Paris in Love (48 page)

After yesterday’s sad train experience, I’ve been thinking about marriage. There’s no getting around the fact the institution leads to the best and the worst of times. The other day Alessandro looked at me and said, “Are you going out like that?” I briefly contemplated homicide. But then last night he squeezed me and said, “Don’t lose weight. I like it when you’re curvy.” I was so glad I hadn’t slain him.

Alessandro and I have discovered a wonderful shop: Heratchian Frères in rue Lamartine, which specializes in
produits alimentaires exotiques et d’Orient
. As in some epicure pirate’s cave, there are shelves of mysterious cans; huge sacks of tiny orange lentils,
barley, and cornmeal; knee-high containers of brined olives; and five kinds of feta. One section was all Turkish delight: rose-flavored, pistachio-flavored,
double
pistachio-flavored. A shelf glimmering in the corner proved to be crowded with jars containing seven different shapes of silver dragées, edible decorations that really do look like pirate booty.

We decided to pull Anna out of school for a few days because the “centers for leisure” are open, and she seems to learn more French in a day of playing in one of them than in three months of French class. We entered the room to a scene of chaos, kids dashing in every direction. Anna held my hand tightly, and then a teacher strolled out, playing his guitar. They all ran to him, Pied Piper–style. “Anna!” he called with a grin, and her hand slipped from mine and she was off.

I took friends to the Musée Jacquemart-André today. This was my second visit, but before now I never noticed a gorgeous little porcelain
Rape of Ganymede
tucked in a deep alcove at the top of the grand staircase. Ganymede was the boy stolen by Zeus to become his cupbearer. As the most beautiful boy on earth, he’s often depicted with lush sensuality; here, he’s a slender, wistful youth, on the verge of leaving home.

Another discovery: the extraordinary Paolo Uccello,
Saint George and the Dragon
, in the Florentine Gallery. In the fifteenth-century panel, a princess—whom Saint George is in the process of rescuing—stands just behind the dragon, which has a perfectly
corkscrewed tail. She is wearing a red velvet gown with pearls sewn in flower patterns, and orange slippers, but her finery is diminished by her pale, docile face and her attitude of prayer. She’s making no attempt to run, and I couldn’t help thinking that she’s put a lot of faith in Saint George’s untested reptile-slaying abilities. Luckily, Saint George is, in fact, adroitly skewering the dragon.

Across the street from our apartment is a little hotel, Hôtel Peyris Opéra, which Anna calls the Harry Potter hotel because of its initials. Paris is gloriously warm and springlike, and today the hotel’s restaurant put three little café tables out in front, with white tablecloths, rose-colored wineglasses, and pink flowers. I have to stay at my computer, but the only thing I want to do is put on a dress and some heels, go downstairs, and drink wine in the sunshine.

B
ack in 1990, rice and love became forever entwined in my mind. A man I’d dated for ten years broke off our relationship, and my response to grief was to learn how to make risotto. A few months later, I went on a blind date with Alessandro, and some time after that found myself in Florence, seeking the approval of my future mother-in-law, whose favorite dish was risotto. Rice and love.

When my long-term relationship went awry, I was living in a tiny apartment in the graduate ghetto of New Haven, Connecticut. I spent my free time cooking, crying, and reading. My favorite cookbook was Paul Bertolli’s
Chez Panisse Cooking
, a collection of fervent essays that included a long piece on risotto. I would stand over the pot, stirring as Paul instructed, reading a romance borrowed from the public library, and crying every now and then when it seemed the heroines had a better life than I did. After a month or two of this, I was quite good at risotto, and I started to think about men in a more cheerful manner, which led to a blind date with Alessandro, then a graduate student in Italian with loopy black curls and a swimmer’s body. He
invited me to his house for dinner. I wore a tiny black minidress with over-the-knee green suede boots. The evening was a success, so I reciprocated. He loved my risotto. It wasn’t until years later, when I ate his mother’s creamy, delicious risotto, that I understood how crucial that tiny detail was to our future life.

Risotto recipes are everywhere, though I do recommend reading Bertolli’s book, if you can. The basic recipe has an onion, a little garlic, Arborio rice, a cup of white wine, and homemade broth. But this is a recipe that’s like love: you must savor every step. When you can smell that the onions are soft but not brown, add the garlic. When you smell the garlic’s burst of perfume, throw in the rice and stir until it takes on a glossy, plumpy sheen. The smell of wine should leap from the pan when you pour it in, and finally—Paul is right about this—the broth goes in slowly, ladle by ladle. Stir. These days, I listen to podcasts while I stir, rather than read romances, but it’s all the same: a slow brewing pot, a stir, another stir.

Chez Panisse risotto came to me when I was heartbroken, and led straight to a risotto-adoring Italian with whom I fell in love and whom I married. And that led to his mother, with her wooden spoon and passion for broth, to my daughter, whose favorite food is risotto with roasted squash.

Luca’s history teacher is very demanding, and he favors the Socratic method. Naturally, as soon as he announces that it is time for an
interrogazione
, the students all line up to go to the bathroom. From the refuge of the loo, Luca texted a friend—“Who’s chosen?”—and got the texted reply “Just starting.” Luca: “Is he done?” Silence. Luca couldn’t stay in the bathroom forever, so he finally returned to find his poor friend miserably standing in front of the class.

“He’s so
French
,” Alessandro said of Florent, upon returning home from conversation exchange today. “He goes on and on about Pauline: so passionate, so in love. But has he told her any of this? No.” According to my husband, if Florent were Italian instead of French, he would already be booked into a honeymoon hotel. Remembering Alessandro’s style of courtship, I would agree.