Freedom Fries and Cafe Creme (15 page)

‘What?'

‘I didn't know you'd become
that
patriotic: red and blue food – OK, but look at all the American flags. And you're all wearing red, white and blue outfits!'

On the Fourth of July Jimmy also liked to have cutlery and table linen in the colours of the American flag.

‘Everybody here does it …'

Well, sort of. But I wouldn't tell him that. It was true that Jimmy could be very American – as American as apple pie, he'd have said himself.

‘Anyway, my sweet friend, your red and blue dishes look truly delicious!' Pierre repeated. ‘Better than what I ate last night.' After another sip of his miracle water, he went on, ‘And I'm supposed to be in the country where we eat better than anywhere in the world.'

Sure, after the Italians in Italy, or the Spanish in Spain, since everybody lives in the country with the best food! The Americans think the same thing about their food as well.

After he'd told me about an insipid dinner in a bland restaurant to celebrate the departure of a colleague, I went back to my dinner party.

‘Anyway, Elsa not only likes to eat, but she is a specialist in fusion cuisine. A real star at what she does:
la crème de la crème
!'

‘Fusion cuisine?'

‘It's a very fashionable concept here: a mixture of traditional and contemporary styles of cooking using ingredients and techniques from all over the world.'

‘Sounds a little too complicated for me.'

‘I enjoy it myself when my friends and I try to add an exotic twist to our traditional dishes. You see, I haven't forgotten my old French recipes, but I like to experiment with new ingredients and flavours from other parts of the world. America has really taken fusion cuisine to its heart.'

‘Should I try a
romantic petit déjeuner fusion
myself? You could give me some tips.'

‘Don't tell me that you brought a tomato home last night?'

‘No, I didn't. What I mean by a
romantic petit déjeuner fusion
would be me sitting on my tiny balcony with dishes
from the market that I'd buy to please you. We have Vietnamese and Middle Eastern stalls at the market now, you know. I would have my breakfast gazing at an empty chair across the table, wishing you were there.'

OK, fine! Let's get back to Elsa.

‘Elsa's just moved to Manhattan, where she works for an international gourmet magazine, as a fusion cuisine consultant. Jeff told me that she's an amazing cook herself. She seems to really know her onions. And her sumac.'

‘This is starting to become interesting.'

‘She thought a two-tone meal was a fantastic idea. She took some pictures and wants to write an article about tonight. Isn't it great?'

Pierre agreed.

‘Elsa has worked in restaurant kitchens since she was seventeen. Now, she'd rather give culinary advice and write reviews of restaurants she eats at. I don't blame her. Eating in restaurants for a living – lucky her!'

‘Yes, it sounds good.'

‘She could probably take you along with her sometimes to try different places. It would be a great way for you to discover New York.'

‘Really? If so, what a delicious opportunity!'

I could tell I'd piqued his interest if only for the sake of his stomach.

‘This Elsa may be of interest after all! Brune, I know what good taste you have. I trust you about Elsa if she impressed you that much. But does she only go to these trendy new fusion cuisine places? The dishes there must be a little bit scary and expensive, aren't they?'

I agreed and admitted that the prices were indeed high. Chefs were not afraid to create over-elaborate dishes to attract a fancy clientele prepared to pay the price. Some customers didn't seem to care if they didn't understand a word of the menu, as long as they were eating in a restaurant that was all the rage. And it worked. Not for us, though. Jimmy and I, and our friends, preferred to invite one another for dinner at home and try to cook something scrumptious, or else to eat in unpretentious, authentic diners or ethnic restaurants, rather than spending twenty-eight dollars on a plate of pasta with a fancy strawberry hot pepper sauce.

‘Listen, Pierre, Elsa doesn't know anyone in New York, and it would be great for the two of you to meet, if only as friends. She really could take you to some amazing places.'

‘What a job, when you think of it,' we said in unison, picturing ourselves working hard sampling the best restaurants in the city.

Then Pierre had another thought. ‘But a woman like that – smart, with a good career, who knows how to cook well when most women today don't want to cook at all any more – she sounds too good to be true,
and
a bit intimidating.'

‘She's certainly very different from the
twenty-something
tomatoes
that you're accustomed to. Whoops! Sorry, that just slipped out!'

‘Sure, I believe you, apple of my eye.'

‘Elsa happens to be the only person I know so far who lives in Manhattan. I'd like you to meet her. I know I've sprung this on you, but she's made such a good impression.
You'll have to decide about your job quite soon, won't you?'

‘By the end of this week, I think.'

‘I told her that you might be moving to New York. She seemed interested, especially after I showed her a picture of you.'

Every woman who met Pierre or saw his photo thought he was a real dish.

‘Brune, you always speed ahead with everything. Your brain is working overtime.'

And Pierre's needed to work a bit harder! It wasn't his fault. He'd always had someone to spoon-feed him. But I kept that thought to myself.

‘It would be good for you to move away from Paris for a while. It could boost your career, and …'

…
and your love life would be more fulfilling if you stopped spending time in clubs that are more like meat markets.

I kept that to myself, too.

‘… And this is not pie in the sky. You can make it if you decide to.'

‘If this Elsa is that nice and still single, what's wrong with her?'

‘Look at yourself.'

And at all the wonderful people I knew who said they couldn't meet anyone. Was it because they were all too fussy or was it the craziness of our modern world that made it so difficult to form lasting relationships?

I explained to Pierre that even if he left his beloved Paris the decision wouldn't be irreversible – he could still go back whenever he wanted. His job allowed him to be
flexible and to move around. He didn't realise how lucky he was sometimes.

‘I don't know, I just don't know …'

‘I'm not asking you to give me an answer now, but chew it over for a bit.'

Well, I'd said what I had to say. Pierre needed to be left alone now to consider the situation. After all, if he didn't want to change his life – and in my opinion he should, since he was wasting it completely – there was nothing I could do about it. He'd always be one of my very special friends.

‘OK, Brune, thanks a million. You are such a sweetheart! I promise that I'll think about everything you've said – and very seriously.'

‘Whatever your decision is, Pierre, I wish you the best.'

‘Thanks, my angel cake.'

After a pause, he asked, ‘What's the name of the gourmet magazine Elsa works for? Maybe I'll find it at the international newsstand today.'

I told him the title.

‘I can't go back to bed. This conversation's made me hungry, actually. I'll go down to the market when it opens in half an hour and bring back a little
petit déjeuner fusion
to eat up here …'

Looking at the empty chair where I should be sitting? I hoped he wouldn't put his laptop on the table with my picture on the screen.

‘… reading Elsa's gourmet magazine, if I'm lucky enough to find it.'

I liked that better!

‘But, of course, with your picture looking back at me from my computer, my breakfast will be even more delicious.'

All right.

After saying ‘
Au revoir
, honey-bun' and ‘
Au revoir
, sweetie-pie', we hung up. I had a positive feeling about what Pierre was going to say to his boss by the end of the week.

Could it be that, because I'd met Elsa, Pierre's life was going to change? Would it change my life as well? Would our relationship lose its flirtatious double entendres if he became involved with Elsa?

Back downstairs, I walked into the bathroom. I looked at myself in the big mirror above the basin – face to face with the Real Me. I could see a strange light in my eyes. The thought that had pleased me when I'd hung up was starting to scare me a little. What had I done? Had I been too impulsive? Once again, I was trying to set Pierre up with a woman.

In the eerie light of the bathroom I was beset with other questions: was it really because of Elsa that I wanted Pierre to move to New York, or did I want him closer to me? What was Pierre thinking about right now looking out over the Parisian roofs flooded with morning light? Did he also see this as an opportunity to be closer to me or was he genuinely interested in meeting Elsa?

I was suddenly very tired and confused. What a dog's breakfast this might turn out to be! Had I done the right thing? Oh, well, no point crying over spilt milk now.

I went to bed. Jimmy was sleeping peacefully next to me, as always. Life was so straightforward for him. How I envied him sometimes!

After half an hour of tossing and turning like a Caesar salad, I still couldn't sleep. I got up, went to the kitchen and poured myself a small glass of Chambord liqueur, plus another glass of cranberry juice and took up to the roof deck a little something to eat. There was a cool wind now, which was invigorating; I wanted to feel the taste of the night as much as I could while I slowly ate a piece of shellfish left over from the party.

I put my cell phone down on the other chair. Pierre's photo appeared on the tiny screen. I was looking at the sky in the direction of Europe. I wanted to call him back, but decided not to after all. Instead my imagination was building a long, tall bridge over the ocean with piles of delicious food on each side. A few huge faces were floating around the elongated bridge: Elsa with her pretty smile, eating a lot to gain some weight, Pierre and me with confused expressions, looking at each other … Suddenly I realised that I really was in the soup!

Brune's piquant red salad is a feast for the eyes as well as the palate. Use very fresh fish.

Serves 4–6.

This beautiful Italian-American potato salad serves 6.

This relish makes a delicious accompaniment to blue cheese.

Heat the oil in a large saucepan, add the onions and cook over a low heat, covered, for 15–20 mins, until softened but not browned. Gently stir in all the rest of the ingredients and bring to the boil. Cover and simmer gently for about an hour, stirring occasionally, until thick and jammy. Leave to cool and transfer to an airtight box. The confit keeps well in the fridge for 2–3 weeks and is best left to mellow for 24 hours before serving.