Bon Appetit (16 page)

“Look here!” Céline said, and she and I picked through a table of old perfume bottles—rose cut glass, light blue crystal, hand-blown opal and amber. Some still had the little hand-held poufer, which, when squeezed, emitted a faint breath of floral air. I puffed one on Céline and then bought one for my Nonna at home.

We dug through a table of old military medals. “Fakes, I’m sure,” Philippe said, but I picked one up for my dad, anyway. It was engraved with the words, “Napoléon, Emperor, King,” and would make a funny gift.

Céline’s eyes lit when she saw the next table.
“Les fèves!”
she said.

We walked over to the booth crammed with baking and cooking paraphernalia. I browsed through some old cookbooks and magazines, then looked at some tin Madeleine pans.

“Good quality,” Philippe agreed as I tucked one under my arm to pay for later. At the table in the back were hundreds, maybe thousands, of hand-painted figurines. Some had professions on them—baker, fishmonger, cheesemonger, journalist. Many were in the figure of the Baby Jesus, Joseph, and Mary.

“Madame sees some she likes?” the proprietor asked me.

“Mademoiselle,” I corrected gently. He looked at Céline and Philippe and shrugged.

“Mademoiselle,” he said. “I have the best
fèves
in the market. Each and every one is hand-painted, and all have been lovingly baked into the best
galette des rois
in France”.

I examined several and started setting some aside, appreciating them more now. After Céline had mentioned them, I’d done some
research. The cakes, galette des rois, or kings’ cakes, were baked on January 6, which is Epiphany. To celebrate the wise men coming to worship Jesus, French families baked the kings’ cake with a bean inside it. Whoever got the bean in his or her piece would be the king or queen for a day, and have all their wishes granted. Later, porcelain figures replaced the beans, although they were still called
fèves.

Philippe stood next to me, sorting through the pile for the best formed and painted ones.

“Is it strange to you that so many French customs and holidays revolve around Christianity, and yet so few French people have any desire for Christ Himself?” I asked.

He set a few
fèves
aside before answering. “In France, religion is very private. It is personal. People have their lives, their vacations, their food and wine”.

“No need for religion,” I said.

“Religion is okay,” he corrected me. “As long as it stays a … condiment. Not a main course”.

I nodded.

“When Andrea died,” he said, “I realized I could fill myself with good things—with baking, with my career, with Céline, with anything I wanted—but the only thing that took away my pain was my faith. Until she died, I didn’t realize that”.

I smiled, thinking of my lonely weekend in Paris and the lesson I’d learned. “Until you were hungry, you had not developed the need”.

“Oui,”
Philippe agreed.
“Exactement”.
He handed me a tiny porcelain figure. “This, mademoiselle, is for you”.

The figurine was a woman in a white apron holding up a beautiful cake. The title at the bottom was
pâtissière
, a cake maker.

I bought handfuls of
fèves
, taken with them. I didn’t know why I wanted so many, but they were cheap and would make good gifts. They were just for bakers, and I was a baker.

We stopped at one last booth that sold marble cheese platters, as Philippe said he needed a new one. To the side hung a sign.

“What is a bachelor?” Céline asked me.

I looked at the sign that had caught her attention.

“A man who is not married,” I answered.

“Is my papa a bachelor, then? Even though he used to be married?”

I nodded.
“Oui”.

“Oh,” she said.

Afterward, the three of us went to a café and had a drink. “Table for three?” the waiter asked, and Philippe nodded.

Céline ordered a
menthe à l’eau
, water with mint syrup. Philippe and I each had a glass of Burgundy, as the new wines had just been released. We nibbled on bread and a variety of cheeses.

We drove home together in companionable chatter. Céline stayed in the car as Philippe walked me to my door.

“Thanks for today,” I said.

“Thank you,” he replied. “I have not enjoyed the flea market like that in quite some time”. He smiled and it lit up his face. I noticed the five o’ clock shadow again along his jaw line.

“I’ll see you at church tomorrow?”

“No”. He shook his head. “I’ll be working. I took today off instead”.

Patricia had said he never missed church. Except this week. He’d taken a rare day off to be with me. Out of obligation? In the greater interests of warmer Franco-American relations?

When I looked up and caught his little smile, I knew it was something more. Maybe only a
bit
more, but more.

Instead of shaking my hand, he leaned in to me, near enough that I could smell his aftershave. He kissed each of my cheeks, French style, rough cheeks brushing against my smooth ones.

“Bread and cheese and kisses,” he said, and left.

The next morning I went to church. I walked slowly from the train station to the church, half a mile. I had time, since the train schedules were a bit inconvenient on Sunday. Anne was going to meet me at a café in Versailles afterward, and we were going to shop for a while.

“Hello!” The vicar’s lovely wife greeted me when I reached the church. “We’ve missed you”.

“Even though I’ve just started coming, I missed being here,” I
said, honestly. “I had to work, and then my father visited from the US”.

“Lovely,” she said, handing me a bulletin for the day. “I’m glad you’re back”.

I walked toward the front, and recognized Gabby. “Hello,” I said politely.

“Hello,” she responded coolly. She looked behind me—checking for Philippe, I assumed—and saw no one. She allowed herself a small smile in my direction at that point.

As for me, I’d spotted the ever-rocking Buki. I slid into the pew beside her, and she greeted me with a hug and a grin.

The praise and worship service began, and I closed my eyes and let myself get into the song. I let both my hands rise in praise and drifted away in the Spirit toward the Lord. Somehow, here, in the midst of strangers, I was best able to be myself in worship.

I missed being here. I longed for worship with others. I yearned to hear someone talk about God, a closed subject in this very open land.

After the worship we greeted one another, some with handshakes, Buki with a hug.

“Staying for coffee?” the pastor asked as I prepared to leave.

“No, I’m meeting a friend in town,” I said.

“Ah”. He nodded. “Been reading Jean?”

I smiled. “Yes. In fact, I’ve read the entire book since I was last here!” As soon as the words left my mouth, I felt foolish, like I hoped he’d put a gold star on my bulletin or something.

“A quick, cursory read is a great way to start a study,” he said. “What part will you focus your in-depth study on?”

Quick, cursory read? In-depth study?
“John 15,” I blurted without thinking. That was the chapter I’d read with my dad last weekend.

“Great chapter,” he said. “See you next week?”

“See you next week,” I affirmed, and then made my way out the door before Gabby could grab my arm and ask about Philippe.

I walked down the road, the October air slipping through my thick, cabled sweater. I’d need to start wearing my coat soon. I knew Versailles was a great shopping town, and I had a secret purchase in mind today. A parasol! Nothing too frou-frou. I could get an umbrella anywhere, but I wanted one that looked very French and perhaps just a little Marie Antoinette—in her town, of course.

It still awed me to walk casually down the streets of Versailles. The bakers for Marie Antoinette may have lived very close. Rose Bertin, her dressmaker, had driven her carriage of trunks of extravagant fabrics through these very lanes. The
château
in the distance dominated the town now as it did then. Louis the XIV’s conquests may have retreated in shame or vainglory down the road I trod upon.

I came to the corner of the café and spied Anne, who waved at me. I smiled and waved back.
Thank you for this friend, Lord
, I said in my heart.

I had the distinct impression He wanted her as a friend too. The thought stopped me in my tracks for a moment.
I no longer call you servants, because a servant does not know his master’s business. Instead, I have called you friends
. John 15. Yes, I would read that again in-depth.

We sat inside the café, drizzle starting to fall from the sky just as we arrived.

Anne popped shut an umbrella. “How was your morning?”

We passed the menu board, and I glanced at it, trying to choose one of the specials for lunch. Onion soupe sounded great. I’d made some from a recipe from
Gourmet
magazine at home last week, but I never grew tired of it.

Anne ordered some soup too, and we chatted about the past week in school and started brainstorming about our projects.

The waiter arrived with the soup.
“Bon appétit!”
he said as we hungrily dug in.

“What did you do yesterday?” I asked.

“Read,” she said. “Baked bread”.

“Baked bread! On your day off?”

“Yeah,” she grinned. “Keeping in practice”.

“You’re so good,” I said, putting another spoonful of soup into my mouth. No wonder Maman couldn’t stop singing her praises. I hadn’t passed that on to Anne, though.

“What did you do?” she asked.

“Went to the flea market,” I said. “Then I went to church this morning”. I decided to ask again, though I didn’t expect her to give up her sleep. “Sure you don’t want to come with me someday? It’d be good for your career to speak English with more than one person!”

“Hmm …” she said. “I suppose so. It’s kind of … quiet around my apartment. And I do need a job. I’ll do almost anything to help my chances”. She sat silently for a moment.

Almost anything?
I wondered, doubt blooming in my mind.

“Maybe I will come with you,” she said. “Why not?”