Freedom Fries and Cafe Creme (16 page)

Brune's white chocolate and berry tart, as pretty as it is delicious.

Matt was spending a few months in Montpellier, in the beautiful Languedoc region of southern France. He'd always dreamt of going abroad after his graduation. The deal was that his parents would pay all his expenses, so long as Matt came back afterwards to work at his father's company, near Los Angeles. There he would settle down to a comfortable life exactly like his parents had.

Matt had chosen Montpellier because Madame Cabanel, who'd taught him French at college, came from the city. He had so much admiration for this attractive, witty woman. She'd told him that to become a citizen of the world, you should live in at least one foreign country for a few months, an experience that would shape, define and strengthen even the dullest personality. She'd also passed on to Matt a real passion for France. If there was one country he simply had to discover before he started his career back home, it was France.

Matt was eager to visit all the places Madame Cabanel
had mentioned in her classes. During the week, he stayed in Montpellier and studied international business and European cinema. Then every weekend he drove his Citroën 2CV along the country roads to acquaint himself with this picturesque region. He wanted to discover places off the beaten track – ‘
la France profonde
', as he'd learnt to call it. He'd chosen to drive a 2CV in imitation of Madame Cabanel. She'd even had her little Citroën shipped over to California, a purple one. Matt's was anthracite grey, and he too was thinking about having it shipped home when he returned. His family and friends would probably make fun of him, since they all drove big, gas-guzzling American cars, but he didn't care. Actually, he thought, he'd probably buy a basic, reliable car to take him to and from work and keep the 2CV just for his own amusement.

He had a list of restaurants that Madame Cabanel had recommended. She'd also written a few comments about each place. That Sunday Matt decided to lunch at Chez Bastien, which she'd maintained was one of the most authentic in the region.

He enjoyed driving on the narrow roads, listening to an interesting French singer he'd just discovered, Benjamin Biolay. Although Matt didn't understand all the lyrics, he liked the music and the sounds of the words. He knew that the song he was listening to was about
le Rêve Américain
and his home town of Los Angeles, and this added an extra dimension to his enjoyment of the music.

The village that was home to the restaurant was lovely, with a jumble of old stone houses with faded terracotta roofs. In contrast, Chez Bastien, with its yellow façade and
bright-blue shutters, stood conspicuously at the edge of the town's only square.

Matt parked his grey 2CV in front of a big house. Crimson geraniums bloomed at every window. He got out and started walking slowly towards Chez Bastien, taking his time to look around and enjoy the sweet, dusty aroma of the village. He crossed the square. A simple ancient fountain decorated with baskets of geraniums added some freshness to the hot air, and there was welcome shade from a stand of plane trees. The inevitable group of old men, a few sporting berets, most of them with cigarettes in the corners of their mouths – the sort of men you would find in any European village, generally sitting on a bench in the shade of the trees – were watching with interest as another group played a game of
pétanque
on one side of the square. A few farmers were selling their produce from stands set up under the trees: goat's cheese, honey, dried sausages, olives and olive oil, hand-made soaps …

Matt bought some olives, for which he'd acquired a real passion. He found the olives in this part of the world – soaked in their own oils, along with lemon juice, garlic and
herbes de Provence
– a luscious delight, much tastier than the ones back home.

He felt as if he'd discovered a little piece of heaven in this French village. His eyes were captivated by its beauty, his senses taking in the enticing smells of the food and the sun-warmed air. He had a feeling of being utterly alive such as he'd never experienced before. Madame Cabanel had been right: this place was very special. A good meal would add the final touch to this visit to paradise.

Matt approached the restaurant full of eager anticipation. He entered the elaborate wrought-iron gate over which a carved wooden sign announced brightly: ‘Chez Bastien'. On the restaurant's terrace were four or five circular tables awaiting customers, set with blue and white gingham tablecloths and small vases of fresh lavender and yellow roses. Mauve wisteria and crimson roses climbed up a wooden fence and spread to the yellow stone wall of the restaurant.

There were enough trees to shade most of the tables from the harsh August sun.

On the other part of the terrace stood a few bistro
guéridon
tables, where some people who appeared to be regulars were having their aperitifs, chatting merrily while sipping glasses of muscat wine from the region or chilled cloudy-white pastis, the quintessential drink of the Midi, munching olives and squares of toasted bread thickly spread with home-made olive tapenade.

Matt looked at his watch: eleven fifty. It was too early for Sunday lunch. He certainly would not be served before noon. He decided to explore the village for a while longer, even though it was becoming quite hot, although the dry heat was bearable and a pleasant little breeze rustled the leaves of the plane trees.

He walked back past the old villagers sitting on their bench. ‘
Encore un étranger certainement
,' he imagined them saying to themselves. Their intense study of him made him feel even more conspicuous.

Matt didn't look French, in spite of doing his utmost to play the part of a young Frenchman, with his Lacoste polo
shirt and 2CV. At least, these were some of the things that he believed to be essential if one wanted to pass for French.

A bit past noon, and after an enjoyable walk through the streets of the village, Matt returned to Chez Bastien and sat down at one of the small tables on the terrace. He bent his head to the tiny vase to smell the subtle perfume of the lavender and yellow roses.

‘
Bonjour, Monsieur, vous prendrez un apéritif?
' asked a thin young man who had appeared from inside the restaurant. He was polite; not friendly, just professional.

‘
Une Mauresque, s'il vous plaît
.'

The waiter went to get Matt's Mauresque, a drink made of pastis and orgeat – anise liqueur mixed with almond syrup and water – that had become his chosen aperitif lately, to accompany the seemingly endless varieties of olives that he continued to discover.

Matt considered it a victory when the French understood what he said, because his pronunciation was terrible. He was trying hard, but just couldn't seem to master it. He began carefully studying the menu, which was beautifully handwritten. The list of dishes was hardly extensive – meaning that every item must be fresh.

The menu declared that the
magret de canard à la sauge miellée
was the speciality at Chez Bastien.

Matt had treated himself to a long lunch every Sunday since he'd been in Languedoc, making this his third. Back home, the whole family used to sit down together for a barbecue on Sundays. It was the only meal that they were all able to share, as during the rest of the week everyone was so busy.

Suddenly a young woman came running into the restaurant. Matt, absorbed by his study of the menu and his pocket dictionary, and savouring his tapenade on toast, glanced up in time to see that she was quite beautiful.

The chef of Chez Bastien, a man with a jovial round face and curly salt-and-pepper hair, began a round of the tables, describing the day's specialities. Most of the customers evidently knew him well. Matt found the chef very friendly and he even understood everything his host said, though he spoke quickly and with a thick Midi accent.

‘I was thinking of the
magret de canard à la sauge miellée
for my main course.'

The chef was visibly pleased. ‘You couldn't make a better choice, Monsieur, one of my finest dishes. May I recommend my
cuvée réservée
, from the Coteaux du Languedoc – an excellent red wine from the region?'

‘
Avec plaisir!
'

And the genial host proceeded to the next table, greeting the customers with his broad smile.

What a happy man, who really seems passionate about his work, thought Matt. He had never seen his father nearly as satisfied with his job, even though he made lots of money.

Matt appreciated chefs who took the time to speak to their customers about what they were cooking for them; he felt it created a real human connection. After all, he reasoned, restaurants should reflect the personality of the man or woman in the kitchen, and these chefs who worked so hard to produce authentic regional food truly deserved the recognition they received.

Matt returned to his study of the menu.

‘
Bonjour, Monsieur. Vous avez choisi?
' asked an enchanting voice.

The waitress at Matt's table was the young woman who'd run past a few minutes before. She looked into his eyes and gave him a welcoming smile.

Matt was stunned. She was the most gorgeous woman he had ever seen! A natural beauty: wavy auburn hair, green almond-shaped eyes, a voluptuous body – from what he could see, at any rate. He gazed back at her, his mouth open as if he'd suddenly lost his wits.

The waitress seemed to be accustomed to the effect she had on men and she paid no attention to Matt's awe-struck expression. She repeated her question, and Matt detected her delightful accent
du Midi.

‘Have you chosen, Monsieur?'

Matt could only stammer a few words, so taken aback was he by the waitress's beauty, and he wondered whether he'd drunk his Mauresque a bit too quickly, or if the heat was getting to him.

‘Please … er, give me … er, a few more minutes.'

‘I'll come back. Take your time.'

She went to another table.

Looking back at the menu, Matt realised that the more he ordered, the longer he could stay and watch the waitress. She was now chatting with diners who seemed to know her, surely
des habitués
. They spoke to her in the familiar way that they had to the chef. Obviously the restaurant was a relaxed place where local people came to meet their family and friends in a convivial atmosphere and to enjoy the good food together.

By the time the waitress came back Matt was ready to order. When he looked at her, the number two sprang into his mind; he wanted to order two of everything: two appetisers, two main courses, two desserts, two glasses of wine!
Two
seemed to have been burnt into his brain.

Two, two, two … Never had he had the desire to be
two
like that with anyone before. He had a girlfriend back home, Courtney-Ann, from a good family, like his. She was waiting for him but suddenly he didn't really care any more. There was also a girl from Denmark, Agnete, whom he'd met at his European cinema class the day after arriving in France. He'd seen her once in a while, but she was too much of a typical Scandinavian feminist for his taste, nearly as annoying as so many American girls he'd known.

Matt, who considered himself something of a ladies' man, wondered if he'd change for ever after meeting this beautiful waitress from Chez Bastien. Perhaps she'd win his heart for good. Maybe
le coup de foudre
wasn't just a myth after all.

He lingered over his meal; he wanted to feast his eyes on the waitress for as long as he could. And what a meal it was, certainly one to be enjoyed at a leisurely pace. Every mouthful was a sensation, especially the
magret de canard à la sauge miellée
! And the full-bodied red wine tasted very pleasantly of blackcurrant.

Once again, Matt felt he was in heaven. And he savoured this glimpse of paradise even while knowing it wouldn't last, since he'd have to go back to Montpellier later that day, and, eventually, back to his real life in Los Angeles.

It took such a long time to enjoy his two appetisers, his two main courses, and his two desserts that, by the time he'd nearly finished, only he and one other couple remained at Chez Bastien. It was almost three o'clock.

The waitress approached his table.

‘
Excusez-moi, Monsieur
. I have to leave, but the other waiter will take care of you.
Au revoir, Monsieur
. I hope you enjoyed your meal. And we hope to see you again!'

‘
Au revoir, Mademoiselle. Et peut-être à bientôt!
' Matt managed to reply.

As the waitress was about to leave, Matt saw the chef, with his friendly round face, calling to her to bring back some fresh bread later on. He could hear that her name was … what?
Paprika
?
What a curious name, unless he'd misunderstood …

Paprika left in the same carefree rush as she'd arrived. But she didn't realise that she was leaving behind a devastated Matt, who was afraid that he would never see her again. His second dessert,
yaourt glacé à l'olive et au miel,
seemed to have lost much of its flavour now that she'd gone.

As she cycled to her sister's house not far from the village, Paprika remembered how funny the young man sitting at the small table had been. He was rather charming, in a way. English, American? His accent was quite terrible. Thinking of him, she laughed out loud.

Another week had gone by at the university. Matt had not stopped thinking about Paprika for a moment. He'd decided to have Sunday lunch at Chez Bastien again. He'd
even told Agnete that he didn't think they should see each other any more. She hadn't seemed to be bothered. He'd also thought about writing a letter back home to Courtney-Ann, ending their relationship.