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Freedom Fries and Cafe Creme

Page 8

by Jocelyne Rapinac


  ‘Eat less of the good stuff, and money-wise it’s the same as eating too much bad stuff.’

  She had a point there, and she knew that I knew it, and that I tried my best.

  ‘But there’s the other good reason for going there: you could meet someone. So, twice a month seems pretty reasonable, doesn’t it?’

  I did a quick calculation.

  ‘It gives me twenty-four possibilities a year to meet the right man … not bad. Far more than I have at the moment. Maybe I have a chance then.’

  Mariette told me that she’d met Juan José at one of the Spanish Week stalls filled with a delightful assortment of charcutería. Of course, she had to explain to me what charcutería was. She’d seen him trying a piece of Serrano ham, so she’d known right away that he wasn’t a ‘dull, sissy vegetarian’, as she labelled people who didn’t eat meat.

  ‘People need protein, and not only from legumes,’ she always maintained.

  ‘I just thought he was really good-looking, and I liked what he was wearing. He was giving the salesperson specific instructions about what he wanted to buy. Of course, in these kinds of stores, the salespeople are qualified and know something about what they’re selling. I observed Juan José discreetly for a while. He was saying how much the food reminded him of his native Madrid, and that the jamón looked divine!’

  I sat in silence, riveted by these details.

  My grandmother hurried on. ‘After that, he went to the fruit and vegetable display. I can still picture him smelling the cantaloupes to find the right one. He also bought fresh figs. I was still following him when I realised he didn’t have a cell phone.’

  Mariette hated cell phones. She thought there was nothing more stupid than someone talking on a cell phone in the street. She believed that people like that had problems with face-to-face communication. She wasn’t at all interested in the sordid details of their lives, loudly broadcast to everyone in streets or stores, on trains or buses. Before the invention of cell phones, people had their phone conversations at home, so why didn’t they do it any longer? Was it because they were bored to death with their dreary daily routine and wanted the world to believe they had exciting lives just because they could make phone calls in public places?

  Another reason Mariette had met so many men might be because she seemed to inhabit a world where real human contact and time given to simple things were more important than cell phones or other superficial gadgets like MP3 players, which tend to isolate people from one another.

  Let’s face it: someone like Mariette would be very rare in the younger generation. The last guy that I’d dated had been unable to stop touching his tiny cell phone to check for text messages, and had constantly taken pictures of me with it. It had driven me insane. I’d broken up with him after two weeks. That had been nearly a year previously.

  ‘No cell phone! So that’s another good point for Juan José, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes. I’d been following him for a while and he never took one out of his pocket, but it also occurred to me that that might be a sign that he was single, because he didn’t have to call his significant other to ask whether he should choose 2 per cent or 5 per cent fat sour cream, or whether he should buy carb-free or low-fat ice cream!’

  Right! What could I say? She’d obviously been thinking about this guy the whole time. It was good to hear of someone who’d actually met a man in a normal everyday situation, one that didn’t involve technology or speed-dating. I couldn’t wait to tell Kelly.

  ‘He was so charming, just shopping for his groceries! Dark hair—’

  ‘How old is he?’ I couldn’t resist asking when she mentioned ‘dark hair’.

  ‘Only a few years younger …’

  ‘Younger than you?’ I shouted louder than I intended. I can’t believe it!

  ‘Don’t get excited! So what?’

  ‘How old?’ I asked again.

  ‘Fifty-seven. And age isn’t important when true love is involved.’

  True love already? Fine.

  ‘Fifty-seven. So he’s dyeing his hair, isn’t he?’

  ‘He may be. So what? I do it myself, and so do you, don’t you?’

  Right! Ever since I’d decided to become a brunette, thinking I would get more respect from men. Well, so far it hadn’t worked very well.

  ‘Sexy, smart, witty …’ Mariette continued.

  The list of Juan José’s attributes was starting to get a bit much.

  ‘But aren’t Spanish men supposed to be so macho?’ I asked, pouting again.

  ‘Stop being so hung up on stereotypes, Claudia.’

  Mariette went on to tell me that, to attract Juan José’s attention, she’d casually asked him for his advice about the best charcutería to buy when both of them had been ‘coincidentally’ standing at the Spanish Week counter.

  ‘He was so thrilled to see someone who was interested in Spanish food!’ she said triumphantly, and she repeated what Juan José had told her.

  ‘“Sí, por supuesto, it’s about time that some importance was given to the cuisine of my country. Too much Mexican, Chinese and Italian cooking around here, don’t you think?”

  ‘Of course I had to agree but I confessed right away that I needed to learn so much, being completely ignorant about Spanish food. He said that he would be delighted to teach me. His eyes and the tone of his voice were very inviting!’

  Right! Sure. Why not?

  Her story made me a bit envious. It would never happen to me. By then I was dying for a cigarette to calm myself down a little, but I couldn’t smoke in Mariette’s presence.

  ‘His Spanish accent is really adorable and funny. He’s been here for a long time but he still can’t pronounce certain sounds. I have to laugh most of the time, but he doesn’t seem to care. He makes fun of me when I try to say a few Spanish words.’

  ‘Because you’re learning Spanish, of course …’

  ‘Sure, what do you think? It’s important that I understand his language. He is teaching me Spanish through songs. I love it! I’ll make a tape for you. Besides, I may go to Spain soon. You could come with us, you know …’

  I grimaced and refused to reply.

  ‘Oh, sorry, Claudia. I’m so excited about the idea that I forgot about your fear of flying. You know, you could take a boat, but since you only have two weeks’ vacation a year that might be kind of difficult,’ my grandmother giggled.

  ‘That’s not funny at all, Mariette!’

  She resumed the tale of her encounter at Fit Gourmet.

  I could picture Mariette at the Spanish Week display, rolling her eyes and using her silkiest voice to attract Juan José. People always noticed her good looks, even at her age, and her generous personality.

  Taking care of herself and having a good time had always been very important to her. She was actually the only fun person in my entire family. And the only one I knew I could always rely on.

  Having told me all her latest news, she summoned the gorgeous waiter over and asked him to bring us more roasted fat-free, salt-free soybeans. She then returned to the subject that she firmly believed was so important for my future.

  ‘Claudia, when do you think would be the best day for you to go to Fit Gourmet?’

  Having no idea, I just looked at her and shrugged.

  ‘I’ve thought about it. I’d say, for your age range, Saturday morning is best.’

  ‘Because …?’

  ‘Because it’s when the single men—’

  ‘More or less charming …’

  ‘They are all more charming than less in my neighbourhood …’

  ‘If they’re not gay.’

  ‘Come on, Claudia, it’s time you gave up this obsession with gay men. They’ll never give you what you want as a straight woman!’

  ‘You’re right. But I can’t help it.’ I glanced again at our delicious waiter, who seemed to be flirting excessively with a male customer.

  ‘On Saturday morning, after a long week at work and a cr
azy Friday night, these charming bachelors finally realise that they have nothing left in the fridge when they want to have a late-morning breakfast.’

  Mariette imitated perfectly the expression of a guy who had just woken up opening his fridge and finding to his disappointment that there was hardly enough milk left in the carton for his cereal. I burst out laughing.

  ‘So these men take their courage in their hands, get into their cars or, even better, take their little shopping carts and walk to Fit Gourmet.’

  ‘Um, well, um …’ I mumbled, not sure about Mariette’s new theory. Or the shopping carts.

  ‘But never before eleven thirty. And you know why? Because since they’ve been out the night before, they need to recover a little by sleeping late. When they finally wake up they realise that they’re really hungry.’

  ‘They could go out to eat,’ I suggested.

  ‘Some do, but in my neighbourhood most like to put food in their fridges, and some even like to cook. These are the young men you should look for, not the ones who always eat out and order takeout pizza or Chinese food. I picture you more with someone who considers his kitchen to be an important place in the house, the centre of marvellous culinary creations, and not just a room with a fridge containing milk and beer.’

  ‘I didn’t know straight guys like that even existed!’

  ‘In my neighbourhood they do …’

  ‘OK! So, you’re telling me that I should go to your local Fit Gourmet on Saturday morning at eleven thirty to meet The Man I may marry?’

  ‘You got it, Claudia. But, remember, you don’t have to marry him. At least don’t tell him that right away. It may scare him off.’

  Right!

  That reminded me of Kelly’s theory: if you want to get rid of a man, tell him you want to marry him in a beautiful, expensive white dress, and have three children! It’s the best way to get him out of your life completely.

  Actually, at that point, I would simply have liked to find a companion with whom I could share my life and thoughts without even considering marriage or kids.

  More roasted fat-free, salt-free soybeans were put on our little table. I smiled as gracefully as I could at the gorgeous waiter. He smiled back. It didn’t hurt, and since I knew he’d never be interested in me, it wasn’t like I’d have to follow it up at all.

  Mariette proposed another toast with our half-empty pint glasses of beer: to the man I’d meet at Fit Gourmet.

  When she had something in mind, she didn’t give up.

  ‘Now, about your look when you go to the supermarket …’

  She’d thought of everything.

  ‘Yes, what should I wear? Do I need to look relaxed and casual, chic or sporty? Make-up or no make-up? Hair neatly done or a ponytail? I don’t even know what the trendy way of wearing your hair is right now.’

  Because I didn’t care.

  ‘Well, don’t worry about your hair. You need to look neat and informal, bon chic bon genre, as the French say. You know how to do it most of the time.’

  ‘As long as you don’t look like a tramp, showing your belly and too much cleavage!’ we exclaimed together, both laughing loudly. We thought that that fashion didn’t show anyone to her best advantage, even if she had a beautiful figure.

  We set a date for me to go to Fit Gourmet: next Saturday, the sooner the better.

  Mariette took a glossy flyer for Fit Gourmet from her purse and looked it over.

  ‘Next week is Italian Week,’ she announced with a smile.

  ‘Italian … That sounds good. But I’d rather meet an American,’ I said firmly, remembering the Neapolitan guy Kelly had dated, who had found her too liberated.

  ‘You can meet an American who likes foreign food.’

  Sure. Why not? My grandmother had an answer for everything.

  Mariette had to leave then because Juan José was meeting her at her house that evening for dinner.

  ‘I made my famous tomato pie,’ she said, looking at me with bright eyes. ‘I’ll just have to reheat it. And Juan José is bringing his famous tortilla española de patatas and some boquerónes.’

  Seeing my astonished look, she quickly explained what a tortilla was in Spanish cuisine, as well as boquerónes – anchovies preserved in vinegar and garlic. Until then, to me, tortillas were large, flat Mexican pancakes, and I had never heard of boquerónes before.

  The tortilla española de patatas sounded rather yummy, though I wasn’t sure about the anchovies. But I loved Mariette’s tomato pie. Each time I put it on my table straight from the oven, it was like having the sun from the South of France right there in my kitchen. Usually I opened a bottle of French rosé to drink with it, just as they would do in southern France. Not that I’d ever been there, but Mariette had told me about it after she went there.

  Before Mariette was into Spain she’d been fascinated by France, especially its capital and the South. Not surprisingly, she was the one who had introduced me to French culture.

  I gave Mariette the banana bread I’d originally made for Kelly.

  ‘Thanks, Claudia. I adore your banana bread. It will be the perfect dessert for tonight.’

  And, taking a bottle out of her bag, she exclaimed gaily, ‘I bought this great Rioja for you. Enjoy! Hasta luego, querida!’ Then she kissed me goodbye.

  Mariette didn’t even give me time to thank her. ‘Ziaf are singing later – why don’t you stay and have dinner here?’ she called over her shoulder as she left.

  Definitely! I loved Ziaf – a local group that sang Edith Piaf’s repertoire. I’d seen them a few times.

  I looked at the menu. Suddenly I craved a huge juicy hamburger with lots of fries and onion rings, another beer, and a brownie sundae: a real unhealthy American meal. It was as if I wanted to take a little revenge on Mariette for her happiness and her obsession with Spanish food and men.

  I called the dishy waiter over to tell him that I’d decided what I wanted to eat.

  Staring at him as he walked to the kitchen with my order took me back to the little secret summer escape Kelly and I liked to organise whenever the two of us were tired of the macho male rudeness we constantly seemed to attract. Real men were supposed to be rough, otherwise they were sissies, right? And if they didn’t show a little toughness, then they were scared of us women.

  For our summer escape Kelly and I took the fast boat at noon to Cape Cod. As soon as we arrived at Provincetown, we sat at a table on the terrace of a great restaurant we knew on Commercial Street. We then spent the whole afternoon eating different hors-d’oeuvres, sipping Cosmopolitans, and watching and grading the beautiful gay men passing by.

  It was quite silly and extremely shallow but we had a hell of a good time. It was also an invigorating way to spend the day before the boat took us back to our real lives in Boston. We’d been doing this every summer for the last few years.

  Ziaf had begun their set and a line in French caught my attention. Slightly tipsy from the beer and intoxicated by my chocolatey dessert, I agreed with the singer that, no, life wasn’t that sad, after all.

  After I’d finished my scrumptious high-calorie meal I said goodbye to the gorgeous waiter who, without any doubt, had become my platonic sweetheart for the foreseeable future.

  ‘Hope to see you soon,’ he said, with his striking smile.

  ‘Definitely!’

  And sooner than you may think, actually!

  I decided I’d have to bring Kelly with me next time I came here.

  However, Mariette was right: I’d been a little too much into gay men lately. Not good!

  On the subway home, most of the people looked wornout, sloppy, heavy and ugly, especially compared with the slim and elegant waiter. But then it was a Thursday evening and the end of the week was approaching. I didn’t feel that great myself, having lost the habit of eating such a heavy dinner.

  Mariette’s scenario for meeting eligible men was drifting back into my mind. I didn’t know if I really liked it but I decided to give it a tr
y. After all, I’d got nothing to lose.

  Later on, as soon as I’d collapsed into bed, hoping for a good night’s sleep, the phone rang.

  I didn’t want to answer it, but when I heard Kelly leaving a message, I jumped up to catch her.

  After an hour of girly chatting, Kelly had convinced me that I needed to go along with Mariette’s scheme. Kelly thought the idea was fantastic and wanted to accompany me to Fit Gourmet the following Saturday morning. I knew that Mariette wouldn’t mind, since she was very fond of Kelly.

  I hung up, feeling absolutely ready to go to an overpriced gourmet food supermarket at the far edge of the suburbs, just to hunt for a man. Mariette’s plan suddenly seemed cunning and attractive, much better than meeting someone online or at a speed-dating event, which was what Kelly had just been telling me about.

  But even if the two of us found our Mr Rights, we would still have our yearly secret summer escape to Provincetown. We’d sworn to it, after all.

  Three Recipes for Mariette and Juan José’s Romantic Dinner à deux

  Juan José’s Tortilla Española de Patatas

  4 tbsp extra-virgin olive oil

  1 medium Spanish onion, chopped

  3 good-sized potatoes, such as Maris Piper, peeled and cut into ½ in (1cm) cubes

  generous pinch salt

  5 eggs, at room temperature

  1. Heat 3 tbsp of the oil in a 25cm non-stick frying pan and gently fry the onion for 5 mins. Add the potatoes and mix. Sauté over a low heat for 30–40 mins, until the mixture is tender and just beginning to colour. Season with salt.

  2. Beat the eggs in a large bowl. Stir in the onion and potato mixture and crush roughly with a fork. Add a little more salt.

  3. Return the pan to the heat, add the remaining 1 tbsp oil and pour in the mixture. Cook over a moderate heat, pressing down with a spatula from time to time, for about 15 mins, or until the egg is mostly set. Put a plate on top of the pan and turn out the tortilla. Slide it back into the frying pan and cook for a few mins more (alternatively, finish under the grill). When the tortilla is lightly browned on both sides, transfer to a plate and allow to cool. Cut into slices and serve slightly warm or at room temperature.

 

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