Freedom Fries and Cafe Creme (6 page)

‘No problem. She's really something, isn't she? No wonder Spaulding wants some time off from her.'

‘Enough of all this foolishness! Dear friend, pass me the chocolates. I'm suddenly craving these sweet treats for the intense pleasure and comfort I need right now.'

I took the chocolates out of my bag and ceremoniously handed them over to her.

‘Hmm, champagne and chocolates, at the top of my number-one city in the world,
qui dit mieux
?' I said, smiling.

Pierre Hurel was back at the piano by then, playing a popular piece of his, ‘The Crush' – so appropriate, I thought, my eyes following the pretty new waitress as she moved from table to table.

A year has passed. I'm at the Zenith Bar waiting for Anne-Sophie, just like every Tuesday night. Tomorrow will be another Valentine's Day, and for the first time I'll have a real date. I'm pretty excited. I met Regan a year ago. She was the new waitress here at the Zenith Bar that I couldn't keep my eyes off on the night of the St Valentine's Day tragicomedy.

Funny how my prediction that Anne-Sophie would never see Mary-Whitney again was proved right.

A few weeks after that fateful evening, Spaulding went into work and announced that Mary-Whitney had had a big promotion, and the family was moving to Portland, Oregon, the following month. Such an opportunity couldn't be passed up.

It seemed that Spaulding didn't have any choice but to go along, since Mary-Whitney had always been the main breadwinner, and he was too weak to leave the comfortable life he led with his wife – even if he was constantly tempted by extramarital affairs.

The saddest thing for him was that he never had the opportunity to say goodbye to Anne-Sophie properly. She didn't go to the farewell party that the office organised for him. She simply couldn't make it. It was a Tuesday night, after all, and we were together having our weekly happy hour, and with champagne,
s'il vous plaît
!

A
gougère
is a choux pastry puff often served as an
amuse-bouche
. It's a speciality of Burgundy, where Anne-Sophie is from. The recipe makes 10–12 small
gougères
or one large one to serve 6 people.

Jessica's Variations of Gougères

• Ham:
  Add 1 cup (120g) cooked or smoked ham, cut into tiny cubes and, if desired, 2 sautéed finely chopped spring onions, at the same time as the cheese.
  
• Blue cheese (any kind):
  Omit the grated cheese and instead add ½ cup (100g) crumbled blue cheese mixed with 2 tbsp cream.
  
• Goat's cheese and aubergine:
  Omit the grated cheese. Instead sauté one small finely chopped aubergine and 1 small finely chopped onion in olive oil until softened. Add to the dough with ½ cup (120g) crumbled fresh goat's cheese.
  
• Clams:
  Omit the grated cheese. Instead add 1 tin (184g) of clams, drained and chopped and mixed with 2 tbsp cream and a handful of chopped flat-leaf parsley.
  
• Tapenade and sundried tomatoes:
  Omit the grated cheese. Instead add ½ cup (100g) tapenade, ½ cup (100g) chopped sundried tomatoes and 1 tsp dried
  herbes de Provence
  or dried oregano.
  

Pain d'épices
is another speciality of Burgundy – of Dijon, to be exact. This recipe makes two loaves of approximately 800g each. Jessica likes to freeze one and eat the other straight away.

Another weeknight like any other. Paul had just come home from work. Adam was preparing some delight in the kitchen while listening to Paris Combo, the group they were into at the moment. Even Pastis, the cat, seemed to be enjoying the jazzy music, as he lay with his usual poise on his beloved red sofa in the little kitchen alcove, facing the entrance. He didn't take much notice of the newcomer.

‘Hi, Paul. How are you?' Adam asked, cheerfully as usual.

No answer.

‘How was your day?'

Still no answer.

‘Come on, Paul, what's up?'

‘Oh, don't ask.'

‘All right. Hey, I'm cooking that special cheese dish for dinner.'

Paul looked at Adam vacantly.

‘Come on, make a bit of an effort!'

‘Yeah, sure …' mumbled Paul. He gave a big sigh and mooched off to his room.

Well, you don't seem very enthusiastic at all, Adam thought, a little apprehensively. But he decided to say nothing just then. Let Paul have his shower, then drink a beer in front of the TV while he watched the news and petted Pastis – should the cat feel inclined to leave his sofa and go and sit with his master in the media room. Paul ought to be a bit more relaxed after that.

Hoping Paul would soon be in a better mood, Adam returned to preparing dinner while sipping his preferred aperitif: a glass of pastis from Marseilles. Hearing his phone, he donned his hands-free headset so he could talk to Rita, Paul's mother. She needed some advice about a recipe she was following for Spanish garlic soup.

Rita had been taking cookery classes for more than three years, and had entered wholeheartedly into the joy of it. Handling the food, holding the ingredients to her nose, and observing the chemistry of their combination – all had been complete revelations to her.

‘It's like magic! And it brings me so close to Mother Nature!' she would say.

She was now trying to make cooking a mandatory course, starting from ninth grade, in every high school in New England because she believed that everyone should have the same wonderful experience as her. Besides, people would be healthier. More than twenty schools in the region were already seriously considering her proposal. She was also supporting the schools' cooks in their efforts to
continue serving healthy lunches to students, often having to argue with parents who didn't care very much about their children's eating habits as long as they ate things they liked and therefore didn't complain, which on the whole meant fries and pizzas.

Paul liked to make fun of his mother's new interest. ‘You could say she has a lot on her plate!' he laughed, but he knew that she was right to try to give young teenagers some insight into cooking, as some of their parents were a lost cause on that front. He just wished Rita had thought of it earlier; he would have been much better fed when he was growing up.

Rita asked Adam if she could talk to her son, but he told her how morose Paul was that evening and suggested she ring back later to find out what was wrong.

‘He'll tell me about it over dinner,' Adam assured her. ‘Food and wine usually help him relax and be more talkative.'

‘I hope it's nothing too serious,' Rita said anxiously.

‘I shouldn't think so. Otherwise, he would have called me from work.'

‘Right, I'll call later then. Back to my garlic soup. It smells so good …!'

When Rita had hung up, Adam announced that the pasta would shortly be
al dente
. Paul turned off the TV and came to sit down at the bistro table in the kitchen near the Victorian stained-glass window. Mechanically he lit the scented candle on the table. The boys thought candles not only made the place seem cosier, but they were also therapeutic, and got rid of cooking smells. Paris Combo
still playing. Pastis hadn't moved from the red sofa. He probably didn't want to deal with Paul's bad mood.

As a condition of their being flatmates, Adam, the owner of the apartment, had laid down one of the essential household rules: no watching television during meals! And no TV in the kitchen or dining room – only in the media room and in Paul's own room.

Adam thought that the ugly-looking appliance would clash horribly with the graceful antique furniture he cherished and polished so much. At first, Paul, a
self-confessed
television addict, hadn't been too happy about not having a TV in the rooms where he ate his meals. However, when Adam was away he still enjoyed TV dinners in the media room.

Paul's addiction was not his fault. He'd grown up watching TV most of the time. The set had been his constant companion, his pal, always there for him at home, while his mother had always been out.

But as long as Adam did the cooking – and he was undeniably talented – Paul was reconciled to eating without watching moving pictures on a screen. Besides, with Adam's adage, ‘Eat well, eat together', dinner was the time when the two of them could share good food and wine, chat about their day, complain about their significant others, and put the world to rights.

But that evening, even the cheerful atmosphere of the kitchen, with its French bistro decor and lively music, couldn't put Paul in a better mood. It was clear from his expression that he wasn't happy.

Problems at work? Adam wondered.

He hoped his flatmate would cheer up when he had a full plate of pasta and some nicely chilled Pinot Grigio in front of him.

‘As I said, Paul, I cooked your favourite cheese dish …'

But when Paul finally realised what was on his plate, he moaned as if in pain and pushed the plate away.

‘What? I thought you loved it!' exclaimed Adam.

‘I do, I do …'

Paul downed a full glass of wine, far too quickly for Adam's liking, and sighed loudly.

Adam waited. He knew that, with a bit of patience, he'd get an explanation.

‘Well, today Lily-Fromage, as you call her, sent me a long email to inform me that she's met another guy.'

‘An email? Couldn't she have met you in person, or at least called you if she didn't want to see you again?'

‘I know …'

Adam regarded Lily-Fromage as a loser. He'd never liked her.

In a prompt but tactful gesture, he removed the plate of pasta alla cottage cheese from the little round table. Discreetly, he gave some to Pastis, who had just roused himself, finally getting what he had been waiting for. The cat loved nothing better than the combination of pasta and cheese. And that evening there was also smoked salmon and vodka in it. Yummy!

Adam then quickly produced olives, slices of
saucisson
, and rosemary crackers and put them in front of Paul.

Better to have a little something with the wine, he decided wisely.

Paul, still looking miserable, poured himself another glass but didn't drink it. His mind was wandering somewhere beyond the stained-glass window, both his hands clasping the full glass; outside, the branches of the trees, covered with a thin layer of snow, shimmered in the glow of the gaslights. He picked up an olive and a cracker.

‘I'm sorry to hear about her depressing email,' Adam said, wanting to know more, forgetting that he had been quite hungry a few minutes before. ‘It's pretty sudden, isn't it? Didn't you just go out with her two nights ago to that eco-friendly restaurant Some Like It Soy?'

‘I know, and she was fine, I think. Though, actually, she didn't want us to go to her place afterwards, which was unusual.' Paul frowned and, still staring into the darkness outside the multicoloured window, mumbled, ‘I have to admit that the food was terrible at Some Like It Soy. Its texture was as bland as its flavour. The worst of it was the alcohol-free wine we had to order because of Lily-Fromage since there wasn't any root beer at the restaurant.'

He turned to Adam, who nodded in sympathy. He agreed that alcohol-free wine was an offence.

Wine has to have some alcohol in it, otherwise it isn't wine. Let the hypocrites enjoy their sour-tasting grape juice! It would be like cooking French fries in boiling water!

Pastis had finished gulping down the pasta with delight and jumped on to Paul's lap, expecting some attention now that he'd had his meal. But Paul slowly sipped his glass of Pinot Grigio and continued talking without paying any attention to the cat.

‘Listen to this. She met this terrific guy – so she says
– a month ago at a Cheese Is Good for You workshop in Vermont.'

Adam recalled Lily-Fromage talking about it when the three of them were at a neighbour's party. He could never find anything to say to her except when she talked about cheese. Like Adam, she loved any kind of cheese (as long as it wasn't processed) – perfectly ripened, with strong flavours, like unctuous and pungent Époisses from Burgundy, creamy Stilton from England, runny Vacherin from Switzerland, or tangy Pecorino Romano from Italy – not at all like the insipid processed cheese that resembled yellow or orange chunks of plastic typically found everywhere in this part of the world. But even if Lily-Fromage's palate was attuned to the best cheeses in the world – and the stronger the better – she would eat them only with water crackers accompanied by sweet, syrupy root beer.

She would repeatedly say, ‘Mmm … cheese is good, real good.'

‘Real
ly
good!' Adam would correct her, but she'd never listen.

Lily-Fromage had an even more bizarre obsession with cottage cheese. She rarely had a meal without it, absolutely adoring the fresh sweet-and-sour taste of the little white curds. Her theory was that women, as well as men, didn't consume sufficient amounts of calcium. Cottage cheese was the solution since it could be prepared in a variety of ways and used in almost any savoury or sweet dish.

But Lily-Fromage wasn't disposed to try sophisticated recipes. Cooking with cheese had to be very quick and
easy for her on the occasions when cheese wasn't a meal on its own, served with a little salad, the usual crackers, fresh or dried fruit …

Paul's tone of voice was still rather depressed. Pastis jumped off his master's lap, realising that he was not going to be petted by him tonight. He leapt on to Adam's instead.

‘I guess she wanted to make sure that
Mr Cheese
was going to be the one before dumping me. But she wrote that she really liked me. I don't understand women.'

Why do you think I gave up on them?
Adam was tempted to say. But he kept this thought to himself.

Paul cleared his throat, hesitating. ‘Um, she'll definitely miss my cooking! She said that at least ten times in her email!'

‘I'm not surprised!'

If only she knew the truth, Adam thought with a smile. Soon after Adam and Paul had become flatmates three years earlier, they'd made a deal after a long discussion they'd had one evening about love and relationships. They'd always been truly open with one another, probably because they were good friends and not a couple.

Paul firmly believed that, nowadays, in order to seduce a woman, you had to be a good cook. His mother had told him this long ago, but he'd been truly convinced since reading
Attract your Significant-Other-to-Be in 20 Lessons of Stylish Cuisine
. Needless to say, the book had been a great commercial success with men of all ages. But, even so, it hadn't really helped Paul. He was just not into cooking at all and had no real talent for it. He didn't have a clue how to prepare anything, having been raised on processed frozen
meals, peanut butter and jelly, or bologna sandwiches.

Adam, always optimistic, wanted to believe that Paul would develop an interest in cooking one day. Certainly living with Adam had been a real education for Paul. He'd discovered many foods from different cultures, as well as sophisticated dishes that he'd only vaguely heard of before. All this thanks to Adam, an amazing cordon bleu cook, able to adapt and improve almost any recipe, and who dined with so many friends from different cultural backgrounds.

Adam, having lost interest in women, regarded them as simply too complicated and too hard to satisfy. He lived quite happily, having found a balance between his long-term secret relationship with a married man from Boston high society and his straight flatmate, Paul, who had become his best friend. Cooking remained his greatest passion, however.

When Paul had asked Adam if he would cook a nice dinner for a new date he wanted to impress, Adam had found the idea amusing and accepted right away.

What would his reward be? If the woman was seduced, the two friends would go to Quebec City for a weekend and Paul would treat Adam to dinner in some fine restaurants; a new one each time for another culinary discovery. This was now an established arrangement between the two friends. Adam loved Quebec City; for him, the beautiful Canadian city was the place to find unpretentious, authentic French gourmet food at its best.

When Paul had a woman over for dinner, he and Adam had an agreement that Adam would go out. Most of the
time, Adam went to Rita's place, as she lived close by. Paul could then pretend that he was the one doing the cooking. Adam simply prepared everything in advance, and all Paul had to do was heat it up. The second reason for Adam not being there was that Paul feared that his dates might fall for Adam, who was quite good-looking and very fit.

‘You can't blame the women,' Rita had told Paul. ‘He is so gorgeous, like most gay men are. It's not only their physical appearance, it's the whole package: taking good care of themselves, and their fine manners.'