On Rue Tatin (16 page)

NOTE
: The cooking time will depend on the thickness of the fillet.

11/4 to 11/2 pounds/625 to 750g cod, lingcod, halibut, or other firm white fish fillets, trimmed, bones removed

1 tablespoon/15g unsalted butter

11/4 pounds/625g tomatoes, cored and cut in 6 wedges each

2 tablespoons/30ml freshly squeezed lemon juice

Fine sea salt and freshly ground black pepper

1/4 cup/5g loosely packed fresh tarragon leaves or another herb of your choice such as basil, dill, chives, or parsley

1. Rinse the fillets, pat them dry, and refrigerate until ready to cook. Preheat the oven to 400° F/200° C/gas 6.

2. Butter a large baking dish. Lay the fish in the dish
(skin-side down if there is skin on the fillets), and arrange the tomato wedges around the fish. Drizzle the fish and the tomatoes with the lemon juice, then season all with salt and pepper.
Sprinkle half the tarragon leaves over the fish and bake in the oven until the fish is opaque and the tomatoes are tender, about 15 minutes.

3. Remove the dish from the oven, scatter the remaining tarragon leaves over the fish, and season with a fine sprinkling of pepper. Serve immediately.

4
SERVINGS

THE ROLLS THAT BROUGHT US TOGETHER
LES PAINS DE RAPPROCHEMENT

These are rolls that break down cultural barriers. Make them and you’ll taste why! This recipe was first published in
Farmhouse Cookbook,
Workman Publishing Inc., 1991.

These must be served hot from the oven!

1 cup/250ml milk

8 tablespoons/125g unsalted butter, at room temperature

1 package/1/4 ounce/7g active dry yeast

1/2 cup/100g sugar

41/2 cups/650g all-purpose flour

2 large eggs

1 teaspoon fine sea salt

1. Scald the milk over medium-high heat. Pour it into a large bowl or the bowl of an electric mixer and add the butter. Stir until the butter has melted. Set the bowl aside until the mixture is lukewarm.

2. Stir the yeast and sugar into the milk. Add 1 cup/145g of the flour and mix well. Add the eggs, one at a time, beating well after each addition. Add the salt and 1 more cup/145g of flour, and mix vigorously until the dough is elastic and smooth, at least 6 minutes by hand or 3 minutes on medium speed with an electric mixer.

3. If you are mixing by hand, add the remaining 21/2 cups/
360g flour and mix until the dough is slightly firmer but still very soft and smooth. Turn it out onto a lightly floured surface and knead just until it is smooth, which will take 2 to 3 minutes. If you are using an electric mixer, add the 21/2 cups/360g flour and mix just until it is incorporated. Then turn the dough out onto a lightly floured surface, and continue kneading by hand until it is smooth.

4. Place the dough in a bowl, cover it with a kitchen towel, and set aside to rise in a warm spot (68 to 70° F) until it has doubled in size, about 2 hours.

5. Lightly flour 2 baking sheets.

6. Turn the dough out onto a well-floured surface, divide it in half, and roll each half to form a circle that is 1/8 inch/.3cm thick and 16 inches/40cm in diameter. Cut each circle into quarters, and cut each quarter into 4 wedges. Roll the edges up, beginning at the wide end, to form crescents.

7. Place the rolls on the prepared baking sheets, leaving 2 inches/5cm between them and arranging them with the tips rolled underneath, so they won’t pop up during rising and baking. Cover the rolls with a kitchen towel and let them rise in a warm spot (68 to 70° F) until they have nearly doubled in size, at least 4 hours.

8. Preheat the oven to 350° F/175° C/gas 4/5.

9. Bake the rolls in the center of the oven until they are golden, 10 to 12 minutes. Remove, and serve immediately.

32
ROLLS

NINE
               

The Priest

A FEW DAYS AFTER we’d moved into 1 rue Tatin I heard a knock on the front door. There on our stoop was a timid young couple who asked me when the pre-marriage classes began. I looked blank, and the young woman asked me if this was the
aumônerie
, or parish house. I said no and pointed to where the
aumônerie
was, right behind our house, and thought nothing more about it. The following day two couples stopped by, and by week’s end I’d had at least five different young couples knock on the door and ask the same question. Over the ensuing weeks many people knocked at the door or simply barged right in the house looking for the priest, inquiring after a baptism or communion, wondering about other church business.

As the weather warmed, we ate outside often and nine times out of ten people walked through our garden while we were in the midst of a meal. Either it was the priest or one of his assistants or the young couple who volunteered at the church in exchange for lodging in the
aumônerie
behind us. Being well brought up these intruders always said
“Bonjour!”
and shook our hands whether we were eating fried chicken, had our mouths full, or had guests.

It became obvious that much of the parish assumed our house was the parish hall, and that our garden was public property. This was the result of a decades-old mix-up in addresses that had the parish hall listed at 1 rue Tatin, our legal address. At first when people made the mistake and came to our house we directed them kindly and eagerly to the proper address. Even when people walked right in the house we would stop them and explain, then show them the way. After a few months and many disturbances, however, it became tedious.

We tried locking the door but that wasn’t practical for Michael, who was constantly in and out with buckets of this and barrels of that. I put a handwritten sign on the door explaining where the
aumônerie
was, but that didn’t seem to deter anyone.

One evening I was upstairs in Joe’s room reading him a story when I heard a heavy foot on the stairs and a strident
“Allô! Allô!”
I walked out of his room, through our room, and into the bathroom. There stood an imperious elderly woman with a cane.
“Je suis ici pour le curé!”
she said. “I’m here for the priest.” I felt the weight of a last straw.

I don’t think I even responded but took her by the elbow, steered her back downstairs, and then had the presence of mind to explain that the
curé
didn’t live in our house, that it was a private family home, and would she please tell all of her friends. I admit to being annoyed, yet I couldn’t blame these individuals.

Once we realized that all these intrusions were a simple matter of a mistaken address I mentioned it to the priest and to his lay helper, asking them to change it. Both brushed me off with a
“Oui, oui
.” Nothing changed. I called the city planning office and the gentleman I spoke with was aghast. “
Madame
, this is not your job to ask them to change their address. It is our job. We will write them a letter and all will be well,” he gushed.

Nothing changed. After about six months I called the city planning office and they affirmed they had sent the letter. I explained that nothing seemed to have changed and they promised to send another one. I’m sure they did, but there was no sign that any heed was taken.

We had known when we bought the house that the deed specified an easement for the priest, so that he could have easy access to his house (though it also has an entrance on another street). Over the years the easement had been unofficially extended to all the parishioners, who thought nothing of walking through the garden of a basically derelict house to get to the parish hall. The woman we bought the house from had told us few people walked through the yard. Either she had lied or she had simply never spent enough time at the house to really know how much traffic there actually was.

We had tried all the legal means to make people change their ways. We’d told everyone who walked through our garden that there was another entrance and that this was a private home. I had put signs on our front gate and our front door explaining that this wasn’t the parish hall and directing people around the corner. In Paris I bought a lovely enameled sign that read
privé
and put that on the door. The French are very respectful of privacy, and I was assured that
privé
would do the trick. But our door continued to open and parishioners continued to wander into our living room.

The true final straw came on a warm Sunday morning. I set our table outside for breakfast, and when Michael returned from the
boulangerie
we all sat down to freshly squeezed orange juice, coffee, croissants, and brioches. The church bells rang out the mass, the sun was warm but not too hot, and we were basking in our good fortune. Joe had gone inside to play and we were outside reading the paper when suddenly I heard him yell “Mama! Mama! What are all those ghosts doing in our yard?” I looked up from the paper to see a line of white-robed children, large wooden crosses hanging around their necks, standing in our garden. They were about to make their first communion and were flushed with devotion, eager and pure. Beyond them a clutch of parents was trampling my herbs and lettuces as they angled to get photos. We were flabbergasted yet charmed at the same time and we sat as if nailed to our chairs.

We weren’t about to make a scene for these people on such an important day, so we sipped our coffee and observed the spectacle. These poor kids, I thought, dressed up like friars and sober brides. I was getting a look at my own religion from a new perspective. Joe was hanging on to me, frightened and fascinated. I reassured him that they weren’t ghosts, but I’m not sure he believed me.

I spoke to the priest’s assistant the following day to ask him to please let us know when there would be another event like communion, so we would be prepared. He looked at me blankly. “We are just doing things the way they have always been done.”

We felt that the priest and his entourage had no empathy with what had become to us an unbearable invasion of privacy, and would do nothing to change it. We decided we had to act, and that the best solution would be to offer to build an entryway, at our cost, on church property. That way all the parishioners would have direct access from the parish hall and the priests’ house to the church without cutting through our garden. It seemed to us to be a perfect solution.

We had to make our proposal to the priest in charge, and I called around to find out which of the two who resided behind us—who were familiarly referred to as
“
Sandale
”
and
“
Bicyclette
,”
since one always wore sandals, and the other always rode a bicycle—I should contact. I sought out the
“chef”—
Bicyclette—and invited him over for cake and coffee. He accepted.

I was testing
gâteau Breton
recipes at the time and I made one for him, along with what I thought was a rich pot of coffee. I used one of our old-fashioned Helem coffeemakers—a wondrous, bulbous contraption that looks like part of a chemistry set—because that is what we use when there are more than just the two of us. I didn’t know it well enough yet to realize that it had to have boiling water put through it several times to remove a sort of reedy taste from the filter.

It was cold that day and our house was chilly, but I made sure it was tidy, and Michael and I dressed up. We were, after all, receiving the town priest. I set the buttery, golden cake on the table and brought out our best, multipatterned coffee cups and cake plates. I was nervous. We were newcomers to town and had the distinct feeling that no one was too thrilled to have us here.

The priest arrived and looked around. He made a few complimentary comments. I went to make the coffee, he stayed and talked with Michael. I relaxed a bit, thinking “This isn’t so bad.” I poured the coffee, which didn’t smell very rich at all, and cut into the cake. To my horror, it was slightly gummy in the
center.

“Oh, God,” I thought, perhaps appropriately. But I served it, and we dug in. The cake tasted as undercooked as it looked, and to this day I don’t know what happened. The coffee was thin. I was dying inside.

But conversation flowed just fine. I got up to make more coffee. When I returned Michael had just explained our idea to the priest and was laying out his plan. I could tell immediately that the atmosphere had changed. The priest’s shoulders were hunched up tensely around his ears. His back was stiff. I could feel his displeasure. I offered him coffee and he refused, instead spitting out several questions about our plan, which we answered. He quickly made his excuses and was gone. Michael and I looked at each other. “Uh-oh,” we both said. “This will not be easy.”

I threw away the cake. Since then I’ve made dozens—my favorite being one with ground walnuts incorporated into the batter—and they have always been delicious. Perhaps it was divine intervention.

The priest had said he’d get back to us about our idea, and two weeks later he came to talk to Michael, who was outside trimming the rosebushes. I was in my office and could look down on them, their backs to me. As I watched I suddenly saw Michael straighten up. As surely as if smoke were pouring from his ears I could tell he was angry, and not just a little bit angry. I ran outside to intervene.

Flames licked around the eyes of the priest, Michael was opening and closing his fist. The priest didn’t waste a moment or a drop of his wrath, turning on me quickly and vehemently, telling me that he thought we were most selfish people. He said he would never allow us to build a new entry, that the situation would never change, that he would never grant his approval. I asked why.
“J’ai mes habitudes
.
”
“I have my habits,” he barked, looking me hotly in the eye.

I explained how awkward it was for us, and for those who walked through our garden. I explained how often the gate was left open, and how dangerous that was for our son, for he might run out into the busy street. I described in the most polite way I could how much better the new fence would be, and how we would pay for every bit of it, and how it would be done quickly and efficiently. He glared at me.
“Madame
,
”
he said, spitting nails. “You talk like an owner.”

Normally one calls a priest
père
, or father. The word stuck in my throat. I addressed him as Monsieur, which I knew came close to being an insult, but I wanted him to understand how he impressed me.
“Monsieur
,
”
I said. “I am an owner, the owner, of this house. And I want you, right now, to get off my property.”

I have often been told that when I’m angry my French is perfect. Whether or not my words were perfect or not, my glare said it all and so did Michael’s. This man disgusted me, and I didn’t try to hide it. He gave each of us an angry look and was gone.

I was shaking. I looked immediately heavenward to see if a lightning bolt was on its way down to strike me. I don’t practice my religion, but once a Catholic always a Catholic. I was sick to my stomach. I had never, ever spoken to a man of the cloth in such a way. In fact, I’ve never been angry enough to ask someone to get off my property. Michael was gray with fury. From that moment forward, he hated the man in a deep and personal way. This, I feared, was war.

When I cooled down I tried to talk with Michael about it. He had nothing but unprintable things to say about the priest. I called a friend who is actively involved in the church to find out who was above this priest so we could talk with him. I got a name and tried to call, but never got a response. I heard through the grapevine that even as far away as évreux, the county seat and headquarters of the parish about twenty minutes from Louviers, there was a certain prejudice against us.

The priest came through our garden more often than ever, usually accompanied by several people, for protection I guessed. Michael was often working on walls, or paving, or in the garden outside so he had to face them. While the situation bothered me it became an obsession with him.

We decided to consult a lawyer. We didn’t want to go to court, but we did think a letter from a lawyer, outlining what we wanted to do and why and directed to the right person, might help. After all, our idea was sensible—it would hurt no one and help everyone. After hearing our story, the lawyer agreed with us. She knew our property—everyone in Louviers does—and she was incredulous at the priest’s position.

She agreed to help us and threw herself into our cause. She came to the house several times to look at what Michael was proposing. She met with church officials and talked to influential Catholics in Louviers. All we had expected from her was a well-written letter to the parish in évreux. Instead, we got her full attention.

After a year, during which the traffic continued, she arranged a meeting with the priest and a representative of the bishop in our garden.

We were nervous. We knew this was do or die. If we didn’t get an okay from the bishop today we never would. The lawyer was pretty sure of herself, but she was straight with us, too. “It could go either way,” she said. “But I’ll do my best.”

I prepared another cake and coffee—making sure they were delicious—and everyone met in our garden at 9
A
.
M
. on a beautiful morning. The priest avoided our gaze. The bishop’s representative gave us each a hearty, warm handshake and the lawyer began a soliloquy about the case, explaining elegantly just what we wanted, and why. Caught up in her speech, she portrayed us as ambassadors of our country, come to France to restore a piece of historic Louviers, doers of good. It was terrific. Michael and I swelled with pride.

We walked the boundary of the property as Michael explained where he would put in the new entry, and how it would work. We talked. It was very congenial, except for the silent presence of the priest.

When the tour was finished we all stood outside the house in the shadow of the cathedral, while the lawyer succinctly described, once again, just what we proposed—to build an esthetic entry, at our cost, so those destined for the parish hall would have direct access and we would have tranquility. When the lawyer was finished, the bishop’s representative looked at the priest. “I don’t see anything wrong with this plan,” he said. “It makes perfect sense.” The priest didn’t look up.