The Second-Worst Restaurant in France

by Alexander McCall Smith

She closed the door behind her. “There, that’s better.” The music, anyway, had abated slightly. They had heard his knocking, she said, and had assumed it was a complaint. “They’re not too bad,” she said. “Everyone except Keith is reasonable enough. He leads us astray, I suppose.”

  They took to the stairs. She walked ahead of him, and he found himself looking at her. She was tall, almost Paul’s own height; she had light sand-coloured hair; she was, he thought, in her early twenties. He had thought they would be younger.

  “I’m Alice,” she said as they reached the landing below.

  “Paul.”

  She waited for him to push his door open. “I didn’t think anybody lived here,” she said.

  “They don’t,” said Paul. “Or not really—I’m just using it during the day. It belongs to a cousin.”

  He found himself doing a quick calculation. She could be twenty-two or -three—in which case there were only a dozen or so years between them. He blushed at the thought; was this how it came to you—the growing awareness that youth was behind you? Did you know that once you started calculating, as he had just done?

  They entered the flat. From upstairs, the music could still be heard, even with the door closed behind them. Alice stopped and looked up at the ceiling. She turned to Paul, and he saw that she was visibly embarrassed.

  “It is loud, isn’t it?” she said. “I never thought.”

  He saw the look of apology, but he saw something else too. She was looking at him with interest. It was not very obvious, but it was there—the look that showed that this, for her, was not just a routine encounter with a neighbour, but was something more. For a moment he felt unnerved, but the feeling quickly passed. She was just the way people of her age group were: there was a frankness in their manner that could be disarming.

  She was looking across the hall and into the room where Paul had been trying to work. The table before the window was strewn with his books. He could see the piece of paper on which he had made his notes about the Pozharsky Cutlet.

  She turned to him. “Is that your book?” she asked, pointing to the table.

  “It’s part of it.”

  Her eyes shone. “What is it? Fiction? A novel?”

  He shook his head. “Food. I’m a food writer.”

  She smiled. Her cheeks were dimpled—not deeply, but it was noticeable. Her eyes, he saw, were hazel—at least in this light. It was a lovely face, he thought; pretty: innocent in a guileless way—which was the best way for innocence to express itself. It was not a face that went with the heavy metal music now being pumped out by the sound system upstairs.

  “That’s what I do,” Paul said. “I write books about food. But what about you?”

  She did not answer his question, asking instead, “What sort of food?”

  Paul pointed to his desk. “I was just saying something about Chicken Kiev. And something called a Pozharsky Cutlet.”

  She looked incredulous. “But how much can one say about Chicken Kiev, or the Poz…Poz…”

  “Pozharsky Cutlet. Actually, quite a lot—or so I was discovering.”

  “I’m impressed. I’ve never met anybody who’s written a book, I suppose.” She looked thoughtful. “Or a book that anybody might want to read—might actually go and buy. One of my tutors at uni wrote a couple of books, but nobody read them.”

  He asked her what she was studying.

  “Studied,” she replied. “I graduated two years ago.”

  He asked her what she had studied.

  She waved a hand in the air. “Oh, English literature.” The hand gesture was odd, but rather appealing. It suggested that English literature was something light and airy—the sort of thing one might toy with for a few years while doing many other important things. And prefacing English literature with an Oh underlined the implicit suggestion that English literature was not a subject about which one should get too concerned. You could achieve the same effect with other things too. Oh, physics put string theory in its place. Oh, civil engineering made it sound as if the strength of materials, the building of bridges and so on, was nothing much to be exercised about.

  “It must be very enjoyable,” said Paul. “Reading novels and poetry and…”

  She shrugged. “Yes, it was…sometimes. I did a course on the Victorian novel. I loved that. I couldn’t stand the early stuff. Sir Gawain and the Green Knight and so on. Ghastly. Not for me.”

  “I don’t blame you. I had to read Chaucer at school.”

  “Oh, Chaucer,” she said.

  He thought: That’s Chaucer dismissed.

  “I didn’t mind Chaucer too much. I read him a bit at high school.” She remembered something. “We weren’t allowed to read ‘The Miller’s Tale,’ of course. That was discouraged. Have you read it?”

  Paul shook his head.

  “Deemed unsuitable,” she said. “Sex.”

  “Oh, sex,” said Paul.

  She glanced at him.

  “Chicken Kiev,” she muttered.

  He looked at her quizzically. “What about it?”

  “Well, you’re the one who seems to know everything about Chicken Kiev. You’re writing a book about it, after all.”

  He laughed. “Not a whole book. There’s a section in which I—”

  She cut him short. She reached out and touched him lightly on the forearm. “Make it for me. Go on.”

  His surprise registered. She touched him again.

  “It was just an idea,” she said. “You could teach me how to make Chicken Kiev.”

  “Right now?”

  She glanced at her watch. “Well, it is lunchtime, isn’t it?”

  He looked at his desk. He needed to work, but what harm would there be in taking an hour or two off?

  “I suppose I could.” He paused. “Although, you know, it’s not something I usually make. Chicken Kiev has become something of a cliché.”

  Alice frowned. “Just because too many people like it? Isn’t that a bit snobbish?”

  He realised that it was. “Yes, I suppose it is. I didn’t mean it in that way. What I said…It’s just that there are some things that strike one as being rather too popular. We get bored with them.”

  She saw what he meant. “I suppose you’re right. Spaghetti bolognese—boring old spaghetti bolognese. That sort of thing.”

  The music up above suddenly became louder. They both looked up at the ceiling. She was embarrassed. “That’s Keith,” she said. “I’m going to speak to him.”

  She said something else that he did not catch. He looked at her and wondered if he was reading something into this encounter that simply was not there. His uneasiness returned.

  She repeated her question. “I said: How do you make Chicken Kiev? Is it complicated?”

  He shook his head. “We can go and get what we need from the deli.”

  She asked whether the deli sold chicken. They did, he said. There was a fresh meat section. “They have everything.”

  “Good.” She turned, and as she did so, she brushed against him. It was inadvertent, he thought, but then she turned again, and it happened once more.

  He put on his jacket.

  “I like that,” she said, admiring it.

  “Linen,” said Paul.

  “I love linen.”

  He reached for his keys. “So do I. Linen’s…”

  “Cool,” she said. “In every sense.”

  They made their way out of the flat and into the street below. He could not help but watch her, his eyes drawn to her. Then, round the corner, they went into Victor Hugo, the deli that Chloe had recommended. Inside, he pointed to a bowl of marinated olives. The olives were outsize and green—he thought they looked luscious. There was an invitation to sample them—a plate displayed a selection, neatly sliced, glowing with oil.

&
nbsp; He said, “Look at those.”

  She smiled, and pointed at the samples. “Let’s.”

  “Yes,” he said. “Let’s.”

  She picked one out with her thumb and forefinger and made to feed it to Paul. “Specially for you,” she said. “I’m Eve with her olive.”

  Her words hit him with an almost physical force. “You mean apple,” he stuttered.

  “Olive. This is the modern version.”

  Paul drew in his breath. Mindfulness. Then he thought: What’s happening here? He wanted to turn away, to free himself of this sudden advance, but he felt flustered. He should not have offered to make Chicken Kiev. Chicken Kiev was all wrong…

  He began to turn his head away, to reject the intrusive gesture, but she reached out with her free hand, gently pressing it against his cheek. “No. Here,” she said. “Eve’s olive.”

  Then Gloria walked in and picked up a baguette from a basket near the door. She looked up and saw Paul and Alice. She saw her touching his lips; she saw her hand against his cheek. She did not see the olive.

  She said nothing, but turning his head to escape from Alice, Paul spotted Gloria. He started to speak, opened his mouth to say something, but could think of no words. Gloria stared at him for a moment, and then looked away. She left.

  Paul muttered an excuse to Alice and began to pursue Gloria, who was walking away swiftly. He caught up with her, and grabbed at her blouse to stop her.

  She looked at him. Her expression showed her sorrow. “Let go,” she said. “Just let go.”

  “You won’t believe me,” he said, trying to stop her.

  “No,” she said, “I won’t.”

  “She’s one of the people from upstairs. The noisy ones. I was talking to her about Chicken Kiev and she said that…”

  Gloria shook her head. “Oh, Paul, come on…”

  “No, it wasn’t anything. It really wasn’t.”

  She was staring at him. “You were virtually kissing her.”

  He protested his innocence. “I wasn’t, Gloria. It wasn’t a kiss. She had an olive.”

  “An olive?”

  He nodded, but rather shamefacedly. It sounded unbelievable—as the truth often sounds. “She picked up an olive, you see, and was making a joke about Eve and her apple.”

  He realised immediately that he had made it sound infinitely worse.

  He attempted to correct himself. “I don’t think she was talking about temptation.” He paused. “It was an olive, not an apple.”

  And then he said, “Oh, Gloria, I’m so sorry. This really was nothing. I offered to make this girl Chicken Kiev. You know—Kiev’s in Ukraine—and Chicken Kiev…”

  Gloria was staring at him.

  “She saw me writing about it, you see, and…” He swallowed. “I’d just met her, you know, and she saw that I’d been writing about Chicken Kiev. In the flat. It was on the table. I was writing about Chicken Kiev at the table and then—”

  Gloria cut him short. “She was in the flat? She was?”

  He felt miserable. “I’m sorry. I really am. All I can say is that there was nothing between us. Nothing. On my side…”

  “And hers?”

  He looked down at the ground. “I don’t know. She’s a bit…”

  “A bit what?”

  He looked up. “I said I’m sorry—and I am.”

  For a few moments Gloria was silent. Then she said, “I don’t think it’s working all that well, Paul.”

  He frowned. “Us?”

  Gloria looked sad. “Yes, us. I’ve been thinking about it. I should have discussed it with you. Before this…this Chicken Kiev nonsense.”

  “But all that was true. There was Chicken Kiev—or would have been. I was going to buy some things here.”

  He could see that she was no longer listening.

  She had become calmer. “I think we need to take a break. Maybe for a while.”

  “No,” he said. “We shouldn’t. We could try. I’ll try. I’ll…”

  “I don’t think so.”

  He searched her face, but saw only resolve.

  “You really mean it, don’t you?”

  She said she did.

  “Do you think that we just…” Paul searched around for the right way of putting it. “Do you think that we just persuaded ourselves that it would work out? We were in Italy, after all, and that’s pretty romantic.”

  She was not sure. “Possibly.”

  “People often fall in love in places like Paris or Venice. It just seems the right thing to do.” He smiled. “And yet, friends and lovers are different. Perhaps you shouldn’t sleep with friends.”

  “No, perhaps not. And we never talked about it, did we? We didn’t discuss our relationship.”

  Was that a mistake? he wondered. The discussion of a relationship rarely fostered romance. Relationships just were. You could not generate lightning.

  He reached out to touch her. “Friends?”

  “Of course.” Then she added, “The cats will miss you.”

  He began to say, “And I’ll miss them,” but could not. He could not lie. So he said, “They’ll be pleased to get back home.”

  She nodded. “Cats are creatures of habit, you know. They like their familiar territory.”

  “Don’t we all?”

  She leaned forward and kissed him. The kiss, he realised, was the kiss of a friend, and not that of a lover; it was a distinction that could not be missed. But one that was oddly reassuring nonetheless.

  From the corner of his eye, he saw Alice emerge from the deli. She was looking in his direction. She hesitated, and then walked off.

  * * *

  —

  Chloe called round at Paul’s flat two days later. He told her about Gloria’s move back to her own flat.

  “We’re going back to how we were,” he said. “So that’s it. But it was by mutual agreement. We’re still friends.”

  “You poor boy,” she said. “You poor, poor darling.”

  “And I don’t think I’ll be using your flat after all,” Paul continued. “Not only have I got my own place back, but there was just too much noise upstairs.”

  “Did you speak to them?”

  “Yes,” he replied. “I did. They made a bit of an effort, but not much.”

  “Well, at least you have your own flat again, now that the cats are away.”

  “Yes.”

  She was studying him with a look that suggested she was planning something.

  “You know, I’m going to France,” she said. “I’m renting a house for a few months.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the spirit moves me. I feel the need for France. It’s a yearning, I suppose.” She paused. “You have your book to finish, don’t you?”

  “I do.”

  “And didn’t you go off to Italy to finish the last one?”

  Paul nodded.

  “Then come with me to France. As my guest.”

  He hesitated. He had to finish the book, but he still felt raw over Gloria’s move. He was missing her, and he had thought about trying to get back to where they had been. He had decided, though, that the time was not right. Perhaps in the future he would do something, but not now.

  “Do you mean it, Chloe?”

  She wagged an admonitory finger. “Of course I mean it. Absolutely.” She looked at him with mock reproach. “Don’t you always mean what you say?”

  “I try to,” said Paul.

  “So?” Chloe said. “France? It’s not all that far from Poitiers. A small village. The house looks all right from the photographs—rather nice, in fact. Easily big enough for the two of us—and visitors.”

  He thought of what the alternative would be. He did not want to be by himself. Chloe was entertaining; sh
e made things happen. And he longed for France too. Whenever he thought of France, he longed for it.

  He hesitated.

  Chloe smiled. “Well, think about it. And now, tell me, were you seeing somebody else?”

  “No,” said Paul. “But I suppose I was tempted…”

  Chloe made a gesture of resignation. “Who isn’t?”

  “Tempted?”

  “Yes. Temptation is a universal thing, Paul. It’s like gravity. It’s always there.”

  “But if you’re happily involved with somebody, should you feel tempted?”

  Chloe laughed. “Should you is a different question from do you. The real issue, of course, is whether you act on temptation. You can be faithful to somebody in the flesh and yet mentally…well, you may do all sorts of things. Especially if you’re a man.”

  Paul protested. “Why single out men?”

  Chloe’s reply was robust. “Because men are different, Paul. Men are by nature always ready to be tempted.”

  Paul grinned. “How would you know about that, Chloe—not being a man?”

  “These matters are universal. Men think we don’t know what they do, but we do. We know very well what men get up to—and what they think about.”

  He nodded. “Ah.” And then, “I was very fond of her.”

  “There has to be more to it than that, Paul,” she said.

  “I know.”

  “Poor boy.” Chloe sighed. “You need to have an affair, Paul. Have an affair that revitalises.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  This seemed to amuse Chloe. “If anybody says he doesn’t need an affair, then he needs to get away. He needs to go to France.” She paused, and looked at him conspiratorially before adding, “Have you ever looked at the French, Paul? I mean, really looked at them?”

  He did not answer. It was a strange, almost absurd question. Had he looked at the French?

  “There’s something about them,” Chloe continued. “They occupy space in a different way, for a start—they seem to belong.”

  Yes, thought Paul. They belonged.

  “And then their attitudes are chalk to our cheese,” Chloe continued. “They’re more passionate; they have more fun. They’re more intense—in an open, demonstrable way. Look at their body language.”