Lunch in Paris (6 page)

I
HAVE ALWAYS
been enthusiastic about new, even strange, food. My first memories of eating out were yearly “ladies days,” when my mother
and my aunt Debbie and I would go for lunch at a fancy French restaurant and out to a Broadway matinee. I must have been four
or five the first time we went to
Mildred Pierce.
It was an occasion for white gloves and a tiny patent leather pocketbook. We sat at the Alice in Wonderland table, so called
because it was up on a little pedestal and surrounded by mirrors. After my mother explained the menu, I announced that I wanted
mussels.

The waiter raised an eyebrow at my mother. “Are you sure?”

Never one to slap down my more precocious tendencies, she nodded. “If she doesn’t eat them, we will.”

They never got the chance. I didn’t share, and I didn’t leave a single shell unturned. The waiter cleared the plates with
an amused grin and asked me if I enjoyed my meal. Was I allowed to lick my fingers?

My mother turned to me and said, “When you enjoy your lunch that much, you are supposed to go and tell the chef.”

“Where’s the chef?” I said, not quite sure who that was.

“In the kitchen,” said my mother, looking at the waiter. “Can she?”

So I followed the waiter through the swinging doors and offered what I can only imagine were my carefully rehearsed “compliments
to the chef.” I don’t particularly remember the kitchen. What I do remember are the bathrooms. The doors had no pictures,
just two brass plaques engraved with the words
Messieurs
and
Mesdames
. Not sure which one to choose, I came back to the table, awaiting instructions.

W
HEN THE
ANDOUILLETTE
arrived, it was smaller than I imagined—four or five inches at most, a delicate-sized portion for what I imagined was hearty
peasant fare. As I tasted the first slice, I understood why. The texture was rich and slightly springy, the gentle patchwork
of meats meant to celebrate rather than disguise their humble origins. I made short work of a deep, moist glass of Burgundy.
We toasted. “
Dans les yeux,
” Gwendal said, meeting my eyes. “It’s bad luck to toast if you’re not looking directly at someone.” The large coins of meat
soaked up the mustard.

I felt full and satisfied. We had clearly passed on to a new phase in our relationship; the American girl had proven herself
an enthusiastic eater of offal. Gwendal had something else in mind.

He reached past the empty plates and took my hand.

“
Je t’aime,
” he said softly.

Nothing says “I love you” like a plate full of sausage.

I
get carsick, dramatically, green-around-the-gills carsick. So imagine the knot in my intestines during the five-hour drive
to the Brittany coast to meet Gwendal’s parents, forty of his nearest and dearest friends—and a leek.

Gwendal and I had been living for the past year in our own little Paris-London bubble. Because of the enchanted but ill-defined
nature of our relationship—not to mention my pathetic level of French—we had avoided social occasions. But he was turning
thirty at the beginning of May and wanted me to be there.

I was terrified, but I was also curious. Despite a certain nonchalance on my part, we were slowly paddling toward the deep
end. I had not exactly
responded
to Gwendal’s sausage declaration, but it was there, dangling like a ripe pear on a tree. He didn’t pressure me; not for the
last time, he seemed to understand my feelings better than I did and was content to wait me out. We had begun to lapse into
the comfortable silence of two people who know each other better than they care to admit. Most days ended with the phone to
my ear, just listening to him breathe. I needed to know what would happen if we ventured beyond our little weekend world.

Being the studious type, and also scared out of my mind, I was determined to come to this party fully prepared. I resurrected
my college French textbook (
why oh why
had I done my junior year abroad in Scotland?) and asked Gwendal for a guest list. I memorized Catherine the biologist; Bastien,
the fashion victim. I put a star next to those who Gwendal had met when he studied in Canada—maybe I could switch to English
in a pinch.

I also quizzed him about the first question I should ask when I met someone. He shrugged, thought about it, then shrugged
again. Clearly, starting a conversation with a French person was going to be more complicated than “So, what do you do?”

When we arrived at the house in Saint-Malo, preparations were under way for a family lunch. The house was in a grassy new
development, a ten-minute walk from the sea. It had the feel of a year-round beach house: white tile floors and an open living
room, dining room, and kitchen with doors leading out to the back garden. There was a spiral staircase in blond wood curving
up to the bedrooms.

We were greeted at the door by Gwendal’s father, Yanig, who bent to kiss me on both cheeks. He had been a sailor most of his
life, the skipper of a boat he’d built with his own hands. With long limbs, watery blue eyes, and a graying beard, he looked
like someone perfectly content to sit up all night on a silent windy watch. He shared my own father’s towering height, his
wiry frame, his walk. As I had with my dad, I took two steps for his every one.

Gwendal’s mother was already in the kitchen. As tiny as Yanig was tall, Nicole was dressed in black with a long blond braid
trailing down her back. Did I mention that she’s a psychoanalyst?
No pressure there.
Except for the glasses and the delicate creases on her forehead, she could have been sixteen.

Affif and Annick, Gwendal’s godparents (or as near to godparents as hippie atheists can get), had come early to help with
the cooking. Annick teaches French as a second language. She made sure to speak clearly for my benefit. Affif is an Algerian
painter with a disarming grin. As I sat down at the dining room table, he handed me a small paring knife and a leek.

My only previous encounter with a leek was in something called a “soup pack” at our local ShopRite—a plastic box with a few
carrots, a stub of leek, some turnips, parsley, and a brittle bay leaf, for those too lazy to cut their own veggies for stew.
This thing was as long as a cricket bat, with unruly green ribbons at one end and bristly blond whiskers at the other. I wasn’t
one hundred percent sure which end was up. Was I supposed to throw away the white part or the green part? There was dirt between
the leaves. Was I meant to ignore it? I stared at the tablecloth while rapid-fire French conversation buzzed in my ears.