Freedom Fries and Cafe Creme

by Jocelyne Rapinac

  ‘Une Mauresque, s’il vous plaît.’

  The waiter went to get Matt’s Mauresque, a drink made of pastis and orgeat – anise liqueur mixed with almond syrup and water – that had become his chosen aperitif lately, to accompany the seemingly endless varieties of olives that he continued to discover.

  Matt considered it a victory when the French understood what he said, because his pronunciation was terrible. He was trying hard, but just couldn’t seem to master it. He began carefully studying the menu, which was beautifully handwritten. The list of dishes was hardly extensive – meaning that every item must be fresh.

  The menu declared that the magret de canard à la sauge miellée was the speciality at Chez Bastien.

  Matt had treated himself to a long lunch every Sunday since he’d been in Languedoc, making this his third. Back home, the whole family used to sit down together for a barbecue on Sundays. It was the only meal that they were all able to share, as during the rest of the week everyone was so busy.

  Suddenly a young woman came running into the restaurant. Matt, absorbed by his study of the menu and his pocket dictionary, and savouring his tapenade on toast, glanced up in time to see that she was quite beautiful.

  The chef of Chez Bastien, a man with a jovial round face and curly salt-and-pepper hair, began a round of the tables, describing the day’s specialities. Most of the customers evidently knew him well. Matt found the chef very friendly and he even understood everything his host said, though he spoke quickly and with a thick Midi accent.

  ‘I was thinking of the magret de canard à la sauge miellée for my main course.’

  The chef was visibly pleased. ‘You couldn’t make a better choice, Monsieur, one of my finest dishes. May I recommend my cuvée réservée, from the Coteaux du Languedoc – an excellent red wine from the region?’

  ‘Avec plaisir!’

  And the genial host proceeded to the next table, greeting the customers with his broad smile.

  What a happy man, who really seems passionate about his work, thought Matt. He had never seen his father nearly as satisfied with his job, even though he made lots of money.

  Matt appreciated chefs who took the time to speak to their customers about what they were cooking for them; he felt it created a real human connection. After all, he reasoned, restaurants should reflect the personality of the man or woman in the kitchen, and these chefs who worked so hard to produce authentic regional food truly deserved the recognition they received.

  Matt returned to his study of the menu.

  ‘Bonjour, Monsieur. Vous avez choisi?’ asked an enchanting voice.

  The waitress at Matt’s table was the young woman who’d run past a few minutes before. She looked into his eyes and gave him a welcoming smile.

  Matt was stunned. She was the most gorgeous woman he had ever seen! A natural beauty: wavy auburn hair, green almond-shaped eyes, a voluptuous body – from what he could see, at any rate. He gazed back at her, his mouth open as if he’d suddenly lost his wits.

  The waitress seemed to be accustomed to the effect she had on men and she paid no attention to Matt’s awe-struck expression. She repeated her question, and Matt detected her delightful accent du Midi.

  ‘Have you chosen, Monsieur?’

  Matt could only stammer a few words, so taken aback was he by the waitress’s beauty, and he wondered whether he’d drunk his Mauresque a bit too quickly, or if the heat was getting to him.

  ‘Please … er, give me … er, a few more minutes.’

  ‘I’ll come back. Take your time.’

  She went to another table.

  Looking back at the menu, Matt realised that the more he ordered, the longer he could stay and watch the waitress. She was now chatting with diners who seemed to know her, surely des habitués. They spoke to her in the familiar way that they had to the chef. Obviously the restaurant was a relaxed place where local people came to meet their family and friends in a convivial atmosphere and to enjoy the good food together.

  By the time the waitress came back Matt was ready to order. When he looked at her, the number two sprang into his mind; he wanted to order two of everything: two appetisers, two main courses, two desserts, two glasses of wine! Two seemed to have been burnt into his brain.

  Two, two, two … Never had he had the desire to be two like that with anyone before. He had a girlfriend back home, Courtney-Ann, from a good family, like his. She was waiting for him but suddenly he didn’t really care any more. There was also a girl from Denmark, Agnete, whom he’d met at his European cinema class the day after arriving in France. He’d seen her once in a while, but she was too much of a typical Scandinavian feminist for his taste, nearly as annoying as so many American girls he’d known.

  Matt, who considered himself something of a ladies’ man, wondered if he’d change for ever after meeting this beautiful waitress from Chez Bastien. Perhaps she’d win his heart for good. Maybe le coup de foudre wasn’t just a myth after all.

  He lingered over his meal; he wanted to feast his eyes on the waitress for as long as he could. And what a meal it was, certainly one to be enjoyed at a leisurely pace. Every mouthful was a sensation, especially the magret de canard à la sauge miellée! And the full-bodied red wine tasted very pleasantly of blackcurrant.

  Once again, Matt felt he was in heaven. And he savoured this glimpse of paradise even while knowing it wouldn’t last, since he’d have to go back to Montpellier later that day, and, eventually, back to his real life in Los Angeles.

  It took such a long time to enjoy his two appetisers, his two main courses, and his two desserts that, by the time he’d nearly finished, only he and one other couple remained at Chez Bastien. It was almost three o’clock.

  The waitress approached his table.

  ‘Excusez-moi, Monsieur. I have to leave, but the other waiter will take care of you. Au revoir, Monsieur. I hope you enjoyed your meal. And we hope to see you again!’

  ‘Au revoir, Mademoiselle. Et peut-être à bientôt!’ Matt managed to reply.

  As the waitress was about to leave, Matt saw the chef, with his friendly round face, calling to her to bring back some fresh bread later on. He could hear that her name was … what? Paprika? What a curious name, unless he’d misunderstood …

  Paprika left in the same carefree rush as she’d arrived. But she didn’t realise that she was leaving behind a devastated Matt, who was afraid that he would never see her again. His second dessert, yaourt glacé à l’olive et au miel, seemed to have lost much of its flavour now that she’d gone.

  As she cycled to her sister’s house not far from the village, Paprika remembered how funny the young man sitting at the small table had been. He was rather charming, in a way. English, American? His accent was quite terrible. Thinking of him, she laughed out loud.

  Another week had gone by at the university. Matt had not stopped thinking about Paprika for a moment. He’d decided to have Sunday lunch at Chez Bastien again. He’d even told Agnete that he didn’t think they should see each other any more. She hadn’t seemed to be bothered. He’d also thought about writing a letter back home to Courtney-Ann, ending their relationship.

  Matt got in his 2CV and drove to the village. He felt like a knight ready to sally forth and win his lady. At Chez Bastien Paprika seemed pleased to see him and he was encouraged by her warm greeting.

  ‘Ah, bonjour, Monsieur. Vous revoilà! I remember you,’ she said with a big smile. ‘You’re the one who ate so much last week.’

  He is quite attractive, she thought.

  Matt reddened at the memory of all the food he’d eaten. Paprika, thinking that her remark might have embarrassed him, tried to make up for it.

  ‘It shows how much you appreciate my father’s cooking. You seem to be a connoisseur of good food and wine. Where are you from?’

  ‘I’m American, from California.’

  Paprika didn’t appear impressed, unlike some European girls he’d met. She didn’t say anything right away. She seemed t
o be momentarily lost in thought.

  Actually, when she heard Matt was from California, she understood why he ate so much, since Americans tended to complain about how small the portions were in French restaurants. And her father was careful about not serving too much food, but just enough for French palates. That probably explained why this young man had ordered two of each course.

  ‘Would you like an aperitif?’ she asked suddenly. ‘On the house,’ she added, smiling.

  ‘In that case, a Mauresque, s’il vous plaît!’

  ‘Tout de suite.’

  But today, even if Matt wanted to eke out his lunch over several hours, he resolved to choose only one appetiser, one main course and one dessert from the menu, with one or two glasses of the wine he’d had last week from the Coteaux du Languedoc. He really had eaten too much last Sunday and he’d felt a bit sick afterwards.

  He hoped that Paprika wouldn’t leave before he’d finished his meal, as she had last week.

  But by the time Matt was finally having coffee, she was still there, busy with the other tables.

  He decided to offer her a drink. She accepted, asking the other waiter to cover for her for a few minutes. She sat down across from Matt so naturally, without any fuss, which really impressed him. ‘Pas de chichi,’ Madame Cabanel would have said.

  The beautiful waitress suggested that he taste the Muscat de Frontignan.

  Matt loved this naturally sweet wine, with its rich gold colour, served chilled.

  The two of them sat languorously under the shady trees that surrounded the restaurant tables, facing each other in perfect symmetry, chatting good-humouredly, she about her beloved village, he about California and America. They were both genuinely interested in each other’s lives, especially Matt, who was enchanted by this gentle, civilised world and wanted to know more about Paprika and her life.

  ‘I heard your father call you Paprika. I’ve never heard a name like that before.’

  ‘Well, that’s my name, all right, and there’s a little story behind it. My mother is from Hungary. You may know that the best paprika comes from there. My father wanted to call me Patricia and my mother wanted to give me a Hungarian name. My grandmother said: “Call her Paprika, then.” Of course, the name was not accepted at the town hall. My real first name is Patricia, but everyone calls me Paprika. And I’m lucky that my hair is naturally auburn, just like the spice,’ she added, laughing.

  ‘I like your name. It suits you,’ Matt said. ‘Your mother’s origins also explain the goulash à la languedocienne on the menu. I’ll have to taste it next week.’

  When Matt left, he was feeling especially happy because Paprika had asked him to come to the fête du village, which started the following Friday night.

  He vowed to be there for sure.

  While driving back to Montpellier in his 2CV, he began dreaming. How proud his family would be if he brought a gorgeous Frenchwoman like Paprika back home with him!

  A few weeks passed and Matt had become a real habitué of Chez Bastien. More than that, he was dating the most beautiful girl in the village.

  Daddy Bastien – which was what Matt called Paprika’s father – had opened his kitchen to ‘l’Américaing’, as he called Matt. Matt was eager to learn how to combine the different magical ingredients used in this cuisine du soleil. It was all new to him, as he had been banned from the kitchen at home where most of the time his mother would simply reheat takeaway food, and neither of his parents would allow their children to help at the sacred Sunday barbecue.

  Matt had been introduced to Mara, Paprika’s mother, whom he found very entertaining, with her flamboyant personality and the charm of her strong Hungarian accent. She made him feel better about his own French pronunciation. Mara didn’t work at the restaurant but ran a small beauty salon in a town nearby, though she came to Chez Bastien once in a while, each time sporting a new hairstyle or colour.

  Paprika also had a sister, who lived on a farm three miles from the village. She was happily married and had three fun children. She and her husband grew olive trees, produced their own olive oil, and made the most exquisite goat’s cheese wrapped in olive leaves – the best Matt had ever tasted.

  Matt hadn’t known that family life could be as happy as Paprika’s, where they all really loved and respected one another; apart, that is, from on American TV shows like Little House on the Prairie or The Brady Bunch, which his kid sister used to be addicted to.

  Was it because of the calm, healthy environment the Bastiens lived in? They seemed to be so far away from the craziness of the wider world, where you needed to prove every day that you were better than everyone else.

  These people were not wealthy in the American middle-class sense that Matt understood as well-off, but they seemed to live so peacefully, to appreciate what they had, to spend time together, and they did so in harmony with the rhythm and ritual of the seasons. In their lives they knew what really mattered, Matt thought.

  Matt’s idyllic sojourn in the sun of Languedoc was due to end in a few weeks. Soon he’d have to go back home to his world, where a fast-paced, competitive working environment awaited him. This was what he knew best, and what motivated him. Neither he nor Paprika had ever talked about the day when Matt would have to return to California, as if, by not mentioning it, their time together might last for ever.

  Eventually, though, Matt knew that he must speak to Paprika about leaving.

  He took her to a nice restaurant in the town where Mara had her beauty salon.

  They sat at a table and read the menu in silence, both wondering who would be the first to mention his departure.

  ‘Well, Paprika, I think we need to talk,’ said Matt in a cheerful tone, because he had an idea that had occurred to him only the second time he’d seen her – that she could come with him. He had even spoken to his family about it. They couldn’t wait to meet her – ‘She seems so wonderful!’ – and they’d found her very attractive in the picture Matt had sent them. They’d never really liked Courtney-Ann anyhow. She talked too much.

  Matt and his parents had everything settled: an ideal future. Paprika could live with them in Los Angeles, so long as Matt came home for good. She would be able to go back to France to visit her family whenever she wanted, and her family would be able to come and visit them in California. Matt would be the happiest man in the world. He loved his dad’s business and knew that one day he would become company president. Everything had been carefully planned.

  Paprika guessed what Matt wanted to say. She was aware that he had to leave in two weeks, and this upset her because she loved him very much.

  ‘You know that I’m leaving in a couple of weeks?’ said Matt.

  ‘Um … um …’ Paprika answered evasively, her eyes on the menu.

  ‘Well, since I really want us to be together, I was wondering if you would like to come with me to California. The beaches near LA are spectacular! Everyone there will love you and my family will be thrilled to meet you.’ He said all this quickly, but with a good deal of confidence.

  ‘Um … um …’ repeated Paprika.

  ‘Do you understand me? I’m inviting you to come and share my life in California!’

  ‘Of course I understand you. But why don’t you stay here? Why should I be the one to follow you?’

  Matt had not expected this reaction at all. Paprika knew that he had to go back home and start working for a living. He couldn’t disappoint his parents.

  ‘Don’t you like it here?’ she asked, her eyes sad.

  ‘Of course, I love it here. But we’ve both always known that I was only going to be here for a little while.’

  ‘I had hoped that you might want to stay.’

  Matt didn’t answer. He was somewhat stunned by the direction the conversation had taken.

  ‘Everything seems to be so calculated in your life,’ said Paprika, still sad but very calm.

  ‘Come on, Paprika, you know that I’ve got a big career waiting for me over there.’
Matt wanted to persuade her. ‘That’s the deal I made with my parents that enabled me to come to Languedoc in the first place.’

  ‘Sure, I know. But what about my career?’ she asked.

  ‘What career?’

  As soon as these words were out of his mouth, he regretted them.

  ‘I know that I’m only a waitress …’

  ‘That’s not what I meant. You’re not only a great waitress, you make the place work. But you could get a job at any restaurant you wanted to in LA.’

  ‘And your wealthy friends would make fun of you because you were dating a waitress.’

  Matt hadn’t thought of this, and it was true that the way he’d presented Paprika to his parents might possibly have been a little exaggerated. They might well think that she was the manager of an exclusive luxury restaurant. That was pretty much what she was, of course, but on a far smaller scale than the ones his family were used to.

  ‘My father will help you get your own restaurant.’

  ‘Oh, right! Of course, here is a typical new chapter of the insatiable American dream! Matt, give me a break, will you?’ She rolled her eyes.

  ‘You could call it Chez Bastien.’

  ‘Stop it!’

  He was beginning to get desperate. ‘Actually, you won’t even need to work.’

  Matt didn’t know what else he could say to persuade Paprika to come with him.

  ‘And of course, Matt, you don’t know how to do anything besides manage your father’s business.’

  ‘That’s basically true,’ admitted Matt. He’d worked there on and off since he was sixteen. His dad’s company was his real world, the one he knew best.

  ‘What kind of work could I do here then?’ he asked her.

  ‘Work with Daddy Bastien in the kitchen.’

  He’d enjoy that, and he’d also fallen in love with Languedoc and Paprika’s world, but he’d never even considered staying here. His father was counting on him to work for the company. Again, he tried to explain.