. She always looked amazing.

  I wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d started taking flamenco or tango lessons.

  ‘Let me guess: he’s a retired Latino dancer or a singer.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have minded that at all!’ Mariette exclaimed, a twinkle in her eye. ‘Actually, he told me that he’s a good dancer.’

  Of course!

  ‘He’s from Spain!’

  ‘So, a flamenco dancer, after all!’

  ‘No, he’s not. Stop thinking in such clichés, Claudia! Although I’m seriously considering taking flamenco classes.’

  So who’s thinking in clichés now, then?

  ‘And I’ve been listening to some great Spanish music. I’ll make a few tapes for you.’

  I’d kept an old tape recorder, which stood in my kitchenette, just so I could listen to the tapes Mariette compiled for me. She hadn’t yet made the transition to CDs – much less MP3s. I had to admit, though, it was usually good music, which I enjoyed listening to while I was cooking.

  Our beers arrived and we had a toast in honour of Juan José. I sighed deeply as I gazed again at the waiter as he moved away.

  ‘So, if you didn’t meet him at a dancing class …?’

  ‘We met at the supermarket!’

  I was so taken aback that I almost choked on my beer. It took me a few seconds before I could reply.

  ‘Um, let me guess … at one of the trendy supermarkets near your house, in the international food aisle, where the Spanish olives are,’ I teased her.

  I suddenly realised that was all I knew about Spanish food.

  ‘Not at all!’ she laughed.

  ‘Wow! I can’t imagine myself flirting with the guys I see at my supermarket. Most of them look just like the food they buy: potato chips, Cheez Whiz, Wonder Bread, peanut butter, grape jelly, Cool Whip, sugary sodas – phoney, tasteless and boring.’

  ‘Yuck!’ we exclaimed in unison.

  ‘And,’ I went on, ‘these guys would be amazed if they saw what I have in my cart.’

  ‘Let me guess …’ Mariette frowned in concentration. ‘… Lettuce, spinach, white fish, turkey breast, extra sharp Cheddar cheese, plain yogurt, extra virgin olive oil, wholewheat bread, muesli, nuts and seeds, blueberries, red wine and sparkling water, most of it organic.’

  ‘Don’t forget the carrots, the bell peppers and the apples,’ I added, giggling.

  Mariette was exactly right. She knew me so well, especially my fascination with all the beautiful colours of fruit and veggies. But, then, wasn’t she the one who had told me how to eat well?

  ‘Yes, indeed. Good girl, I’m proud of you. You keep to a good healthy diet in spite of the fact that you still smoke.’

  I was keen to move on swiftly.

  ‘And I drink a glass of red wine with dinner …’

  ‘Since it’s one of the best antioxidants after pomegranate juice,’ Mariette confirmed.

  ‘At least, if there’s something I’m good at it’s buying the right food.’

  ‘Yes, that’s healthy … but not that exciting! Don’t you think?’

  ‘But you’re the one who …’ I stopped, confused.

  Mariette didn’t say anything.

  In my mind I pictured my food cart.

  ‘Yes, not that exciting, admittedly, but the choice of healthy food is rather limited where I shop.’ I didn’t know what else to say.

  ‘But it’s also good for you not to think solely about your health when you eat.’

  ‘But, Mariette, you are the one who taught me about eating basically no fat, little meat, more grains, and lots of fruit and veggies.’

  ‘I’ve changed a bit.’

  ‘This is down to Juan José?’

  I couldn’t believe it. She’d only just met him and already she was abandoning her own strict rules about nutrition.

  ‘I’m learning not to feel guilty if, once in a while, I have a dish with a good splash of olive oil, or if I eat some fatty cold cuts, or drink a very rich hot chocolate with churros …’

  ‘Churros? What’s that?’

  And she told me about the sausage-shaped fritters that were dipped in heavenly thick, syrupy hot chocolate. They sounded divine.

  ‘Before I met Juan José, I was paying too much attention to what was “good” for me. I had the impression that I was becoming a little orthorexic, or to put it another way, a health-food junkie.’

  ‘Ortho— what?’

  ‘Orthorexic. Orthos means “correct” in Greek, and orexis, “appetite”. It’s when someone spends most of their time trying to avoid additives, preservatives, food colouring, salt, sugar, any kind of fat … eats, not to be fed, but to be in good health or to be cured. Food becomes, in the end, not only a medicine but also the cause of ailments.’

  I recognised the former teacher here.

  ‘I don’t think you were like that. You ate loads of different things. You paid attention to what was on your plate, that’s all.’

  ‘I was becoming a little too obsessed with eating only healthy food. I was avoiding cheese, for example, and I wouldn’t eat beef any more, only turkey and lamb.’

  Were turkey and lamb the healthiest meats? I thought I remembered reading that somewhere, actually. I had to admit that I hadn’t noticed any of these changes in Mariette’s diet. But now that I thought about it, the last few times we’d been together she’d usually had fish, turkey or lamb. And there were no more delicious cheeses like Saint-André or Stilton in her fridge. She had also lost some weight.

  ‘And all of this because of Magnolia. She’s a real orthorexic,’ Mariette added.

  Oh, yes, Magnolia! She was one of Mariette’s best friends, an ageless, skeletal New Ager, an artist, who for years had constantly painted the moon in every colour one could imagine. She had certainly had time for it since she’d never had to work for a living. Good for her, because it seemed that no one was interested in buying any of her celestial art. I’d never cared much for her, and had always thought she was a bad influence on Mariette.

  ‘So you’ll gain some weight if you add more olive oil. Be careful not to put on more than you should,’ I added, just to tease her.

  Mariette shrugged to show that she didn’t really care. ‘Juan José is here now to save me from my close brush with orthorexia.’

  She returned to her story of their first encounter.

  ‘The supermarket where I met Juan José is upscale compared to the ones you’re used to. The men who go there really care about what they eat. Believe it or not, some of them dress nicely even when they’re just shopping for groceries.’

  ‘Wow, I’ve got to see that!’

  You ate well and you dressed well – those first impressions mattered to Mariette.

  As if to confirm this thought, she said, ‘And you know I believe in the adage “Tell me what you eat and I’ll tell you who you are.”’

  The gorgeous waiter came up and asked if everything was OK.

  ‘Sure,’ I lied.

  Of course not! Don’t you see the effect you’re having on me? Why are guys like you – beautiful, elegant, well-dressed, well-mannered – so often gay? What a waste for us women!

  There were an increasing number of gay people in the city, thanks to the legalisation of same-sex marriage, and I had the impression that they were everywhere. Certainly they seemed to be the only kind of men I fell for at that time – which was, of course, a total non-starter.

  ‘Nice guys who really care about what they eat and what they wear around here? They prefer men! Especially in your neighbourhood,’ I said.

  ‘Not all of them. Not Juan José, for sure. I can tell you …’

  She smiled at me mischievously.

  She’d never change. I was sure she had already shared some intimacies with this Juan José. She always said that she couldn’t wait for ever to see if a relationship was going anywhere or not. So she moved it on quickly when she met a new man. If the romance worked out, fine; if not, as she s
aid, ‘There are so many beaux out there.’

  We giggled like teenagers.

  ‘So which supermarket did you go to?’

  She told me that she’d wanted to try the new one specialising in healthy and sophisticated southern European food. Fit Gourmet, it was called. I remembered then that I’d read in the paper about its opening. But there was no Fit Gourmet in my neighbourhood. My nearest supermarket should have been called Fat Guzzler, since hardly any fit or slender people shopped there. Most of the food was processed, full of preservatives, and didn’t look appetising at all. However, I managed to find a few nice products in the tiny organic food section. Thank heavens they even had one. But the store was convenient as it was very close to my apartment. Once in a while, during my lunch hour, I’d buy produce from the farmers who came every week to the market in Copley Square, even if the prices were too high.

  ‘You could come to Fit Gourmet, you know.’

  Oh, sure, then I would have to take the Blue Line subway, then change to the Orange or the Green Line to North Station, and finally take the commuter train to your neighbourhood – just for grocery shopping.

  Mariette guessed what I was thinking.

  ‘You could come about twice a month, that’s all. It will be worth the trip! And you can spend some time with me afterwards.’

  Neither Mariette nor I owned a car since we both lived near a subway or train station. When I visited her, usually once a month, I stayed over for the weekend. She didn’t live that far from the city, but the journey took a while on public transportation.

  We usually met up downtown, near my office. We liked to have a drink, or eat at a little local restaurant.

  Mariette’s neighbourhood was the new place to be, frequented mainly by young professionals or happy retirees – most of them gay. Admittedly it was a great area: stunning renovated Victorian houses, nice restaurants, art galleries, parks, cycle paths – though it was a bit too pricey for me.

  ‘Shopping at Fit Gourmet must be rather expensive,’ I said with a pout.