Freedom Fries and Cafe Creme

by Jocelyne Rapinac

  • 1 large chopped onion, 1 cup (120g) diced pork sausage and ½ cup (60g) chopped back bacon, all sautéed together in olive oil – 1 cup (200g) drained sauerkraut from a jar – 1 tbsp Dijon mustard – 1 tsp cumin seeds

  • ½ cup (120g) green pesto – ½ cup (80g) chopped sundried tomatoes – ½ cup (60g) chopped pitted black olives

  3. Preheat the oven to 180°C/350°F/Gas 4. Grease and line a 9 x 5 in (23 x 12.5cm) loaf tin and transfer the mixture to the tin. Bake for 40 mins, until golden. Test with a skewer that the loaf is cooked right through. Serve warm or cold with a green salad.

  July

  Breakfast for Two

  ‘The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.’

  Fanny Fern, 1811–1872,

  American writer

  ‘… Er, er, allô …?’ I could hear a big masculine yawn.

  ‘Allô, Paris? Salut, Pierre, it’s Brune!’

  ‘Who else would it be so early! I’m shattered, you know.’ Another yawn …

  ‘I’ve something to tell you.’

  No reply.

  ‘Something quite mouthwatering.’

  ‘Mais bien sûr … otherwise you’d have emailed or texted me.’

  We both knew how easily electronic messages could be misinterpreted and then we’d have to pick up the phone anyway to clear things up.

  ‘And I wanted to hear the sound of your sweet voice.’

  ‘Bonjour, apple of my eye.’ Pierre was obviously waking up now.

  ‘Bonjour, honey-bun. Wait until you hear the exciting news! Une nouvelle chance for you, Pierre. Food for thought.’

  ‘Pourquoi pas?’Another big yawn … ‘Hold on, I need a reviver! Let me have a glass of my eau miraculeuse, as you call it. I think I need it.’

  Smiling to myself, I waited patiently until he’d returned from his kitchenette. Pierre and his entire family believed that if you took two teaspoons of organic cider vinegar with two teaspoons of organic honey in a glass of water twice daily, it would keep you in good health. Much had been written about the benefits of this drink, if taken regularly, and I knew Pierre prepared a jar of this miracle water at the beginning of every week.

  ‘Brune, did you get the webcam, like you said you were going to? I want to be able to see how delicious you look right now, en direct. Are you wearing something hot?’

  We liked to amuse ourselves using foodie expressions since both of us were rather obsessed with all things culinary.

  ‘“No” is the answer to both your questions.’

  ‘OK, j’écoute. But let me assure you that your delectable face is etched into my mind anyway. So what’s cooking?’

  I knew that Pierre always liked to hear from me, whether online or on the phone, even if it was a bit early on a Sunday morning. Just then I had terribly important news to impart. It might even change his life – and it was about time something did.

  ‘Hey, the sunrise is amazing this morning! Not such bad timing, after all. Let me open the window.’

  Once again he put down the phone, and I could hear him fiddling with the catch. I pictured him with the pastel light of a new day on his face, looking out at the unique panorama of Parisian roofs. I imagined a peach-coloured sky to add to the beauty, even accordion music playing …

  ‘I’m back and all ears. Go ahead, spill the beans!’ Pierre’s voice cut short my romantic reverie about an idyllic Parisian early morning. And, actually, my view from our roof deck of the star-lit Boston skyline was certainly nearly as stunning.

  ‘Pierre, have you made your decision yet regarding the job in New York?’

  ‘No, not yet.’

  ‘How much more time do you need to chew it over?’

  ‘I don’t know …’

  ‘You can’t keep them waiting for ever. You remind me of a fallen soufflé every time you need to decide anything.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know anybody there.’

  ‘I’m in Boston …’

  ‘True. And it’s not that far away, like you said. I’m sure we could have dinner together, just as we used to do.’

  ‘This could be a great opportunity, you know. Something new. The spice of life is what makes it seem worth living.’

  ‘It could also be a recipe for disaster.’

  Good one. Now I had the feeling that he was going to talk about his age.

  ‘I’m forty-two, you remember.’

  I knew he wouldn’t disappoint me.

  ‘I’ve ripened into full manhood.’

  ‘You’re not a wizened old fruit yet!’

  ‘And starting over …’

  As if he had ever started in the first place.

  Next chapter, there’s so much to savour in Paris.

  ‘I like my life here and—’

  ‘Yep, chasing twenty-something tomatoes or being a couch potato, vegetating in front of your TV set!’

  Pierre sighed loudly. ‘Stop using that silly term “tomatoes” …’

  ‘Is “tarts” a better label?’

  ‘It’s not my fault if young women are fond of mature men like me.’

  Right. Pierre, mature?

  ‘In a way, I don’t blame you … Paris is so beautiful!’ I conceded.

  And I missed it sometimes, but I didn’t want to talk about my occasional homesickness, at least not right then. I wanted to get back to the original purpose of my phone call.

  The view of the Boston skyline at night was captivating. A slight breeze freshened the air. I was sitting sipping cranberry juice next to my little round mosaic table on the roof deck.

  ‘You know, Pierre, I really think you need a change, for a couple of years at any rate. You should get away from the insipid life you’re leading right now.’

  ‘Brune la Sage, can we have this rather serious conversation a little later? You’re starting – once again – to drive me nuts. I went out last night. I ate and drank a little too much …’

  I realised I should be nicer. I’d woken him up so early on what should, after all, be a day of rest.

  ‘Sorry, sweetie-pie.’

  But I couldn’t help thinking that Pierre deserved so much better than a life filled with partying, as if he were a college freshman. And why did he still behave that way? Simple: he’d once been badly hurt. That was it. Voilà, now he didn’t trust women at all.

  ‘Sorry,’ I repeated.

  ‘OK, so what are you cooking up now?’

  ‘Well, I met a great woman earlier tonight …’

  ‘Oh, please, after Brune la Sage, now it’s Brune the matchmaker making another futile attempt. That takes the biscuit!’

  It was true that I’d tried to fix him up several times, but none of my plans had come to fruition. However, I really thought the woman I’d just met would make a terrific match for Pierre.

  ‘I can find women on my own, you know …’

  ‘Pierre, I beg you, stop dating tomatoes that are too young for you. You need a full-grown person closer to your own age—’

  ‘Like Olga, Melanie or Michele? I’ll have none of your sauce any more!’ Pierre interrupted.

  At least he remembered all the women I’d introduced him to. But I hadn’t finished yet.

  ‘A full-grown woman, a good egg, capable of making commitments, like—’

  Silence.

  ‘Yes, like who? Like you, dear Brune? Am I right?’

  I didn’t say anything but we both knew perfectly well that the two of us could have been such a good match, if only …

  If only!

  ‘But, dear Brune, you’re taken, and you don’t want to leave your appetising cowboy for me!’

  ‘Jimmy doesn’t look like a cowboy at all!’ I hated it when Pierre called him that. ‘But, yes, he’s a real dish,’ I added.

  ‘If you could see the sweet light of Paris this morning …’ Pierre whispered after a pause.

  ‘I can see it,’ I answered, closing my eyes. Tender thoughts of that wonderful city replaced the ones I was having of Jimmy. Once again I
could hear accordion music, and now the poignant voice of a street singer.

  Actually, it was Eva, Jimmy’s mother, who’d helped me discover an idyllic Paris, a Paris from a vague and nebulous past, a Paris you could be nostalgic about when you lived away from it, a Paris with accordion music and the heartbreaking voice of a street singer, and full of delightful sensations that I never would have found without her.

  It was thanks to Eva that I’d developed a love of old black-and-white French films, and listened with newfound yearning to singers like Edith Piaf or Lucienne Delyle.

  How could I have learnt about these beautiful moving voices and poetic lyrics by myself? After all, I grew up in a dull suburban family for whom the best French singer ever was Johnny Halliday! Living in the suburbs didn’t really allow me to explore the romantic Paris that I had been able to re-create in my mind only here in America, thousands of miles away from it.

  I wish young people today would learn to appreciate the touching, realistic poetry of those old songs. Thanks to my American mother-in-law, I felt more French than I had ever been.

  Another big masculine yawn.

  I sighed loudly.

  ‘I’m thirsty again. Hold on.’

  I heard Pierre walking away from the phone into his kitchenette once more. I’d have to wait again because even though he liked new technology, continually purchasing the latest trendy gadgets, he still hadn’t mastered pouring a drink while holding the phone. Well, I guess that was inspiring in its own way. It seemed to me that everyone was multi-tasking, especially behind the wheel of a car. I was always scared someone would crash into me while they were enjoying coffee and doughnuts and at the same time trying to follow the instructions of their GPS.

  The splendour of the early Paris morning had faded from my mind. I was back facing the beauty of the twinkling Boston skyline.

  I just couldn’t put this conversation off. I was sure that what I was about to tell Pierre would help him decide to move closer to me. It would be great to see him more often. Pierre was like family to me. And having a ‘relative’ close by would help me get over my occasional homesickness … wouldn’t it?

  I was so excited – this Elsa was fantastic! I had to tell Pierre right away, even if Jimmy had told me to wait until the morning, and to email Pierre before I talked to him. Men are different: they can wait, whereas we women can’t put things off for even a minute. Well, I certainly can’t.

  Jimmy was downstairs finishing cleaning the kitchen, and I was up here trying to convince Pierre to change his life.

  ‘Very revitalising, this eau miraculeuse,’ Pierre said, with satisfaction. Even his voice sounded refreshed. ‘All right, go ahead, I’m listening, my sweet friend. Did you say une nouvelle vie for me earlier?’

  ‘Yes. I organised a nice dinner tonight on the roof deck for the Fourth of July celebration. I invited Morgane and Jeff. Elsa, one of Jeff’s friends, came with them. We all watched the fireworks. It was awesome!’

  ‘Oh, I remember Morgane: plump as a ripe grapefruit, and a great cook!’ he exclaimed. ‘But, sadly, also kidnapped by another cowboy.’

  Ignoring his last remark, I told Pierre about Elsa. I’d basically spent my entire evening – besides playing hostess – noticing which dishes she liked the most, as I usually did with my guests. Their appreciation of my cooking was the reward for all my hard work.

  ‘And listen! Surprise! I’ve just sent you some of the shots I took tonight with my digital camera. So you can see pictures of Elsa right now!’

  ‘D’accord!’

  ‘The two of you seem to have the same hobbies, which I find quite surprising!’

  I then reminded him of what he liked to do – a lot, actually; he had many interests, besides running after women far too young for him. I finished each sentence with ‘Elsa, as well’.

  ‘Interesting. Is she single?’

  ‘She told me she isn’t dating anyone at the moment.’

  ‘You asked her?’

  ‘I had to, didn’t I? You can be such a noodle sometimes.’

  Pierre laughed.

  ‘How old?’

  ‘Thirty-something.’

  Pierre didn’t say anything for a few moments. Then: ‘So what did you cook?’

  The French are always so fascinated by le menu, aren’t they? And Pierre loved to eat, even if he didn’t know how to cook. He only sorted out his breakfast: he went to the bakery, bought a fresh baguette and a few buttery croissants, which he served with his mother’s home-made jam and farm-fresh butter, then he switched the espresso machine on. Most of the time he ate in restaurants or bought takeouts, unless his mother dropped by with food she’d made, each carefully labelled and lovingly stacked in his fridge for him.

  Here I was, trying to tell him that he might soon meet the woman he’d spend the rest of his life with, and all he wanted to know was what we’d eaten that evening.

  ‘Since it was the Fourth of July we had red and blue food. Jimmy wanted a patriotic table.’

  ‘Come on! I’m not swallowing that!’

  I ignored his remark. You’d have to live in America to understand that kind of patriotism.

  ‘We had a ceviche rouge.’

  ‘Which is …?’

  I explained.

  ‘Sounds appetising! A good tasty start.’

  I told him about the rest of the meal: grilled lobsters, and blue crabs, crimson salad, home-made blue potato chips, blue cheese with cranberry red onion confit, and a tarte rosette tricolore.

  ‘Mmm, the very names make my mouth water!’

  Pierre could stomach the thought of a gourmet meal at barely seven in the morning even after a night of excessive food and drink.

  ‘Hey, I’ve just got your email!’ he exclaimed. ‘I’m looking at your photos now. Yum, you still look very edible, Brune, you know! I love the peppery red little top you’re wearing. The icing on the cake …’

  I ignored these last remarks, as well I might.

  ‘What do you think of Elsa?’ I asked, genuinely curious.

  ‘She’s all right. Seems a little skinny, no?’

  ‘Well, she could do with putting on a few pounds. She’s much better in the flesh. You know how photos don’t always show you at your best.’

  A silence followed. I supposed that Pierre was still looking at the pictures.

  ‘C’est pas vrai!’ he exclaimed.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I didn’t know you’d become that patriotic: red and blue food – OK, but look at all the American flags. And you’re all wearing red, white and blue outfits!’

  On the Fourth of July Jimmy also liked to have cutlery and table linen in the colours of the American flag.

  ‘Everybody here does it …’

  Well, sort of. But I wouldn’t tell him that. It was true that Jimmy could be very American – as American as apple pie, he’d have said himself.

  ‘Anyway, my sweet friend, your red and blue dishes look truly delicious!’ Pierre repeated. ‘Better than what I ate last night.’ After another sip of his miracle water, he went on, ‘And I’m supposed to be in the country where we eat better than anywhere in the world.’

  Sure, after the Italians in Italy, or the Spanish in Spain, since everybody lives in the country with the best food! The Americans think the same thing about their food as well.

  After he’d told me about an insipid dinner in a bland restaurant to celebrate the departure of a colleague, I went back to my dinner party.

  ‘Anyway, Elsa not only likes to eat, but she is a specialist in fusion cuisine. A real star at what she does: la crème de la crème!’

  ‘Fusion cuisine?’

  ‘It’s a very fashionable concept here: a mixture of traditional and contemporary styles of cooking using ingredients and techniques from all over the world.’

  ‘Sounds a little too complicated for me.’

  ‘I enjoy it myself when my friends and I try to add an exotic twist to our traditional dishes. You see, I haven’t forgo
tten my old French recipes, but I like to experiment with new ingredients and flavours from other parts of the world. America has really taken fusion cuisine to its heart.’

  ‘Should I try a romantic petit déjeuner fusion myself? You could give me some tips.’

  ‘Don’t tell me that you brought a tomato home last night?’

  ‘No, I didn’t. What I mean by a romantic petit déjeuner fusion would be me sitting on my tiny balcony with dishes from the market that I’d buy to please you. We have Vietnamese and Middle Eastern stalls at the market now, you know. I would have my breakfast gazing at an empty chair across the table, wishing you were there.’

  OK, fine! Let’s get back to Elsa.

  ‘Elsa’s just moved to Manhattan, where she works for an international gourmet magazine, as a fusion cuisine consultant. Jeff told me that she’s an amazing cook herself. She seems to really know her onions. And her sumac.’

  ‘This is starting to become interesting.’

  ‘She thought a two-tone meal was a fantastic idea. She took some pictures and wants to write an article about tonight. Isn’t it great?’

  Pierre agreed.

  ‘Elsa has worked in restaurant kitchens since she was seventeen. Now, she’d rather give culinary advice and write reviews of restaurants she eats at. I don’t blame her. Eating in restaurants for a living – lucky her!’

  ‘Yes, it sounds good.’

  ‘She could probably take you along with her sometimes to try different places. It would be a great way for you to discover New York.’

  ‘Really? If so, what a delicious opportunity!’

  I could tell I’d piqued his interest if only for the sake of his stomach.

  ‘This Elsa may be of interest after all! Brune, I know what good taste you have. I trust you about Elsa if she impressed you that much. But does she only go to these trendy new fusion cuisine places? The dishes there must be a little bit scary and expensive, aren’t they?’

  I agreed and admitted that the prices were indeed high. Chefs were not afraid to create over-elaborate dishes to attract a fancy clientele prepared to pay the price. Some customers didn’t seem to care if they didn’t understand a word of the menu, as long as they were eating in a restaurant that was all the rage. And it worked. Not for us, though. Jimmy and I, and our friends, preferred to invite one another for dinner at home and try to cook something scrumptious, or else to eat in unpretentious, authentic diners or ethnic restaurants, rather than spending twenty-eight dollars on a plate of pasta with a fancy strawberry hot pepper sauce.