Freedom Fries and Cafe Creme (9 page)

‘Wow, I've got to see that!'

You ate well and you dressed well – those first impressions mattered to Mariette.

As if to confirm this thought, she said, ‘And you know I believe in the adage “Tell me what you eat and I'll tell you who you are.”'

The gorgeous waiter came up and asked if everything was OK.

‘Sure,' I lied.

Of course not! Don't you see the effect you're having on me? Why are guys like you – beautiful, elegant, well-dressed, well-mannered – so often gay? What a waste for us women!

There were an increasing number of gay people in the city, thanks to the legalisation of same-sex marriage, and I had the impression that they were everywhere. Certainly they seemed to be the only kind of men I fell for at that time – which was, of course, a total non-starter.

‘Nice guys who really care about what they eat and what they wear around here? They prefer men! Especially in your neighbourhood,' I said.

‘Not all of them. Not Juan José, for sure. I can tell you …'

She smiled at me mischievously.

She'd never change. I was sure she had already shared some intimacies with this Juan José. She always said that she couldn't wait for ever to see if a relationship was going anywhere or not. So she moved it on quickly when she met a new man. If the romance worked out, fine; if not, as she said, ‘There are so many beaux out there.'

We giggled like teenagers.

‘So which supermarket did you go to?'

She told me that she'd wanted to try the new one specialising in healthy and sophisticated southern
European food. Fit Gourmet, it was called. I remembered then that I'd read in the paper about its opening. But there was no Fit Gourmet in my neighbourhood. My nearest supermarket should have been called Fat Guzzler, since hardly any fit or slender people shopped there. Most of the food was processed, full of preservatives, and didn't look appetising at all. However, I managed to find a few nice products in the tiny organic food section. Thank heavens they even had one. But the store was convenient as it was very close to my apartment. Once in a while, during my lunch hour, I'd buy produce from the farmers who came every week to the market in Copley Square, even if the prices were too high.

‘You could come to Fit Gourmet, you know.'

Oh, sure, then I would have to take the Blue Line subway, then change to the Orange or the Green Line to North Station, and finally take the commuter train to your neighbourhood – just for grocery shopping.

Mariette guessed what I was thinking.

‘You could come about twice a month, that's all. It will be worth the trip! And you can spend some time with me afterwards.'

Neither Mariette nor I owned a car since we both lived near a subway or train station. When I visited her, usually once a month, I stayed over for the weekend. She didn't live that far from the city, but the journey took a while on public transportation.

We usually met up downtown, near my office. We liked to have a drink, or eat at a little local restaurant.

Mariette's neighbourhood was the new place to be,
frequented mainly by young professionals or happy retirees – most of them gay. Admittedly it was a great area: stunning renovated Victorian houses, nice restaurants, art galleries, parks, cycle paths – though it was a bit too pricey for me.

‘Shopping at Fit Gourmet must be rather expensive,' I said with a pout.

‘Eat less of the good stuff, and money-wise it's the same as eating too much bad stuff.'

She had a point there, and she knew that I knew it, and that I tried my best.

‘But there's the other good reason for going there: you could meet someone. So, twice a month seems pretty reasonable, doesn't it?'

I did a quick calculation.

‘It gives me twenty-four possibilities a year to meet the right man … not bad. Far more than I have at the moment. Maybe I have a chance then.'

Mariette told me that she'd met Juan José at one of the Spanish Week stalls filled with a delightful assortment of
charcutería
. Of course, she had to explain to me what
charcutería
was. She'd seen him trying a piece of Serrano ham, so she'd known right away that he wasn't a ‘dull, sissy vegetarian', as she labelled people who didn't eat meat.

‘People need protein, and not only from legumes,' she always maintained.

‘I just thought he was really good-looking, and I liked what he was wearing. He was giving the salesperson specific instructions about what he wanted to buy. Of
course, in these kinds of stores, the salespeople are qualified and know something about what they're selling. I observed Juan José discreetly for a while. He was saying how much the food reminded him of his native Madrid, and that the
jamón
looked divine!'

I sat in silence, riveted by these details.

My grandmother hurried on. ‘After that, he went to the fruit and vegetable display. I can still picture him smelling the cantaloupes to find the right one. He also bought fresh figs. I was still following him when I realised he didn't have a cell phone.'

Mariette hated cell phones. She thought there was nothing more stupid than someone talking on a cell phone in the street. She believed that people like that had problems with face-to-face communication. She wasn't at all interested in the sordid details of their lives, loudly broadcast to everyone in streets or stores, on trains or buses. Before the invention of cell phones, people had their phone conversations at home, so why didn't they do it any longer? Was it because they were bored to death with their dreary daily routine and wanted the world to believe they had exciting lives just because they could make phone calls in public places?

Another reason Mariette had met so many men might be because she seemed to inhabit a world where real human contact and time given to simple things were more important than cell phones or other superficial gadgets like MP3 players, which tend to isolate people from one another.

Let's face it: someone like Mariette would be very rare
in the younger generation. The last guy that I'd dated had been unable to stop touching his tiny cell phone to check for text messages, and had constantly taken pictures of me with it. It had driven me insane. I'd broken up with him after two weeks. That had been nearly a year previously.

‘No cell phone! So that's another good point for Juan José, isn't it?'

‘Yes. I'd been following him for a while and he never took one out of his pocket, but it also occurred to me that that might be a sign that he was single, because he didn't have to call his significant other to ask whether he should choose 2 per cent or 5 per cent fat sour cream, or whether he should buy carb-free or low-fat ice cream!'

Right!
What could I say? She'd obviously been thinking about this guy the whole time. It was good to hear of someone who'd actually met a man in a normal everyday situation, one that didn't involve technology or speed-dating. I couldn't wait to tell Kelly.

‘He was so charming, just shopping for his groceries! Dark hair—'

‘How old is he?' I couldn't resist asking when she mentioned ‘dark hair'.

‘Only a few years younger …'

‘Younger than you?' I shouted louder than I intended.
I can't believe it!

‘Don't get excited! So what?'

‘How old?' I asked again.

‘Fifty-seven. And age isn't important when true love is involved.'

True love already? Fine.

‘Fifty-seven. So he's dyeing his hair, isn't he?'

‘He may be. So what? I do it myself, and so do you, don't you?'

Right!
Ever since I'd decided to become a brunette, thinking I would get more respect from men. Well, so far it hadn't worked very well.

‘Sexy, smart, witty …' Mariette continued.

The list of Juan José's attributes was starting to get a bit much.

‘But aren't Spanish men supposed to be so macho?' I asked, pouting again.

‘Stop being so hung up on stereotypes, Claudia.'

Mariette went on to tell me that, to attract Juan José's attention, she'd casually asked him for his advice about the best
charcutería
to buy when both of them had been ‘coincidentally' standing at the Spanish Week counter.

‘He was so thrilled to see someone who was interested in Spanish food!' she said triumphantly, and she repeated what Juan José had told her.

‘“
Sí, por supuesto
, it's about time that some importance was given to the cuisine of my country. Too much Mexican, Chinese and Italian cooking around here, don't you think?”

‘Of course I had to agree but I confessed right away that I needed to learn so much, being completely ignorant about Spanish food. He said that he would be delighted to teach me. His eyes and the tone of his voice were very inviting!'

Right! Sure. Why not?

Her story made me a bit envious. It would never happen
to me. By then I was dying for a cigarette to calm myself down a little, but I couldn't smoke in Mariette's presence.

‘His Spanish accent is really adorable and funny. He's been here for a long time but he still can't pronounce certain sounds. I have to laugh most of the time, but he doesn't seem to care. He makes fun of me when I try to say a few Spanish words.'

‘Because you're learning Spanish, of course …'

‘Sure, what do you think? It's important that I understand his language. He is teaching me Spanish through songs. I love it! I'll make a tape for you. Besides, I may go to Spain soon. You could come with us, you know …'

I grimaced and refused to reply.

‘Oh, sorry, Claudia. I'm so excited about the idea that I forgot about your fear of flying. You know, you could take a boat, but since you only have two weeks' vacation a year that might be kind of difficult,' my grandmother giggled.

‘That's not funny at all, Mariette!'

She resumed the tale of her encounter at Fit Gourmet.

I could picture Mariette at the Spanish Week display, rolling her eyes and using her silkiest voice to attract Juan José. People always noticed her good looks, even at her age, and her generous personality.

Taking care of herself and having a good time had always been very important to her. She was actually the only fun person in my entire family. And the only one I knew I could always rely on.

Having told me all her latest news, she summoned the gorgeous waiter over and asked him to bring us more roasted fat-free, salt-free soybeans. She then returned to
the subject that she firmly believed was so important for my future.

‘Claudia, when do you think would be the best day for you to go to Fit Gourmet?'

Having no idea, I just looked at her and shrugged.

‘I've thought about it. I'd say, for your age range, Saturday morning is best.'

‘Because …?'

‘Because it's when the single men—'

‘More or less charming …'

‘They are all more charming than less in my neighbourhood …'

‘If they're not gay.'

‘Come on, Claudia, it's time you gave up this obsession with gay men. They'll never give you what you want as a straight woman!'

‘You're right. But I can't help it.' I glanced again at our delicious waiter, who seemed to be flirting excessively with a male customer.

‘On Saturday morning, after a long week at work and a crazy Friday night, these charming bachelors finally realise that they have nothing left in the fridge when they want to have a late-morning breakfast.'

Mariette imitated perfectly the expression of a guy who had just woken up opening his fridge and finding to his disappointment that there was hardly enough milk left in the carton for his cereal. I burst out laughing.

‘So these men take their courage in their hands, get into their cars or, even better, take their little shopping carts and walk to Fit Gourmet.'

‘Um, well, um …' I mumbled, not sure about Mariette's new theory. Or the shopping carts.

‘But never before eleven thirty. And you know why? Because since they've been out the night before, they need to recover a little by sleeping late. When they finally wake up they realise that they're really hungry.'

‘They could go out to eat,' I suggested.

‘Some do, but in my neighbourhood most like to put food in their fridges, and some even like to cook. These are the young men you should look for, not the ones who always eat out and order takeout pizza or Chinese food. I picture you more with someone who considers his kitchen to be an important place in the house, the centre of marvellous culinary creations, and not just a room with a fridge containing milk and beer.'

‘I didn't know straight guys like that even existed!'

‘In my neighbourhood they do …'

‘OK! So, you're telling me that I should go to your local Fit Gourmet on Saturday morning at eleven thirty to meet The Man I may marry?'

‘You got it, Claudia. But, remember, you don't have to marry him. At least don't tell him that right away. It may scare him off.'

Right!

That reminded me of Kelly's theory: if you want to get rid of a man, tell him you want to marry him in a beautiful, expensive white dress, and have three children! It's the best way to get him out of your life completely.

Actually, at that point, I would simply have liked to find a companion with whom I could share my life and
thoughts without even considering marriage or kids.

More roasted fat-free, salt-free soybeans were put on our little table. I smiled as gracefully as I could at the gorgeous waiter. He smiled back. It didn't hurt, and since I knew he'd never be interested in me, it wasn't like I'd have to follow it up at all.

Mariette proposed another toast with our half-empty pint glasses of beer: to the man I'd meet at Fit Gourmet.