On Rue Tatin (2 page)

My train back to Paris was mid-afternoon, and Bernard arrived home just in time to drive me to the station. I bade Edith good-bye; there was a flicker of warmth from her, but not much. The kids yelled “
au revoir
.” At the station Bernard bid me a safe journey and told me I was welcome to return any time, and if I needed anything all I had to do was call. He kissed me on each cheek, then was gone.

I was completely charmed by the whole experience. I’d finally gotten the soil of France on my shoes in a beautiful little village, stayed in a three-hundred-year-old
maison bourgeoise
, frolicked with (and yelled at) three darling French children, and been inspired by the simple foods I’d eaten. I was walking on air.

On returning to the school the next day I suddenly found my French much improved; it was finally emerging from my head. My comprehension was better, and I dared to say a few things. My fellow
stagiaires
gaped at me.

That was the only weekend trip I took. I was too captivated by my life in Paris and five-and-a-half-day school week to leave. I lived in a
chambre de bonne
, or maid’s room, with a bed so narrow I had to carefully maneuver my body to turn over. My few clothes hung in a small
armoire
, and I had a sink and small window that let in a flood of light. I loved it. My life was whittled down to the essentials. I showered at a friend’s apartment, used the toilet down the hall, had virtually no housework to do, and the only bills I had were my monthly
carte orange
, or metro pass, and the seven hundred French francs (about $175) I paid each month for my room. I had no phone and didn’t miss it, no kitchen to mess. The biggest problem with my lodging was its location on the sixth floor, without an elevator, and that was a problem only when I’d forgotten my pen and notebook upstairs. Usually, I just bought new ones.

I subsequently moved into two other
chambres de bonne
, each one slightly better equipped. The best one was in the sixteenth
arrondissement
above the apartment of the American cultural ambassador. The size of a small studio, it had an elevator and a washing machine and a bathroom I shared with one other person. After months of traipsing down a dark hall to the toilet it was pure luxury to have one at hand and be able to stretch and not touch a wall on either side. I traded occasional cooking services. Another
stagiaire,
Roscoe Betsill, my cooking partner at school and now a food stylist, lived down the hall and together we were expected to prepare food for dinner parties when the ambassador and his wife entertained. It was a fine situation except that the ambassador’s wife would call us at the last minute to prepare a meal, and there was never any food in her house. We learned to bring ingredients home from school that would otherwise have gone to waste—fresh herbs, for instance—and we had certain staples on hand. We became expert at making little canapés from canned tuna and fresh bread that seemed to delight our employers.

But a small cloud had formed over my experience. My French, which I discovered was extremely literary and terribly impractical, wasn’t improving. I was tongue-tied, and even with the chefs I had to concentrate so hard to catch what they were saying that I would fall way behind in classes. I desperately wanted to translate a cooking demonstration for the English-speaking guests, banter with the chefs and the delivery people, have a conversation with a French person that lasted more than two seconds. As it was, I didn’t really know any French people besides the chefs, since everyone who worked at the school came from an English-speaking country. For a while I traded conversation with a Frenchman who wanted to improve his English. With him I discovered that even though a person is French and speaks English with a sexy French accent he can be a crushing bore. My most childish romantic fantasies about Frenchmen were shattered, and my French didn’t progress either.

The month of August, when all of France goes on vacation, approached. The school would close. Paris was already empty, the weather was stifling, most of the
stagiaires
had exotic vacations planned. I was scheduled to work through the month, though there was really nothing to do but type up recipes. Then one day, Edith called. Bernard had had a terrible accident and would be laid up for three months in bed, at home. She wanted to paint, and she needed someone to come out for the month of August to cook and help around the house. The children would go to day care. Did I know anyone? Without hesitation I said I’d do it, and we made arrangements. I had to check with the head of the school to see if I could get time off, something I was certain would be granted. To my surprise she refused. I begged. She relented, though not without letting me know that she wasn’t happy. Evidently, the typing was more important than I’d realized. Nonetheless, a week later I was on the train to Normandy.

Edith was friendlier this time when she came to pick me up. She told me right away that she couldn’t believe I had wanted to return after she’d been so rude. She explained to me that she had been completely exhausted and that, frankly, she really didn’t feel like welcoming an American who lived in Paris, and didn’t know why she had said yes when I called. It was several years before I admitted that I had thought it was perfectly normal.

I arrived to find Bernard in a wheelchair surrounded by friends, drinking chilled hard cider and expounding on something. He’d fallen some 45 feet off a ladder while pasting up a campaign poster for a friend. Despite the fact that his back and legs were a mess, his spirits were high, his greeting warm.

I joined the circle around him long enough to drink some cider, then went in to see what I could do for dinner. That evening began one of the most memorable months of my life. Edith turned out to be funny, filled with energy and up for anything. I had already glimpsed Bernard and knew he was easygoing; he turned out to be more than that. Brilliant, always searching to learn, he immediately set up a schedule of daily French and English lessons with me. Edith and I worked it out that I would cook two meals a day for the family, and after my first few dinners she began inviting all of their friends, so that each night there were eight to ten people for dinner. I was in heaven, cooking exactly what I wanted within a vegetarian diet—which was fine with me, since I had been a vegetarian for nearly ten years.

Edith, who was supposed to be painting each day, instead decided it would be more fun to show me around, and we roamed the countryside going to
brocantes
(combination junk and antique stores) and markets, visiting her friends, nearby Rouen, and pretty villages in the area. She wanted me to see everything, so each day unfolded with a new project.

Throughout the month, which sped by, I got to know Bernard’s parents, who lived on a very modest farm, and two of his three brothers. I met each of Edith’s seven brothers and sisters, all of her friends, many of her numerous other relatives as we traveled here and there, once as far as Amiens in the north to visit her favorite aunt. I kept urging Edith to paint, to take advantage of my being there, but she preferred instead to amuse herself taking me places, proposing long bicycle trips, or sewing. She made all her own and her children’s clothing, and soon I was wearing her vivid, clever creations, too.

The days followed a certain pattern. I would prepare breakfast, Edith would get her children off to day care, Bernard and I had our English/French lesson, then the day would speed by while we either ran around the countryside or stayed home and she sewed while I cooked. In the evenings Edith put the children to bed and I prepared the evening meal; and she, Bernard, and I, and whoever else had been invited, usually sat down to dinner somewhere around nine
o’clock. I made everything from asparagus soufflé to peach and yogurt tarts, from Asian tofu soups to layered vegetable terrines to classic
œufs florentine
. I discovered that the lady across the street, Madame Dancerne, had a huge herb garden and raised lettuces, rabbits, and chickens. She became my supermarket, and I got plenty of good cooking lessons from her in the bargain. Everyone called me Suzanne and I became something of a novelty.

For the first two weeks at Edith and Bernard’s I was physically present at the dinner table, but the conversation rolled on too rapidly for me to participate, and I would find myself battling sleep halfway through the meal. No one had any mercy, least of all Edith, who spoke like a
mitraillette
, or machine gun. About the middle of the third week I responded to something someone said. Bernard and Edith looked at me and laughed. “It’s coming Suzanne, it’s coming,” they said.

As the end of my stay approached my spirits drooped. I had come to love the family and this turbulent, fun life. They, too, were loath to see it end and offered me a room and the price of a commuter ticket to Paris if I wanted to stay on. I was tempted, but the train schedule didn’t match my long hours, and besides, I was ready to return to the city.

We said tearful good-byes—I was part of the family by now and couldn’t quite imagine how their life would proceed without me. Bernard was relatively mobile in his wheelchair and was now going to the office, which was in the village center within walking distance. The children would be starting school, so Edith would have some time to work. I would re-enter my five-and-a-half-day- a-week routine. They made me promise to come visit often.

I was delighted to be back in Paris, in yet another
chambre de bonne
in the seventeenth
arrondissement
just over the border from the chic eighth
arrondissement
. It was small but had a tiny balcony. The family who rented it to me were sweet and gave me free use of their shower. School was beginning anew and it was good to see all the
stagiaires,
each of whom had gone in a separate direction for August.

I stunned everyone with my French. Now the chefs couldn’t indulge in rude teasing because I understood them. I was capable of translating and couldn’t wait to do it. From living with Edith and Bernard I’d picked up a very casual, current French, so that my
repartie
was rapid, and I felt perfectly comfortable. I knew I could avoid even the worst pitfall. And it came my way during my first translation. One of the students asked about preservatives in food. I turned to the chef to translate, and was just about to ask him about
préservatifs
, when I caught myself—a
préservatif
is a condom;
produit chimique
is the term used to describe food additives, and I remembered it just in time!

That fall a reporter for the
New York Times
who lived in Paris came to speak at La Varenne. She decided later to do a piece on young Americans who cooked for their living in Paris, and I fell into the category. She arranged to meet with all of us at a café, and we had a wonderful time. Later she called me to see if I would like to work for her. Her name was Patricia Wells, and I became her assistant.

I would race to her apartment after work whenever I had a free evening and do whatever job she’d left for me. My favorite one, and the one she and I still laugh about, was testing a cake called the
marjolaine
, a stunningly rich confection of layered hazelnut and almond meringue with pastry cream and
ganache
. I would spend the evening making it in Patricia and her husband Walter’s apartment while they were out to dinner, then leave the finished product on the kitchen counter before going home to fall into bed. Patricia would taste it, make some comments, and I’d go back to the drawing board. I think I tested it four times over the course of a couple of weeks. Finally one day Patricia called me. “These cakes you leave us are gorgeous—why don’t you ever take a piece for yourself?”

It had never occurred to me to do that. I loved leaving a perfect-looking, perfectly frosted cake in the middle of a clean kitchen. I’d sampled all the elements as I cooked, so I knew the flavors. And I honestly had no appetite. I’d spent almost a year eating more food than most people eat in ten years, and when my workday was done, my appetite was gone.

The year at La Varenne came smoothly to a close. I passed my final exam—preparing
consommé
with a garnish of
brunoise
(vegetables cut in tiny dice), roast beef with watercress and freshly made pasta, and
mille-feuille
for dessert, all made under the piercingly critical gaze of head chef Fernand Chambrette—and earned my
grand diplôme
. I was ready to move on, but hated the thought of leaving France. By now, I was a regular visitor at Edith and Bernard’s; I’d gotten to know Paris well; I had my favorite markets, bakers, restaurants, and pastry shops, where I would do day-long
stages
, or visits, whenever I could. I couldn’t quite imagine returning to the United States, but I couldn’t simply stay on, either. Most of the other
stagiaires
were leaving, so my base of acquaintances would soon disperse.

I got a call from a woman who was looking for someone to open and cook for a
salon de thé
in the sixth
arrondissement
. It was to be part of an English-language bookstore, and she wanted the food to be American. I went to be interviewed and landed the job. Whew! I could stay on for at least another year. I had a month before the job would begin so I went back to the United States to visit my family. While there I met my future husband, Michael Loomis.

Tall, lean, and achingly handsome, he had been invited to a party to meet my older sister, and I knew that so I stayed clear. But circumstances were such that we couldn’t seem to avoid each other. Before our first date I checked in with my sister who waved her hand and said go for it. Within a month, Michael and I were engaged.

I returned to Paris to begin my job. My bosses—two Parisiennes, each of whom had lived in the United States for extended periods—showed me the café bookstore, very much a raw space, a piece of which was destined to become a kitchen. One of my employers, Odile, turned to me and said, “It’s yours, do what you want with it.”