Freedom Fries and Cafe Creme

by Jocelyne Rapinac

  ‘Listen, Pierre, Elsa doesn’t know anyone in New York, and it would be great for the two of you to meet, if only as friends. She really could take you to some amazing places.’

  ‘What a job, when you think of it,’ we said in unison, picturing ourselves working hard sampling the best restaurants in the city.

  Then Pierre had another thought. ‘But a woman like that – smart, with a good career, who knows how to cook well when most women today don’t want to cook at all any more – she sounds too good to be true, and a bit intimidating.’

  ‘She’s certainly very different from the twenty-something tomatoes that you’re accustomed to. Whoops! Sorry, that just slipped out!’

  ‘Sure, I believe you, apple of my eye.’

  ‘Elsa happens to be the only person I know so far who lives in Manhattan. I’d like you to meet her. I know I’ve sprung this on you, but she’s made such a good impression. You’ll have to decide about your job quite soon, won’t you?’

  ‘By the end of this week, I think.’

  ‘I told her that you might be moving to New York. She seemed interested, especially after I showed her a picture of you.’

  Every woman who met Pierre or saw his photo thought he was a real dish.

  ‘Brune, you always speed ahead with everything. Your brain is working overtime.’

  And Pierre’s needed to work a bit harder! It wasn’t his fault. He’d always had someone to spoon-feed him. But I kept that thought to myself.

  ‘It would be good for you to move away from Paris for a while. It could boost your career, and …’

  … and your love life would be more fulfilling if you stopped spending time in clubs that are more like meat markets.

  I kept that to myself, too.

  ‘… And this is not pie in the sky. You can make it if you decide to.’

  ‘If this Elsa is that nice and still single, what’s wrong with her?’

  ‘Look at yourself.’

  And at all the wonderful people I knew who said they couldn’t meet anyone. Was it because they were all too fussy or was it the craziness of our modern world that made it so difficult to form lasting relationships?

  I explained to Pierre that even if he left his beloved Paris the decision wouldn’t be irreversible – he could still go back whenever he wanted. His job allowed him to be flexible and to move around. He didn’t realise how lucky he was sometimes.

  ‘I don’t know, I just don’t know …’

  ‘I’m not asking you to give me an answer now, but chew it over for a bit.’

  Well, I’d said what I had to say. Pierre needed to be left alone now to consider the situation. After all, if he didn’t want to change his life – and in my opinion he should, since he was wasting it completely – there was nothing I could do about it. He’d always be one of my very special friends.

  ‘OK, Brune, thanks a million. You are such a sweetheart! I promise that I’ll think about everything you’ve said – and very seriously.’

  ‘Whatever your decision is, Pierre, I wish you the best.’

  ‘Thanks, my angel cake.’

  After a pause, he asked, ‘What’s the name of the gourmet magazine Elsa works for? Maybe I’ll find it at the international newsstand today.’

  I told him the title.

  ‘I can’t go back to bed. This conversation’s made me hungry, actually. I’ll go down to the market when it opens in half an hour and bring back a little petit déjeuner fusion to eat up here …’

  Looking at the empty chair where I should be sitting? I hoped he wouldn’t put his laptop on the table with my picture on the screen.

  ‘… reading Elsa’s gourmet magazine, if I’m lucky enough to find it.’

  I liked that better!

  ‘But, of course, with your picture looking back at me from my computer, my breakfast will be even more delicious.’

  All right.

  After saying ‘Au revoir, honey-bun’ and ‘Au revoir, sweetie-pie’, we hung up. I had a positive feeling about what Pierre was going to say to his boss by the end of the week.

  Could it be that, because I’d met Elsa, Pierre’s life was going to change? Would it change my life as well? Would our relationship lose its flirtatious double entendres if he became involved with Elsa?

  Back downstairs, I walked into the bathroom. I looked at myself in the big mirror above the basin – face to face with the Real Me. I could see a strange light in my eyes. The thought that had pleased me when I’d hung up was starting to scare me a little. What had I done? Had I been too impulsive? Once again, I was trying to set Pierre up with a woman.

  In the eerie light of the bathroom I was beset with other questions: was it really because of Elsa that I wanted Pierre to move to New York, or did I want him closer to me? What was Pierre thinking about right now looking out over the Parisian roofs flooded with morning light? Did he also see this as an opportunity to be closer to me or was he genuinely interested in meeting Elsa?

  I was suddenly very tired and confused. What a dog’s breakfast this might turn out to be! Had I done the right thing? Oh, well, no point crying over spilt milk now.

  I went to bed. Jimmy was sleeping peacefully next to me, as always. Life was so straightforward for him. How I envied him sometimes!

  After half an hour of tossing and turning like a Caesar salad, I still couldn’t sleep. I got up, went to the kitchen and poured myself a small glass of Chambord liqueur, plus another glass of cranberry juice and took up to the roof deck a little something to eat. There was a cool wind now, which was invigorating; I wanted to feel the taste of the night as much as I could while I slowly ate a piece of shellfish left over from the party.

  I put my cell phone down on the other chair. Pierre’s photo appeared on the tiny screen. I was looking at the sky in the direction of Europe. I wanted to call him back, but decided not to after all. Instead my imagination was building a long, tall bridge over the ocean with piles of delicious food on each side. A few huge faces were floating around the elongated bridge: Elsa with her pretty smile, eating a lot to gain some weight, Pierre and me with confused expressions, looking at each other … Suddenly I realised that I really was in the soup!

  Brune’s Tricoloured Recipes for a Very Special Fourth of July

  Red Ceviche

  Brune’s piquant red salad is a feast for the eyes as well as the palate. Use very fresh fish.

  Serves 4–6.

  100g each raw skinless tuna and salmon fillet, cut into 2cm cubes

  8 scallops, with coral if possible, cut into 2cm cubes

  juice of 3 limes and 1 lemon

  16 cooked, peeled prawns

  ½ 400g tin red kidney beans, rinsed and drained

  1 blood orange or red grapefruit, pared and segmented, the segments cut into small pieces

  1 small red onion, finely chopped

  2 tbsp fresh pomegranate seeds

  For the dressing:

  juice of 1 lemon

  2 tbsp extra-virgin olive oil

  1 garlic clove, crushed

  pinch of salt

  1 tsp chopped fresh red basil

  To serve:

  16–20 radicchio leaves

  whole red basil leaves and pink peppercorns

  1. In a non-metallic bowl, gently combine all the seafood except the prawns. Pour over the juice of the limes and lemon. Cover with cling film and chill in the fridge for 4–6 hours. Add the prawns half an hour before serving.

  2. When the seafood has rested, drain off the juice. Fold in the red kidney beans, blood orange or grapefruit segments, red onion and pomegranate seeds.

  3. In a small bowl, whisk together the lemon juice, olive oil, crushed garlic, salt and chopped red basil. Pour the dressing over the fish salad. Divide the radicchio between four deep plates and arrange the ceviche on top. Garnish with red basil leaves and pink peppercorns.

  Red and Blue Salad

  This beautiful Italian-American potato salad serves 6.

  For the sal
ad:

  800g blue salad potatoes, such as Salad Blue or Shetland Black, or ordinary salad potatoes

  2 small red onions, finely chopped

  ½ cup (100g) crumbled blue cheese (any kind)

  ½ cup (80g) dried cranberries

  6–8 slices Parma or Serrano ham, cut into fine strips

  12 slices Italian salami, cut into fine strips

  ½ tsp paprika, to serve

  For the dressing:

  ¾ cup (175ml) mayonnaise

  2 tbsp Dijon mustard

  ½ tsp sundried tomato paste

  2 tbsp red wine vinegar

  2 tbsp oil

  1. Boil the potatoes in their skins in salted water for 20 mins, or until tender. Allow to cool, then peel and cut them into 1 in (2.5cm) cubes. Place in a large salad bowl with all the other salad ingredients, except the paprika.

  2. Make the dressing by shaking all the ingredients together in a jar with 2 tbsp water. Pour over the salad and toss carefully. Refrigerate for 1 hour. Sprinkle with the paprika before serving.

  Cranberry and Red Onion Confit

  This relish makes a delicious accompaniment to blue cheese.

  2 tbsp vegetable oil

  2 red onions and 2 white onions, chopped

  1 cup (160g) fresh or dried cranberries

  2 eating apples, grated or finely chopped

  ½ cup (100g) sugar (caster or soft brown)

  1 cup (250ml) red wine

  2 tbsp red wine or cider vinegar

  2 cloves

  ½ tsp cinnamon

  sea salt and ground black pepper

  Heat the oil in a large saucepan, add the onions and cook over a low heat, covered, for 15–20 mins, until softened but not browned. Gently stir in all the rest of the ingredients and bring to the boil. Cover and simmer gently for about an hour, stirring occasionally, until thick and jammy. Leave to cool and transfer to an airtight box. The confit keeps well in the fridge for 2–3 weeks and is best left to mellow for 24 hours before serving.

  Tarte Rosette Tricolore

  Brune’s white chocolate and berry tart, as pretty as it is delicious.

  For the base:

  150g shortbread biscuits

  100g dark chocolate (min 70 per cent cocoa), broken into pieces

  30g butter

  ½ cup (60g) ground almonds

  For the filling:

  350g white chocolate, finely chopped

  1 cup (250ml) full-fat crème fraîche

  100g each blueberries and raspberries

  250g small strawberries

  1. Place the shortbread biscuits in a plastic bag and crush with a rolling pin (or blitz in a food processor) to make fine crumbs. Pour into a large bowl.

  2. Gently melt the dark chocolate with the butter in a bowl over a pan of simmering water. Pour the chocolate butter on to the biscuit crumbs. Add the ground almonds and mix well. Spread the crumbs over the base and sides of a shallow 9½in (24cm) pie dish, pressing evenly to form the tart base. Refrigerate for 30 mins until firm.

  3. In a small saucepan, gently heat the white chocolate with the crème fraîche, stirring until smooth and well blended. Spread over the cooled crust. Leave to rest at room temperature until the filling begins to set. Decorate with decreasing circles of the fruits to form a rosette pattern. Refrigerate the tart for at least 6 hours before serving.

  August

  The American Dream

  ‘Kissing don’t last: cookery do!’

  George Meredith, 1828–1909, English novelist and poet

  Matt was spending a few months in Montpellier, in the beautiful Languedoc region of southern France. He’d always dreamt of going abroad after his graduation. The deal was that his parents would pay all his expenses, so long as Matt came back afterwards to work at his father’s company, near Los Angeles. There he would settle down to a comfortable life exactly like his parents had.

  Matt had chosen Montpellier because Madame Cabanel, who’d taught him French at college, came from the city. He had so much admiration for this attractive, witty woman. She’d told him that to become a citizen of the world, you should live in at least one foreign country for a few months, an experience that would shape, define and strengthen even the dullest personality. She’d also passed on to Matt a real passion for France. If there was one country he simply had to discover before he started his career back home, it was France.

  Matt was eager to visit all the places Madame Cabanel had mentioned in her classes. During the week, he stayed in Montpellier and studied international business and European cinema. Then every weekend he drove his Citroën 2CV along the country roads to acquaint himself with this picturesque region. He wanted to discover places off the beaten track – ‘la France profonde’, as he’d learnt to call it. He’d chosen to drive a 2CV in imitation of Madame Cabanel. She’d even had her little Citroën shipped over to California, a purple one. Matt’s was anthracite grey, and he too was thinking about having it shipped home when he returned. His family and friends would probably make fun of him, since they all drove big, gas-guzzling American cars, but he didn’t care. Actually, he thought, he’d probably buy a basic, reliable car to take him to and from work and keep the 2CV just for his own amusement.

  He had a list of restaurants that Madame Cabanel had recommended. She’d also written a few comments about each place. That Sunday Matt decided to lunch at Chez Bastien, which she’d maintained was one of the most authentic in the region.

  He enjoyed driving on the narrow roads, listening to an interesting French singer he’d just discovered, Benjamin Biolay. Although Matt didn’t understand all the lyrics, he liked the music and the sounds of the words. He knew that the song he was listening to was about le Rêve Américain and his home town of Los Angeles, and this added an extra dimension to his enjoyment of the music.

  The village that was home to the restaurant was lovely, with a jumble of old stone houses with faded terracotta roofs. In contrast, Chez Bastien, with its yellow façade and bright-blue shutters, stood conspicuously at the edge of the town’s only square.

  Matt parked his grey 2CV in front of a big house. Crimson geraniums bloomed at every window. He got out and started walking slowly towards Chez Bastien, taking his time to look around and enjoy the sweet, dusty aroma of the village. He crossed the square. A simple ancient fountain decorated with baskets of geraniums added some freshness to the hot air, and there was welcome shade from a stand of plane trees. The inevitable group of old men, a few sporting berets, most of them with cigarettes in the corners of their mouths – the sort of men you would find in any European village, generally sitting on a bench in the shade of the trees – were watching with interest as another group played a game of pétanque on one side of the square. A few farmers were selling their produce from stands set up under the trees: goat’s cheese, honey, dried sausages, olives and olive oil, hand-made soaps …

  Matt bought some olives, for which he’d acquired a real passion. He found the olives in this part of the world – soaked in their own oils, along with lemon juice, garlic and herbes de Provence – a luscious delight, much tastier than the ones back home.

  He felt as if he’d discovered a little piece of heaven in this French village. His eyes were captivated by its beauty, his senses taking in the enticing smells of the food and the sun-warmed air. He had a feeling of being utterly alive such as he’d never experienced before. Madame Cabanel had been right: this place was very special. A good meal would add the final touch to this visit to paradise.

  Matt approached the restaurant full of eager anticipation. He entered the elaborate wrought-iron gate over which a carved wooden sign announced brightly: ‘Chez Bastien’. On the restaurant’s terrace were four or five circular tables awaiting customers, set with blue and white gingham tablecloths and small vases of fresh lavender and yellow roses. Mauve wisteria and crimson roses climbed up a wooden fence and spread to the yellow stone wall of the restaurant.

  There were enough trees to shade most of
the tables from the harsh August sun.

  On the other part of the terrace stood a few bistro guéridon tables, where some people who appeared to be regulars were having their aperitifs, chatting merrily while sipping glasses of muscat wine from the region or chilled cloudy-white pastis, the quintessential drink of the Midi, munching olives and squares of toasted bread thickly spread with home-made olive tapenade.

  Matt looked at his watch: eleven fifty. It was too early for Sunday lunch. He certainly would not be served before noon. He decided to explore the village for a while longer, even though it was becoming quite hot, although the dry heat was bearable and a pleasant little breeze rustled the leaves of the plane trees.

  He walked back past the old villagers sitting on their bench. ‘Encore un étranger certainement,’ he imagined them saying to themselves. Their intense study of him made him feel even more conspicuous.

  Matt didn’t look French, in spite of doing his utmost to play the part of a young Frenchman, with his Lacoste polo shirt and 2CV. At least, these were some of the things that he believed to be essential if one wanted to pass for French.

  A bit past noon, and after an enjoyable walk through the streets of the village, Matt returned to Chez Bastien and sat down at one of the small tables on the terrace. He bent his head to the tiny vase to smell the subtle perfume of the lavender and yellow roses.

  ‘Bonjour, Monsieur, vous prendrez un apéritif?’ asked a thin young man who had appeared from inside the restaurant. He was polite; not friendly, just professional.