Freedom Fries and Cafe Creme (18 page)

Matt paused to think, then said, ‘You have a point, but I'm afraid that I can't live like that all the time.'

‘Yes, you're realising now that you've been in a holiday mindset for a few months and now it has to come to an end. Actually, I hope you enjoyed it because you may not be able to take a break for a long time now.'

Matt knew she was right.

‘I love you so much, Paprika,' he sighed. ‘I thought that you loved me as well.'

‘I love you very much, and maybe more than you realise. I think we have genuinely strong feelings for each
other. However, neither of us is ready to follow the other, and if one of us does, it might spoil what we have.'

‘I'll never meet anyone like you again.'

‘You won't because you'll never be in this situation. I don't know if I'll meet anyone or not. I don't know if I'll have children or not. I'd like to, in a way, and I hope they'll appreciate the peaceful life I have to offer them, as my sister's children do. I hope they won't be spoilt by the ugliness of the world.'

She stopped, took a sip of her water, sighed loudly, and went on, ‘But I still have a few years of freedom in front of me. If I had been unhappy with my life here in my little bubble, I might have followed you. But I'm just too happy here.'

They sat for a moment in silence. Matt didn't quite know what to say or do.

‘Let's have a toast!' Paprika announced. ‘To your successful, glamorous life, and to the continuation of my simple little existence!'

The cheerful clinking of the champagne flutes erased their sad thoughts of the future without each other. What Matt and Paprika both wanted was to make the most of the little time they had left together.

Enjoy this punchy spread with crackers, fresh or toasted baguette, or pasta. Makes about 500g.

Place the toasted bread into a food processor and blitz to make crumbs. Add all the remaining ingredients and blend to a smooth paste. Transfer into jars or an airtight container. The tapenade can be stored in the fridge for 2 weeks.

Daddy Bastien's house speciality

serves 4.

In a dry frying pan, cook the duck breasts over a medium heat, skin-side down first, until medium rare to well done (about 8–10 mins skin-side, 2–4 mins other side). Set aside to rest, covered, on a warm plate. Return the pan to the heat and add the sage and honey to the duck fat. Heat gently, stirring, until the honey is melted and bubbling. Return the meat to the pan and heat for 1 minute. Season with salt and pepper, to taste. The
magrets de canard
are particularly good served with sautéed parsnips.

This traditional stew from Hungary with a Languedoc twist serves 4.

A very popular and refreshing way of finishing a good meal at Chez Bastien. Serves 4.

In a bowl, slowly mix the honey with the olive oil until well blended. Add the lemon juice and yogurt and stir gently. Refrigerate for at least 2 hours, then transfer to an ice-cream maker and churn according to the instructions. Serve immediately or store in the freezer until required, allowing the frozen yogurt to soften slightly in the fridge before serving.

‘Antoine!' I cried, overjoyed to see him after so long.

‘Julie, how many years has it been since you were back here?'

Time goes by so fast … too fast. I stood there, trying to remember.

‘I'm not sure now … four, five?'

‘Definitely too long,' muttered Antoine, glaring at me. ‘You haven't changed a bit.'

I wouldn't tell him that I thought he looked older. Or maybe he was simply tired?

‘Hello, Delphine.' Antoine kissed our friend who I was staying with and who had come with me to the farm.

All of a sudden none of us wanted to talk, even though there were so many things to be said. Here we were, silently thinking about our shared past. Our eyes took in the beautiful countryside, like a green patchwork that covered the hills and plateaux. Right in the middle lay the
small village, with its Roman church, the faithful sentinel.

Antoine's imposing stone house stood proudly on a hill. A little breeze caressed our faces. The future would always be uncertain, but we knew our fondest memories would always be here.

I was ready to sit down, delighted and melancholy at the same time: two feelings that I always had when I came back to spend a holiday in the south of Burgundy, where I'd grown up. The big table on the terrace around which we were all gathered had been nicely set for the meal and I began to feel very hungry.

Suddenly strident screams broke the silence and shattered our tranquil thoughts. Two young boys wearing cowboy outfits came tearing out of the house. They seemed a little overexcited.

‘Bang, bang! You're dead. I got you,' shouted one to the other, who pretended to be dead.

‘Mathis and Bruno, can't you just behave for once?' Antoine said firmly. ‘Come and meet Julie.'

Antoine's strict tone of voice surprised me – that was something I didn't remember.

‘Hi, Julie!' the two boys chorused in unison.

After I'd kissed them, Mathis, who seemed to be the bolder one, began: ‘Dad told us you live in Chicago …'

‘Do you see Indians there often?' asked Bruno.

‘Not Indians, stupid: gangsters!'

‘Bang, bang!'

I could see that the legends of the Wild West, as well as the Chicago of Al Capone's time, were still alive in the Old World, as I liked to call Europe. Of course, I guessed
immediately why Antoine's kids were so interested in these mythical aspects of America.

Mathis was keen to know more. ‘Is it true that—'

He didn't have time to finish his sentence. At that moment a woman appeared on the terrace and Antoine held up his hand to silence the excited boy.

‘Hello, Gégé,' I said, getting up from my chair. ‘I'm so happy to see you.'

If I thought that Antoine had got older, Gégé hadn't changed at all. She was also very welcoming but, unlike her husband, didn't seem to be stressed out. Her smile was warm and her voice was smooth. She was still chubby, like many women I'd met who lived in the countryside, but it suited her. Her cheeks were rosy, proof of a healthy life in vivifying air.

‘Let's have an aperitif,' she said.

Within seconds, home-made pâtés, cured ham, dried sausages, and
pain de campagne
were brought out. Everything looked delicious. How long had it been since I'd eaten farm produce like this?

I was happy to see that Gégé continued the tradition of rural Burgundy hospitality. In Antoine's house I knew it couldn't be any other way.

The boys both wanted to sit beside me and had endless questions to ask about the Wild West and ‘gangsterland' Chicago. But Antoine wanted them to sit on the other side of the table so that he could be near me himself.

‘Later then?' implored Mathis.

‘Sure,' I answered with a big smile.

But rather than sitting at the table, Mathis and Bruno
began to slope off back indoors.

‘Where do you think you're going? Stay here, we're about to have dinner!' shouted Antoine.

‘We don't really want any of that, and since we can't talk to Julie—'

‘“Any of that” is what's for dinner tonight, boys. Besides—'

‘Antoine,' Gégé interrupted smoothly, ‘they wanted burgers tonight because, with Julie here, it's like an American evening for them.'

‘
Les hamburgers micros: trop cool!
' the boys piped up.

Gégé's tone was so sweet that I'd have thought it would evaporate almost anyone's anger – but not Antoine's.

‘Oh, yes, nowadays children dictate what they want to eat. I forgot!' he said sharply. ‘And microwaved burgers as well! Bravo, Géraldine!'

I remembered then that Antoine tended to call his wife by her full name only when he was in a temper.

I could see that Gégé wasn't happy about Antoine's comment, but she didn't answer back. Looking at me, she simply said, ‘It's rather hard to please everyone. And you know, Julie, I wasn't going to cook hamburgers for you! That would have been sacrilegious!'

Should Antoine have allowed Mathis and Bruno to sit near me? Would they have stayed longer at the table then? I didn't know enough about children to answer these questions, but I could see that they seemed to be like so many kids in America with bad eating habits. But here, in this part of the world, and on a farm where the food was so good, I was surprised that Gégé was microwaving
hamburgers for her children. Was it a way to pacify them, or was it really because it was a sort of American evening for them in my honour?

Once again, I contemplated the beautiful countryside around me, which would have been mine if I had stayed here instead of trying to find myself in the ‘New World' – as I called America.

The little white dots scattered across the green fields, framed by hedgerows and trees were Charolais cattle, which matured slowly, at nature's pace. How long had it been since I'd sat on a terrace like this one and gazed at such a peaceful, bucolic scene?

Gégé asked me if I wanted a kir, and of course I accepted.

When our drinks were served, we proposed a toast: ‘To us, back together again.'

The
petit vin blanc
that Antoine bought from a friend who had a few acres of vineyards nearby was unpretentious and full of flavour – completely to my taste. I often find American wines too overwrought; there's nothing better than a simple, earthy wine. It's the same with food: it's better to let its natural characteristics shine through rather than adding extra ones that might spoil its authenticity.

Gégé made her own crème de cassis. Added to the wine, it made the best kir I'd ever had, in part because I was drinking it here, in this convivial atmosphere, and in the very landscape in which everything we ate and drank had been produced.

I wanted to go back to the past, to when my parents were still alive. They, my brother and I used to eat at the big table in the garden just as we were doing that evening
on Antoine's terrace. Wine was always on the table, even when we were children. I remembered Sunday lunches when we would put a tablespoon of red burgundy into our water to add some colour to it.

The kir was bringing back more memories, just as the famous madeleine had for Proust. But I didn't have time to write hundreds of pages about it. Besides, nothing needed to be written down; everything was etched into my memory.

Enough nostalgia for the past!

‘How is your brother?' asked Antoine. ‘I don't think he's ever been back here since your parents passed away.'

‘No, he hasn't. He's fine, thank you. He still lives in Singapore. He comes to see me in Chicago once a year with his girlfriend. They have an adorable little girl.'

I started talking about my life in Chicago, which seemed almost surreal now, in this southern Burgundy countryside. Everyone listened as they drank their aperitifs. The hors d'oeuvres were as delicious as they looked.

Then Gégé brought out my favourite dish. Antoine had evidently remembered and told his wife about it. How thoughtful of him.
Fromage blanc à la crème et pommes de terre nouvelles en robe des champs
.Yummy!

There was also an exquisite green salad with boiled eggs and bacon. I was already feeling a little full after all the appetisers, but I couldn't resist.

By now, I was totally contented, and I wished I could stay for ever in the midst of this beautiful tableau, which I had a naïve tendency to idealise: a sumptuous meal composed of fresh and delectable foods, with the perfect
family consisting of mother, father and two kids, in a pretty house, surrounded by lovely serene landscape.

This was what I would have had if only …

I met Antoine's gaze and I guessed his thoughts were running along the same lines.

If things had been different we would have been living here together; or over there, in his own American dream. Antoine had always wanted to go to the American West but he'd never done so. I knew I represented his dream because I was the one who'd gone away. He'd never followed.

I might have achieved his ambition, but did his situation correspond to my image of a perfect family life?

Were we both disenchanted by the reality of our dreams or illusions: the American West being no more than a faded legend, and Antoine's perfect family life being not quite so perfect after all?

I could feel some tension between Antoine and his wife and kids. The boys not eating with us had been a disappointment for me.

I didn't really want to think about family dramas. I've never understood why people from the same family, bound by blood, just can't get along. They should stick together since the outside world often isn't easy to face.

I suppose it was because of these cheerless thoughts I had about families that I was still living by myself at thirty-four, believing that happiness didn't depend on having a family of my own.

I was once again staring at the landscape while my thoughts kept drifting back to a golden past. Meanwhile,
Delphine and Gégé were deep in conversation.

Suddenly I heard Antoine asking, ‘Why aren't you moving back, Julie? You keep looking longingly at the landscape,' and his question broke the spell of my nostalgia.

‘I'll never move back here, Antoine, and you know it.'

He sighed and got up to serve another round of drinks.

How could I ever come back here? I was too different now. And let's face it: had the place been that great, would I have left in the first place? When I'd been at high school I'd found everything boring because my brother was always talking about exotic countries, and it had made me long to see the world even though I'd had a boyfriend I'd been really, really attached to – Antoine. Antoine had wanted to go away, too, but he hadn't done anything to make it happen, preferring instead to travel vicariously through films, where everything had been exactly the way he'd wanted it to be, and where he had always been the hero.

I still didn't have a steady companion, but I did have an exciting life in Chicago. At least I believed so …

Once again, I didn't want to pursue the thought. I wanted to enjoy the company of the people I was with right then: Antoine and Delphine – my two dear childhood friends – and Gégé.

The
fromage blanc
was wonderful. I appreciated the produce of the
terroir
all the more each time I returned.

After the main course we took a break and started talking about people from the village and what had happened to them – still single, or married with kids or divorced, or dead, and so on.

We hadn't smiled much since the evening had begun. Too many memories, perhaps.

I needed the excitement of a big city. True, food-wise it wasn't as great in Chicago, nothing like as tasty as the food here, but I managed.

After my three friends wondered how I could survive without all this delicious food, I heard myself saying, ‘Well, when you're open-minded, and if you cook yourself, you can live pretty much in any country and appreciate the local produce. You know, there is something that I really like back in the States: potlucks. I love the concept of every guest bringing a dish to a party. It's a good way to try all kinds of different foods, and they're all home-made. My friends and I agreed a strict rule at the outset that every dish had to be cooked from scratch.'

‘That sounds interesting,' Antoine ventured. ‘But when I'm invited to someone's home, I'm not supposed to cook, am I?'

‘As if you ever do anything in the kitchen,' replied Gégé, her tone still disarmingly sweet. ‘I think it's a good idea,' she added, probably reflecting that she could have cooked less for tonight, even if she had enjoyed it.

‘Anyway, yours is the best pâté I've eaten for a long time,' I complimented her, ‘and your
fromage
remains the most delicious of all the amazing things you make.'

Gégé made her own Charolais, a cheese that could be eaten fresh, slightly ripened, or hard, when it turned a pale bluish-grey. She stored the cheeses to dry them in small wooden cages, then stood them on racks to mature.

‘Thanks,' Gégé answered. ‘You see, when people are
too used to good things, they take them for granted.'

Antoine didn't say anything, but I sensed that the remark was aimed at him.

‘You could export them to the US. You'd make a fortune.'

‘And turn the pleasure of making hand-crafted cheese into a factory operation? No, thanks!' And she laughed for the first time that evening. ‘Besides, American regulations concerning imported dairy products are ridiculous.'

Gégé and Antoine raised a few chickens, rabbits, goats and pigs besides their cattle. So they made all their own pâtés, ham and dried sausages, which represented a tremendous amount of work.