Fromage a Trois Page 5
Before we fell into another awkward silence I blurted out “What do you have?”
“Well, I have young Comté and old Comté,” he said.
I shrugged and he continued. “Young Comté is more rubbery with a lighter flavor. Old Comté has a deeper taste and is more expensive because it’s been refined.” He spoke with a passion for cheese that was so endearing I was tempted to order a slice of each. Instead, feeling overwhelmed, I asked him which he preferred.
“I prefer old Comté, but it depends on what you like and how refined your palate is. Children tend to like fruity Comté. But old Comté . . . it’s very, how do you say, dynamic?”
I nodded, pretending to understand what he was saying, but I still felt confused. “I’ll have a slice of that, then.”
“Anything else?” he asked.
“What would you recommend?”
“Again, it depends on what you like,” he said, seeming almost confused by the question. I got the impression that personal recommendations perhaps weren’t as common in France as in Australia, where sales assistants are always armed with suggestions on how you should spend your money.
“Maybe a Brie or a Camembert,” I said quickly, embarrassed that I couldn’t bring a more niche French cheese to mind in the heat of the moment.
He nodded, obviously not aware, or perhaps not caring, that I felt like a walking tourist cliché.
“This Brie is perfect for today or tomorrow. When will you be eating it?” he asked.
“As soon as possible after leaving the store,” I said with a giggle, trying to make him laugh.
“OK, that settles it,” he replied seriously. “How many people are you going to share the cheese with?”
“Just me,” I replied.
He looked at me like he was about to say something, but then said, “D’accord. Then you won’t need very much.” He cut me off a chunk that looked large enough for four people, but that suited me perfectly.
Then, as he was jotting down the names and origins of each cheese onto the wax paper they were wrapped in, he laughed and told me an anecdote about how the man who made this Brie sang to his cheese in the morning, giving it an extra je ne sais quoi.
“Merci,” I said, taking my beautifully-wrapped cheeses. “By the way, I’m Ella. I’ll be back again for more cheese soon, Monsieur . . . Monsieur . . .”
My hunt for his name hung heavily in the air. I guess he wasn’t ready to share that very personal detail with me yet. Feeling myself starting to blush again, I hurried out of the store yelling thank you and cradling my cheese as I might a newborn baby.
Despite the multiple blushing outbreaks, my first cheese-buying mission had been a success! I felt elated that I’d managed to purchase both Comté and Brie and not make too much of a fool of myself. Yes, Mr. Cheeseman hadn’t been as soft and cuddly in person as I’d hoped when I’d spotted him through the window, but he seemed to know his cheese, he spoke English, and I was sure I could get him to warm up with a few more visits. Perhaps I’d even make it my mission to try and get him to laugh at one of my own stories the next time I went in.
I kept up my shopping momentum and found a bakery to buy a baguette to go with my cheese—oui, oui—and headed towards a little park in the Marais to try my first post-Paul and post-Melbourne Comté.
The Square du Temple was quintessentially Parisian, mixing perfectly-manicured gardens with huge trees that shaded the rows of bench seats lining the off-white gravel paths. A large children’s play area was overrun with kids wearing colorful shorts, round-rimmed glasses, and cravats. They buzzed about, screaming to one another with their high-pitched voices as they picked up insects and tortured them in a charming, inquisitive French way. Keeping a casual eye on these excitable terrors were chic Parisian mothers—or perhaps au pairs—who every now and then would trot after les bébés as they darted a little too close to the park gates or into the flower beds that were bright with pristine summer blooms.
Sitting down on an empty bench, I laid the carefully folded little parcels of cheese onto my handbag, using it as a makeshift table, and ripped into the baguette. I quickly realized that it was hard to cut cheese without a knife so I improvised, breaking off a couple of chunks of Comté and placing them on a generous hunk of bread. I bit into my one-ingredient sandwich and waited for my taste buds to wake up. And then they did, and I felt like I was melting, right then and there in the middle of Paris, and not from the heat of the early afternoon sun. I’d been right remembering that cheese tasted better in France. Slight hints of salt and just the right amount of sharpness and sweetness hit my taste buds in tandem.
When Mr. Cheeseman had been slicing the twenty-four-month-aged cheese, he’d told me that old Comté had a little more bite and a more intense flavor than its younger counterparts. It was certainly richer than anything I’d been able to buy at home in Australia. It tasted more refined, more French. It was love at first bite. I practiced my French on my lunch. Je t’aime, je t’aime, je t’aime, I repeated over and over again to my cheese sandwich.
I watched as groups of friends and family congregated together on a small patch of grass bathed in sunlight, disrobing in the warm summer sun to reveal bare chests and—for some incomprehensible reason—bikinis and bathers. Couples sprawled intertwined on rugs, sipping beers and kissing each other as though they were the only people in the park. Ah, to be young and in love in Paris, I thought.
As conviviality surrounded me, I felt a twinge of melancholy, my first since getting on the plane, and I couldn’t help wishing I had someone to share my picnic with. I was desperate to talk in great detail about the magical flavor of the cheese, the fluffiness of the baguette, and the sweetness of feeling the summer sun on my pasty skin.
As fun as being on holiday was, I knew that eventually I would get lonely, and that sooner rather than later, I was going to start running out of cash to entertain myself during my long days off. It became clear that I needed a job, money, and friends if I were going to create a life for myself here. The blissful existence of a happy Parisian was like a carrot dangling before me, and I felt like it was going to be hard to reach.
I started to get overwhelmed thinking about what I needed to do to set up in France and I was reminded of the horrible post-breakup to-do list that had helped spur on my move to Paris in the first place. Mum’s instruction to call her when things went pear-shaped rung in my ears. It was as though she’d foreseen how my day would play out and saw it ending in a bout of homesickness. I headed back to the hotel, brushing off the unwelcome wave of sadness as jet lag. Whatever my current feelings were, I was desperate for an afternoon nap.
Chapter
8
I WOKE THE NEXT MORNING to the sound of cars beeping their way into the pre-work, rush-hour furore. Checking the time on my phone, I groggily realized I’d slept through the night. I must have been more jet-lagged than I’d thought. My stomach was grumbling loudly having been deprived of dinner, and I made a beeline for the tiny bar fridge where I’d stashed the Brie. For the second time since arriving in Paris, I was hit in the face with that unique farmyard aroma—not always pleasant but synonymous with delicious French cheese.
I ripped open the curtains and windows to let in the sunshine, which had been peeping brightly through the curtains and promising weather as glorious as the day before. A warm breeze gently filled the hotel room, helping disperse the cheese smell. My positivity had returned. As Mum used to say when I was small, a good night’s sleep can sort out any bad mood.
Tearing open the packet of Brie, I dug out yesterday’s leftover baguette from my bag. While I had originally thought the cheese was too generous a serving for one, I was now thankful that Mr. Cheeseman had given me such a large slice. I cut a segment and placed it directly in my mouth, abstaining from bread for the first taste, as the French do. I let it sit a moment, registering the flavor on my tongue. It was soft and creamy, flavorsome but at the same time mild. Perfection.
Hearing the happy sound of people filling the city’s many terraces for coffee and brunch, I felt a pull to get out among the action. Thinking about Mr. Cheeseman’s astonishment at me not speaking French, I downloaded some beginner language podcasts to kick-start my efforts before heading out the door.
On my way out, the receptionist asked me if I had any nice plans, perhaps meeting up with friends? Her assumptions brought back that pang of loneliness from the night before, but I couldn’t be deterred. It was a new day, and armed with my language lessons, I’d get the hang of being French in no time.
I strolled around for hours as if in a dream, repeating phrases like “Comment allez-vous?” and “Je voudrais un verre de vin rouge.”
I passed many old couples having a pre-lunch tipple—don’t let the fact it’s only eleven in the morning put you off, dear French friends—and in my distraction, almost walked straight past the entrance to a charming little market called “Le Marché des Enfants Rouges.” The Red Children’s Market was housed in a compact space, concealed just off Rue de Bretagne, but the cramped lanes and food stalls were humming with stallholders, shoppers, and visitors.
Entering through the gates, it was hard not to feel transported into a hidden French world, where food and beauty seemed to be the order of the day. I jostled between customers buying fruit and vegetables, wine and fresh-cut flowers. There were even tour groups with headsets to contend with, but thankfully they didn’t detract from the magic. When I stumbled on a man making crêpes towards the back of the market, I couldn’t help but stop and enjoy the show. He was singing and calling out to people as he expertly swirled the batter around his hot plate before adding Nutella, sugar and butter, or chestnut paste. I couldn’t resist his charms and tried to order one in my best French. But then his attentions were on me as he sang and joked, and I laughed despite not understanding what was going on. I didn’t mind, though. It was a nice moment of feeling lost.
I continued to walk around the market, ogling the seasonal vegetables and fantasizing about buying ingredients for future dinner parties with all my wonderful French friends. I made a note to come back to the Moroccan stall, whose line snaked well into the market; it was the perfect spot for lunch. I peeked behind those queuing and saw colorful cabinets filled with huge bowls brimming with couscous and tagine, and piles of shiny, sticky baklava screaming out to be eaten accompanied by a pot of sweet mint tea.
When I realized Nutella was oozing out of my crêpe and down my hand, I decided it was probably time to go before I embarrassed myself. But before I could dart out of the market, I suddenly found myself swept up in a tour group. It was such a busy day that extricating myself from the crowd was easier said than done. The group leader looked at me and nodded while speaking to me in another language I didn’t understand and I desperately ducked behind a vegetable stand just to get away from him. Finally free, I looked down at my Nutella-soaked fingers and licked the mess away, rather indelicately; fortunately nobody was around to see my very unladylike behavior.
Or perhaps not . . .
I spotted him before I could even put a name to his face. It was Mr. Cheeseman, walking directly towards me. In that moment he was the epitome of the French cliché, still wearing his white apron and carrying a baguette and a bottle of red wine. He must have been on his way to lunch.
I was so excited to see someone I recognized in Paris that I started waving and sung out to say hello. He looked momentarily taken aback.
If he doesn’t recognize me, at least please let him remember me.
When he drew near, I jumped right in and said, “Thank you again for the delicious cheese yesterday,” hoping he wouldn’t think I was some kind of Parisian crazy.
After what felt like an eternity, recognition flashed across his face and he smiled widely. I felt like we’d already made progress from yesterday’s meeting.
“’ello, Ella,” he said. I was surprised he remembered my name and quite impressed, despite still being embarrassed I didn’t know his.
“Bonjour. Comment allez-vous?” I said, feeling smug that I was already putting my French phrases to good use.
“Très bien,” he replied. “Are you staying locally?”
“Just around the corner—for now,” I said, taking his cue to switch to English before things got too linguistically complicated.
His face opened, as though my living close to his store made me more interesting, more worthy of a chat. I couldn’t help but notice his piercing blue eyes in the sunlight.
“So tell me, you liked the cheese?” he said, his brow furrowed and serious.
“It was perfect,” I said.
“Bien,” he said. “And the Comté, it wasn’t too, how do you say, piquant?”
“No, in fact, it was the best I’ve ever had.”
He nodded. “Ah, then, you’ll have to come back and try some more.” Another charming almost-grin.
Someone’s in a good mood today, I thought.
“It would be my pleasure. I’ll come by tomorrow afternoon.”
“OK, à demain alors,” he said, and I nodded along, hoping that I was translating correctly what I thought meant “see you tomorrow.” His facial expression didn’t suggest that I’d made a faux pas and as we went our separate ways, I couldn’t help but feel excited at the idea of having made a French acquaintance, and a cheese-seller no less.
After leaving the market, I continued down to the Seine, past epic buildings and beautiful boutiques, all the while unable to wipe the smile off my face. I zipped past Notre-Dame, took a quick selfie, and then crossed the river into the busy Saint-Michel, walking past couscous restaurants, crêpe stalls, and bars promoting too-cheap happy hours. Arriving at the famed Shakespeare and Company bookstore, I stopped in to buy a new English-language book. And yes, I should be reading in French, I reprimanded myself, but that can wait until next week at least.
On previous trips to Paris, I’d always been disappointed to miss out on visiting the bookstore associated with Hemingway, Joyce, and Pound. Like most other tourists, I wanted to mull around the store, which I’d seen in the films Midnight in Paris and Before Sunset, and I was going to enjoy every last second there. Snapping another selfie, I thought about how traveling solo had its advantages when it came to doing things on your own schedule. After stalking the shelves, listening to a man playing the piano upstairs, and flipping through various old books, I finally settled on buying a copy of Mastering the Art of French Cooking, which I figured would stand me in good stead at any future dinner parties I might host.
Exhausted from the heat and the walking and keen to dip into my new book, I parked up on a bench in the shade overlooking the boats and the picnickers who had taken over the banks. Families walked by with multicolored ice cream cones from the famed Berthillon, savoring every last lick. And as the sun fell over the city, groups of dancers began to congregate and take over the mini amphitheaters that lined the river. The whole scene felt like a movie, but rather than being glued to a screen, I was sitting amongst the action.
No longer able to keep my eyes open, I left the river and began making my way back to the Marais. En route, I saw a café that looked cozy and welcoming, and totally different to the hundreds of other Parisian cafés that are unmistakably associated with the city thanks to their representation in films and photos. It was called “Flat White,” clueing me in to the fact that maybe it wasn’t French-owned at all.
But even more noteworthy than
its obvious differences to other French coffee shops was a small job advertisement in the window for a barista.
While café work didn’t really fit into my glamorous Paris career goals, I couldn’t discount the fact that I needed money, and the ad was thankfully written in both English and French, which seemed like a good sign considering my current comprehension level of the latter. Plus, the thought of having colleagues who I could go for a drink with, coupled with the prospect of having constant access to good coffee, made me feel like perhaps this was just what I needed. I made a note to come back and check out the café’s vibe the following day.
Chapter
9
IF MY FIRST TWO DAYS in Paris had been all about eating, strolling about, and appreciating the Parisian joie de vivre, the next few days needed to morph into business. Come on, Ella, it’s time for action! I said quietly, coaxing myself out of bed.
My booking at the hotel was only for another four nights, so I needed to find somewhere permanent to live, and quickly. Securing accommodation was the order of the day and I spent the first few hours of magnificent sunshine holed up in my room wading through announcements for share houses, sublets, and short-term rentals. Prices were much more expensive than what I was used to paying in Melbourne, especially considering Paul and I used to split the mortgage repayments seventy-thirty. I did some sums and realized that I would have to rent a room in a share flat because I couldn’t afford something to myself. If I wanted to live solo, I’d squander my savings even faster than my revised budget had accounted for. Not ideal.
Two hours in and I’d already sent some inquiries and emails. The prospects weren’t overly exciting but I’d made a solid start, and given the smells of lunch and baking pastries and bread that continued wafting through my window, I decided I couldn’t stay inside a minute longer.
I planned to go down to Flat White, the café I’d seen the day before, to get a decent cup of coffee and perhaps ask about the barista job if I could pluck up the nerve. After sleeping on the idea, I’d come to realize that getting a hospitality job, at least in the beginning, would quite literally buy me some time to apply for better opportunities.