Cooking for Picasso (29 page)

“
H
AVE YOU SEEN THE
P
ICASSOS?”

Ondine's ears pricked up one wintry evening as she emerged from the kitchen of
Chez Ondine,
the pretty restaurant with a pink awning that she and Luc now owned in a seaside town called New Rochelle. Surviving in America hadn't been easy—in fact, the first three years had been quite overwhelming. Everything about this country was bigger, more spacious and spread out. There were more cars, more noise, more people who all seemed to know exactly where they were going in life.

When Luc and Ondine first arrived they went straight to an address he'd gotten from a shipmate for a rooming house not far from the harbor, so they could walk there and watch the fishing boats come and go on the Long Island Sound. They knew that their savings could dwindle to nothing quickly, so Luc, feeling perfectly at home with fishermen, worked with them whenever they needed extra help.

At first it was all Ondine could do just to learn the lay of the land, so she and Luc took long walks all over town to get a feeling for their new home. New Rochelle, though leafy and considered a suburb of Manhattan, was really a city itself, big and bustling. Although settled by French Protestants called the Huguenots, there was a Catholic girls' college that occupied a Gothic castle built by a hotelier in the 1800s. Nearby were large, beautiful houses nestled in their own enclaves where the captains of commerce lived.

“Look at the colors of the leaves on these oaks and maples!” Ondine marvelled when she and Luc walked past, hand-in-hand one Sunday, admiring the many shades of crimson and gold and orange and green. “Autumn here is much more colorful than it is back in France!”

From the fishermen Luc learned that there was a room-and-bath for rent in town above a florist's shop. It was small, but more private than the rooming house. And in the busy center of town, Ondine discovered vegetable and fruit markets bursting with an astonishing variety of apples that would be perfect for making
tarte Tatin
—a dessert that she discovered was “as American as apple pie”
.

The wholesale suppliers operated their business down by the railroad tracks where they had their own railcars packed full of foodstuffs. Even the produce in America was bigger—pears from Oregon; potatoes from Maine; oranges, lemons and grapes from exotic-sounding places like Florida and California; beef from Oklahoma and Texas. Trying to grasp the size of this country was mind-boggling, and every day on the street Ondine and Luc were jostled by throngs of people all pushing to get ahead.

But her husband was teaching her how to fight for a dream and win. Luc had dogged out the sale of a dilapidated but spacious old diner with a good-sized parking lot and a fine location, near the train and trolley lines, so he invested most of his money to repair it and turn it into a bistro. He knew how to bargain hard with his suppliers, and how to charm the city officials who helped him get a liquor license. Then he quickly assessed what kind of potential customers they might initially attract.

“We'll keep our prices low,” he said, “because at first we'll be cooking mainly for the locals who work here in town during the day. They'll appreciate your
bonne femme
soups and stews, and they'll spread the word!” The modest profit they earned always went right back into the restaurant, to pay for a dishwasher and a waiter.

And along with the challenges of cooking, Ondine soon had a baby girl to look after, born just five months after their arrival in the States. The child, now nearly three years old, was named Julie, after Luc's mother. Ondine kept the baby by her side everywhere, even those Sundays when she and Luc struggled to learn English in the basement of a local church. The coziness between the three of them made her feel safer and more loved than she'd ever felt in her life.

However there'd been more than a few nights when Ondine lay awake worrying that perhaps they should have just put their money into a bank and gotten jobs, instead of seeking independence. But America was an exhilarating place, even, as Luc said, “while it's kicking you up the backside.”

And Luc was right about many things, especially the wisdom of coming here to wait out the second world war. More and more refugees arrived at
Chez Ondine
claiming they'd escaped on “the last boat out”: French governesses, German scientists, Polish musicians and Russian dancers. These newer, sophisticated customers worked in nearby universities and theatres, and discovered what the locals already knew—that Ondine's superb hot meals were delicious, comforting and reasonably priced.

T
ONIGHT, AN ELDERLY
French professor and his wife were just finishing up their beef
daube
when a younger, more glamorous American couple paused outside, peered in the window, spotted their neighbors and rapped on the glass excitedly. They came blowing in the front door, brushing snow off their shoulders and stomping their feet, delighted to join their friends.

They must have just come off the train, Ondine surmised. It was a week after New Year's, and the past months of holidays had nearly exhausted her meat and fish suppliers, starting with the bewildering festival of Thanksgiving in which the only thing people seemed to want to eat was turkey.

Luc quietly approached the American couple now with an apologetic gesture because the kitchen was closed. The dapper young fellow, handing off his silk top hat and silver-topped walking stick, responded with a breezy gesture as he sat down with his friends, saying, “Oh, don't worry, we've had our dinner. But—brrr! I wouldn't mind an espresso and a cognac just to thaw me out.” When Luc nodded, the man said gracefully, “Yours is the only place with the lights still on at this hour. Lucky us!”

Ondine slipped behind the bar to make the coffee as Luc poured two glasses of cognac for the man and his slim, attractive wife, who wore a satin gown and a sable-trimmed cape. At first the two couples murmured companionably, but soon their conversation grew louder and livelier.

And it was just then that Ondine overheard them say the name Picasso.

“You mean you haven't seen his exhibit at the Museum of Modern Art?” The younger woman waved a hand glittering with diamonds. “We just came from there! It's called
Picasso: Forty Years of his Art
. But oh, what a pity—tonight was the last showing in New York! It's going to Chicago next. Look, I have the catalogue.”

“Biggest display of his work this side of the Atlantic,” her cheery husband explained to the elder French man. “Over three hundred pieces of art! Guess they're safer here than in Europe.”

The men launched into a sober discussion of Hitler's army, the war's progress, and the perils of an artist like Picasso, whom the Nazis considered “degenerate”, remaining in German-occupied Paris.

How will Picasso survive, much less paint?
Ondine wondered, admiring his courage.

As the two couples rose to go, the young American woman swept her silver beaded purse from the table with a gloved hand, then paused to take a last appraising glance around the restaurant. “
Chez Ondine
. What a quaint little place! I didn't realize it changed hands. Wasn't it an awful old diner?”

“Not anymore! The new owners are French,” the older woman assured her, glad to have news of her own to boast of. “Their cuisine is authentic Provençal, I assure you, and
très excellente
. And so reasonable. We eat here twice a week!”

“Hmm,” said the young woman meaningfully to her husband on their way out. “We'll have to come back here and see for ourselves. Isn't this a marvellous town?” They went out arm-in-arm, singing a Broadway tune about New Rochelle,
“Only forty-five minutes from Broadway, think of the changes it brings….”

The sleigh bells which Luc had put on the front door jingled as the two couples left. Ondine exchanged an amused glance with him and couldn't help saying, “Yes, New Rochelle has brought us many changes! Yet, it's not
so
different, for here I am, cooking in a café kitchen, just like
Maman
.”

That ironic thought occurred to Ondine more than once, whenever she made a gesture like her mother, such as raising a flour-dusted arm to brush the hair from her face. She'd written to her parents asking if they were all right; but they would not answer a daughter who had disobeyed, eloped and abandoned them. This weighed on her heart, but she was not sorry that she'd left France, her parents, and even Picasso. Ondine understood that she had a family of her own now which must come first. She had a husband who treated her not as a servant, but as his business partner and the great love of his life as well. As they cleared up now she smiled gratefully at her tall, handsome man.

Luc beamed back at her. “Don't worry. This will be a good New Year for us,” he promised. He took her into his arms and kissed her, and Ondine felt her own passionate love answering his in a way that still astonished her with its combination of ferocity and tenderness. For a moment, they just stayed there, embracing, kissing, feeling each other's heartbeat. Ondine nuzzled against his neck, sighing.

Finally, they broke apart, and companionably resumed their work. Luc stooped to retrieve something that had fallen to the floor, and handed it to her. “Look—they left this.”

It was the catalogue from the Picasso exhibit. Ondine flipped through the pictures, pausing to gasp at one called
Guernica,
which captured the horrifying carnage after the fascists bombed a Spanish town. Yet with all the paintings, she could not find the portrait Picasso made of her, his
Girl-at-a-Window
.

Was it all just a dream?
she wondered. But when they went across the street to sleep in their room above the florist's shop, the first thing Ondine saw was indisputable proof that her adventures with Picasso were real. Little Julie, who lay drowsing in her cot in an alcove, popped her head up and held out her arms for a hug.

The child was still quite tiny for her age, and she had Picasso's inky dark eyes, making Ondine think of her as a sweet little black-eyed pea. Often, instead of playing with other children, Julie preferred to hide under her mama's kitchen table in the restaurant, busily absorbed in her coloring books and crayons. Sometimes Julie would just sit for hours staring dreamily into space, chuckling to herself.

“There's nothing wrong with her,” a doctor assured Ondine. “She's just naturally introverted, and will always be smaller than other children her age. It's often inherited. Is anyone in her father's family like that, perhaps?” Ondine shrugged guiltily and did not relay this to Luc, who adored Julie.

“She's a daydreamer,” Luc would say tenderly, kissing the girl on the top of her head, causing Julie to gaze up worshipfully at “Papa Luc” with utter adoration. At Christmastime Julie had been delighted with a little lighted crèche that Luc brought her, and she loved putting the infant Christ in his straw bed between the doting figures of Mary and Joseph.

“That's us, isn't it?” Julie had asked delightedly. “We're a Holy Family, too.”

“Yes,
ma petite,
” Ondine replied, astounded at how her daughter's face struck a deep protective chord which she had scarcely imagined she possessed. The doctor had informed Ondine that the birth of this child made it impossible for her to have any more babies; but as Luc generously said, “We are blessed enough as we are.”

A
MONTH LATER,
Luc came rushing into their bistro, triumphantly brandishing a New York newspaper. “We're in here!” he proclaimed. “The newsagent said it's a ‘great review' and insisted I take it home.” Ondine peered over his shoulder and recognized the photograph of the reviewer.

“It's that young man in the silk hat!” she reminded Luc. “With the wife who was chattering about Picasso at New Year's. They came back last week to eat here with all their friends, remember?”