Bon Appetit (2 page)

Mais oui!

I arrived at Luc’s maman’s house and pushed open the black wrought-iron gate. Their big stone house was threaded with ivy, and the wooden shutters were flung open, letting in the mid-July sun. As I walked by, I squinted at the windows, unable to see in through the lace curtains. That’s how the French were. Beautiful, stylish, but with a veil of privacy between you and the outside world. Intimacy reserved. Since arriving a few days ago, I had not been invited into my host’s house. I was starting to fear that what I’d heard was true: I’d never be invited anywhere personal while here.

Come on, Lexi. It’s only been a few days
.

I walked along the cobbled stone path that led to the cottage tucked behind the house. In the old days, it had housed the bread ovens. Luc’s family had transformed it into a perfectly
petite
cottage for his sister. Now it was my home.

I opened the door and walked in. The front room was a tiny kitchen, complete with all appliances, and an eating area with a wooden table for two, painted mustard yellow. Beyond that was the smallest living room I’d ever seen. A fairy room, really, perfectly proportioned, with two soft needlepoint chairs and footstools. I pushed open the windows and inhaled the pepper and spice of the red geraniums spilling over the window box.

I opened my laptop and logged into my e-mail. One new one from my mom, which made me laugh. She was getting ready to visit Italy and said she’d wave when she flew over France. That was it for new e-mail.

My finger hovered for a moment, indecisive. Then I clicked on an older e-mail I’d read several times already.

Yours, Dan
. But the tone was much cooler than the heat we’d felt when saying good-bye in person.

I resaved the e-mail, pushed back the unwelcome emotions it aroused, and shut down the computer. Then I went into my bedroom and kicked off my shoes. I lay on my bed and fell into the deep sleep of the recovering jet-lagged.

When the phone rang hours later, darkness had swallowed the house.

“Hello?” I said, fumbling for the phone and trying to get my bearings.

“Hi, Lex”. It was Tanya, my best friend from home.

“Oh. Hi”.

“Wow, I’m overwhelmed by the enthusiasm of that greeting,” she said.

I laughed. “Just waking up”. A slow warmth spread through me. It
was
good to hear from Tanya, but I’d hoped it would be someone else.

I took the phone with me as I went to close the windows, looking jealously at the twinkling lights in the “great house” where Luc’s
maman
and
papa
lived. Chattering voices floated out of their windows despite the hour.

“Ready for work tomorrow?” Tanya asked.

“Yes,” I said. “Busy day, I think. It’s the Fourteenth of July, Bastille Day. A French national holiday, like July Fourth”.

“Trial by fire”.

I agreed. “Lots of dishes to wash, I’m sure”.

“When do you start school?”

“Not till the beginning of September,” I said. “That’ll give me
plenty of time to make friends at the bakeries or in the village and figure out what I’m doing. I hope to make a couple friends to explore Paris with, and scope out what the future job market looks like”.

“It’s really nice that they’re paying for you to go to school while you’re working there,” Tanya said. “They’ll probably want you to stay on”.

“Yeah”. I hoped! “That’s how I know they feel like I have a future here. Otherwise, they wouldn’t be investing in me—the tuition and boarding costs”.

“Any word from Dan?” Tanya asked, her voice quiet.

“He e-mailed right after I left, and I e-mailed back. He’s busy working on a case. His law firm has really cranked things up. And their softball season is in full swing”.
I thought maybe you were him when you called
.

“You guys decided there was no commitment, right? Since you were leaving and didn’t know when—or if—you’d be back?”

“Yep. It was actually my idea. I wanted it to be open-ended since I didn’t know what the future held”. At least, that’s what I said I wanted.

“So it’s okay as it is,” she said softly. “I’d better go. Steve is taking me to the lake. We’re jet-skiing with some other couples and want to scout the place out and swim a little first”.

“Oh,” I said. “Right”. We said our good-byes and hung up. I sighed and nibbled on a sandwich made from a crusty baguette of the most magnificent bread I’d ever tasted and some stinky cheese.

Then I laid out my uniform for the next day and set the alarm for three o’clock in the morning. It was really quiet, but I just lay there, wishing I could sleep.

When I did sleep, I dreamed Dan was jet-skiing with another woman, and Tanya and Steve knew and didn’t tell me.

A few hours later, I could barely force my eyes open. The jet lag should have been gone by now, but maybe a shower would help. I reached for my clock and glanced at the digital display.

Adrenaline shot through my veins. 4:55 a.m.!

What happened to my alarm? I had to be at the bakery in the center of the village by five o’clock in the morning. I knew the bakers would already be there. I pulled my uniform on, brushed my teeth as fast as I could, put my hair in a French twist, and ran out the door. I wanted to make a good impression right away. I wanted to be a benefit to the family and to my colleagues.

The birds whistled, but I couldn’t stop to listen. Dawn had broken, but I couldn’t pause to look at the sun as it poured onto the village like a runny yolk. Instead I thanked God I had scoped out how to get to the bakery and ran up the street to the village square.

When I walked into the bakery, Luc’s mother was there, shouting orders to the bakers in the back and a fawning young woman in the front.

“Ah Lexi,” she said, throwing an apron at me. “In this bakery, we arrive on time, all the time”. She looked at her watch. I was fourteen minutes late. “Today is a holiday, as I am sure you know. We will be very busy. You help in the front; Odette will show you what to do”.

I introduced myself to Odette, who moments before had been sweetness and light to everyone else, but who responded to me with deafening silence.

“What can I do?” I said, putting on my best American cheerfulness.

“That is indeed the question, isn’t it?” Odette said, the smile she’d given Luc’s mother evaporating. Clearly I wasn’t important enough for politeness. It occurred to me that the name “Odette” and the word
odious
were closely related.

Patrons came in and bought their daily bread. Odette jovially greeted each one by name, and I simply smiled and said,
“Bonjour”.
They looked at me uncertainly.

I handed over breakfast breads and boxed-up pastries, my stomach growling with each warm chocolate croissant I surrendered. Odette ran the cash register.

The customers petered to a trickle, and Madame came to get me. “Odette can handle it now,” she said. “You’re here to help me”.

I followed her into the back of the bakery, where several men were prepping bread. It was smaller than L’Esperance, where I’d worked in Seattle. Madame and her brother, Marcel, had inherited the family business from their father. Marcel usually worked at the bakery in Provence, several hours to the south. His son, Philippe, managed the bakery in Rambouillet, not far away.

“Clean this up, please,” Madame said. Bowls lay everywhere, mixers dripped with chocolate
ganache
, and a huge pile of cookie sheets, stacked like a deck of cards, needed scrubbing.

I nodded cheerfully. Luc had warned me I’d be the low girl on the totem pole.

As I stood in the washing room, cleaning and hanging the utensils, I watched Madame work. She slung dough and barked orders in salty French. The bakers ducked away from her and kept a low, respectful tone when talking to her. I grinned.

“Something is amusing?” Madame stacked another set of pans in front of me. “I could use a good laugh”.

“Oh, no,” I said. “Nothing at all, Madame”.

“Bon
. Call me Maman. I am the maman of the bakery”. She went out back and smoked a cigarette, then came back in to make puff pastry for éclairs. She reminded me of Patricia, her niece, the baker in charge of the pastry room in Seattle. Patricia was here now too in Rambouillet. I’d see her again when I worked a shift at that bakery. I was a floater, a
commis
, helping wherever I was needed with no permanent home.

That thought struck too close.

One of the bread bakers walked by and looked at my face. “You are sad?”

I shook my head. “Tired”.

“Ah,” he said, and left. A few minutes later, he came back with a chocolate croissant. “To wake you up”. He handed me a cup of coffee. “Take a break. Not be sad anymore”. He hadn’t fallen for my tired talk.

I looked to see if Maman approved, and she nodded. I went out the back door and sat at the picnic table set up for staff breaks.

I bit into the pastry and remembered something I’d once read.
The croissants in France are so light they must be made by angels, and the coffee, so thick and black, by the devil. I sipped my coffee, hot and strong, and agreed.

Church bells chimed the start of the workday. It was eight o’clock in the morning, my first day of work in a real French bakery. It was eleven o’clock the night before in Seattle. Tanya was probably still roasting marshmallows at the lake.

I drained my coffee and went back to the kitchen. The day went quickly as I cleaned the dishes, the back bakery room, and neatened the supplies. At lunchtime, I heard a happy shout.

“Poupée!”

As I turned, I saw Maman open her arms and smile, and ten years dropped off her face. “Are you ready for the celebration tonight?”

“Oui,”
a little girl answered. “I can’t wait!”

Maman gave her a treat and went back to work. The little girl—whom Maman had called
poupée
, or doll, a term of endearment—turned and looked at me. She offered her hand.
“Bonjour
. My name is Céline”.

Such perfect manners. Such a sweet spirit. Totally unlike the only other Céline I’d ever known at a short-lived job in Seattle. Little Céline’s school uniform was starched, her hair tied back in a neat ponytail with the tiniest pearl studs clinging to her earlobes.

“Hello”. I shook her hand. “My name is Lexi”.

“Lexi! I like that name”. She sat next to me.

She
liked
my name! She didn’t think it was strange. Take that, mean work permit woman.

“Are you taking the place of Dominique?” she asked.

Dominique was Luc’s sister. “I’m working here while she works in my town”.

“In America?” Céline asked, biting into her cookie.

“Yes”.

“Do you live in California? I love California”.

“No”. I watched her eyes droop. Not ready to lose my first and only French friend, I added, “But I live very close to California”.
As U.S. geography goes
, I thought.

“Oh, good. That’s fine then”. She hopped off the stool next to the weighing counter, taking her cookie with her. “Do you know my papa?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “What is his name?”

“Philippe”. She took another nibble out of her cookie.

“No, I don’t know him yet”.

“You’ll like him,” she said. “He’s
très sympa”.

I laughed. “I’m sure your dad is very cool”.

She laughed too and walked up front to bask in the adoring gaze of Maman and Odette.

I smiled for the first time that day. Céline was definitely
bien élevé
, well-raised, and polite.

A few minutes later Maman came and handed me a list of ingredients. “Weigh these out for me, to prepare for tomorrow”.

“Immediately,” I said. Then I added, “Céline is a delightful child”.

She nodded. “I know. If only I had grandchildren. She is my brother Marcel’s granddaughter. She’s in the village today for the fireworks celebration tonight. Normally she’s in Rambouillet with
her father. But school is now out until September, and since her mother died a few years ago, we all take care of her”.

I hadn’t known Philippe was a widower. I remembered Patricia talking about her brother when she was in Seattle and knew she doted on him. Poor Céline. No
maman
.

“Ah well,” Maman said. “Luc is getting married next month, and maybe I’ll have grandchildren myself soon”.

“The wedding will be very exciting!” I said. Even though I’d had my fill of weddings at home, it would be fun to see a French one. And I had truly begun to like Marianne, Luc’s fiancée.

Maman looked at me strangely and walked away.

I shook it off and began to weigh out the butter,
exactement
, according to her instructions.

Out of the corner of my eye I spied Odette, who had been eavesdropping, I was sure. She hung her apron on one of the pegs in the back. The bakery was closing early due to the holiday.

I tried again to make polite conversation. “How nice that your name is embroidered on your uniform!” I said. “I’ll have to get that done”.

“Temporary workers and floaters don’t have their names on their uniforms,” she said. “There is no reason for it, as the customers and suppliers, even the other bakers, won’t need to know their names, and they don’t stay long enough to matter. It’s for those who are
permanent
. It would be a great
faux pas
to have it done yourself”.

“Oh,” I said, busying myself with the butter. I blinked back tears and was ashamed to admit I wanted my own
maman
despite being twenty-five years old.

Odette took a pastry box out of the refrigerator case and readied herself to leave for the day. “You won’t be going to Luc’s wedding,” she pronounced. “It’s for family and friends”.