On Rue Tatin (19 page)

One day he called us to say he had a Cometto in the showroom on its way out to a client. It wasn’t the model we wanted, but it would show us the stove. We went to look at it and were impressed. It was way more stove than I needed in terms of its heft, but that was reassuring. It was attractive yet sensible. And we learned we could have it painted any color we wanted.

We hesitated, mostly because of the price. We looked around some more. We revisited runners-up to see if perhaps, in the light of what we now knew, they would work. Then we decided we’d buy it. It was going to cost us more than we’d paid for our car. It seemed ridiculous, but after a year’s worth of looking it was either this or settle for something we knew wouldn’t be right.

The salesman came to our house several times, first to show us more photographs of the Cometto, then to work out the details of its construction, as it, much like the LaCornue, was being built to our specifications. We had decided on a gas and an electric oven (to get the broiler). While I wanted eight burners that wouldn’t be possible, so I settled for six. We opted for exterior thermostats. We drooled over the craftsmanship, the stainless steel pans that fit inside the burners and that could be removed and washed with ease, and the double-walled ovens.

When we’d decided on all the features we needed he calculated the price. It was well over what we’d discussed with him. He was very gentlemanly and discreet, and very firm. Finally he looked at me. “I’m going to write up what you want and give it to the
patron
of the company. When he’s seen it, I’m going to have you call him to see about whether or not he can come down any further.”

We got over that stumbling block—the owner met us halfway on the reduction we wanted, then the salesman returned to see where we were going to install it, then to see how the kitchen was coming along.

Finally all of the paperwork was finished and the salesman returned to present it to us so we could sign it and pay half the cost, and the company could begin to assemble our particular stove. The salesman was obviously excited. “
Vous savez
, I usually sell stoves to large companies who want a basic model,” he said. “I visit them once, we strike our deal, and I return only for the installation. I would never make a living if I spent as much time with each client as I have spent with you. But I see lots of possibilities with this stove. Perhaps we can use it as a model and sell it to other individuals.” We had driven him crazy with our requests and our negotiations and he had loved it.

The only thing we hadn’t decided on was the color, because we needed a particular color wheel to choose from. “I have to get one from a garage, since the paint they use is car paint—it’s sturdy and it lasts forever,” the salesman said. That didn’t seem difficult, but a month later I still hadn’t seen a color wheel. I called him and he hemmed and hawed then finally just poured out his frustration. “The color wheels are impossible to get,” he said. “No
garagiste
I’ve talked to will let me have one to bring you.”

We went to our
garagiste
who shrugged and said he didn’t dare give us his either, for if something happened to it he’d never be able to get another one.

“What a weird country,” was all Michael could say.

Finally the salesman procured one and brought it by. We had 48 hours to look through it and decide our color. It was life and death, he assured us. So, we got the marble that was to line the counters of our kitchen and held every color up to it, finally choosing a rich pine green. With that decision made we forgot about the stove. I had to, otherwise I would have been so impatient and eager I wouldn’t have been able to work and it would take several months to get it built and delivered.

I couldn’t believe the decision-making process was over. No more trips to showrooms, no more perusing of catalogues. I hoped we’d made the right choice.

When the stove was delivered, it took three good-sized men to get it into the house—they had to unscrew the legs to get it through the door—set it up, and hook it to the gas. It was a regal piece of equipment, so grand, so large, so imposing amidst the work site that was to be the kitchen. Once installed everyone, including the workmen, stood around to admire it. Its top was brushed stainless steel with a backsplash of stainless steel emblazoned with a gorgeous bronze medallion right in the center of it with the word Cometto and the logo of a crowing rooster. The pine green was a perfect match to the marble we’d chosen. I was itching to use it, absolutely dying to bake a cake, make a stew, sauté vegetables, even fry an egg, but I couldn’t until the walls were protected behind it, for one splash of grease and they would have to be redone.

Michael covered the stove with a drop cloth and it was several more months before I turned it on. The kitchen still wasn’t finished yet, but the pear and honey
clafoutis
and the herb roasted veal shank were better than any I’d ever made. I’m sure it was because they were cooked in such a gorgeous stove.

HERB ROASTED VEAL SHANK
JARRET DE VEAU RÔTI

Large, meaty, and flavorful veal shanks are one of the wonders of living in France, and they remain the focal point of many a
repas de fête,
or holiday meal, in our home. I like to prepare them with plenty of herbs, so that after long, slow cooking they emerge laced with herbal flavor, and so tender the meat practically falls from the bone.

I have no problem finding large veal shanks at my butcher’s, but if you can’t find large ones simply buy small ones. The cooking time will not differ substantially from that called for here. Serve this with a hearty Côtes du Rhône, or a wine from the Languedoc.

3 tablespoons/45ml extra-virgin olive oil

2 large veal shanks, preferably hind (33/4 pounds/1kg 875g total), with bone

3 medium carrots, trimmed, peeled, and finely chopped

1 large onion, finely chopped

3 stalks celery, strings removed and finely chopped

2 garlic cloves, halved, green germ removed

Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper

3 long sprigs fresh rosemary plus 2 tablespoons fresh rosemary leaves

16 fresh sage leaves

3/4 cup/180ml dry white wine such as Sauvignon Blanc

31/2 to 41/2 cups/875ml to 11/2 liter rich beef or veal stock

1. Preheat the oven to 425° F/220° C/gas 8.

2. Heat the oil over medium-high heat in a heavy-bottomed, ovenproof dish that is just large enough to hold the veal shanks, liquid, and vegetables, until it is hot but not smoking. Brown the veal shanks on all sides in the hot oil. Add the vegetables and the garlic to the dish, placing them around the shanks, and stir so they are coated with oil. Roast the shanks and vegetables in the oven until they are golden, about 30 minutes. Remove the shanks from the oven and season them with salt and pepper. Add the rosemary sprigs and 10 of the sage leaves to the dish, and pour the wine and the stock over all. The liquid should come about halfway up the sides of the shanks.

3. Cover the dish and return to the oven to roast for 1 hour, turning the veal shanks once halfway through roasting. Remove the cover and continue roasting until the veal shanks are deep golden, an additional hour, turning them once halfway through the roasting. Add additional stock if necessary to keep the level of liquid at least a third of the way up the sides of the shanks.

4. Remove the shanks from the oven. Mince the remaining 2 tablespoons rosemary and 6 sage leaves, pat them onto the meatiest part of the shanks, and return them to the oven to roast for an additional 15 minutes. Remove from the oven. Transfer the shanks to a warmed platter and cover them loosely with aluminum foil to keep them warm. Strain the juices, pressing hard on the herbs and vegetables. Return the cooking juices to the pan—if there are not enough cooking juices to sauce the meat, add additional stock. Bring the cooking juices to a gentle boil over medium-high heat, and boil until they are thickened, 4 to 5 minutes. Taste for seasoning, remove from the heat, and transfer to a warmed serving dish. Serve the shanks whole with the sauce alongside and carve them at the table.

6
SERVINGS

Sea Salt

I always use hand-harvested sea salt from Guérande, on the southwestern coast of Brittany. It comes in three varieties: coarse gray salt, which is used primarily in cooking and roasting; fine gray sea salt, which is used primarily at table; and pure white
fleur de sel
, which is used on certain delicate foods where its flavor and crunch will be appreciated.
Fleur de sel
is rare. Unlike the gray sea salts of Guérande, which are formed through carefully controlled evaporation,
fleur de sel
forms on top of the shallow water in the salt marshes only when the east wind blows. Then, its crystals sparkle and the
paludières
go into the marshes with their rakes and gently scrape the
fleur de sel
from the water—the men won’t do it, for they claim they aren’t careful enough.

PEAR AND HONEY CLAFOUTIS
CLAFOUTIS AUX POIRES ET AU MIEL

I was standing in line to buy pears at the market in Louviers from a handsome young pear grower. The elderly woman next to me was being very choosy about the state of her pears and their variety, and I asked her what she was going to do with them. “I’m going to make a
clafoutis,”
she said. I nodded appreciatively but perhaps not enthusiastically, for pear
clafoutis
is as common in Normandy as are cows in the rolling green pastures. “Oh, my
clafoutis
isn’t any ordinary
clafoutis,”
she said with a mischievous look. “Oh, no. Everyone who tastes it says it is the best they’ve ever eaten.” “I don’t suppose you’d be willing to share your recipe,” I said to the woman. “Of course I would,” she said. “I can’t come to the market next weekend, but the weekend after that I will write it down and give it to you.” I suggested she leave it with the pear grower. “I’d like a copy of it, too,” he said eagerly.

When I stopped by his stand two weeks later he had the recipe in hand. I took the beautifully handwritten recipe, bought several kilos of both Williams and Comice pears as directed, and went home to make this lovely
clafoutis.
The addition of honey makes it unique. I like the caramel on top but it isn’t necessary if you think it’s too much trouble.

3 large pears/11/2 pounds/750g, peeled, cored, and cut in sixths

1/3 cup/75ml mild but perfumed liquid honey, such as lavender

4 large eggs

3/4 cup plus 2 tablespoons/115g flour

1/4 cup plus 1 tablespoon/50g sugar

Pinch of fine sea salt

1 cup/250ml milk

4 tablespoons/60g unsalted butter, melted and cooled

1. Preheat the oven to 400° F/200° C/gas 6. Butter and flour an 11-inch/271/2-cm round baking dish.

2. Arrange the pears in an attractive pattern in the baking dish. Drizzle them evenly with the honey.

3. Separate 3 of the eggs. In a large bowl mix the flour, all but 2 tablespoons (30g) of the sugar, and the salt. Make a well in the center and add the milk, 3 egg yolks, and 1 whole egg. Reserve the egg whites. Whisk together the ingredients in the well, then gradually whisk in the dry ingredients to make a smooth batter. Quickly but thoroughly whisk in the melted butter.

4. In another bowl, whisk the egg whites with a small pinch of salt until they are foamy. Add 1 tablespoon of sugar and continue whisking until soft peaks form. Fold the egg whites into the batter, then pour the batter over the pears. Bake in the center of the oven until the
clafoutis
is puffed and golden, about 30 minutes. Remove from the oven and place on a wire rack to cool.

5. To make the caramel, heat the remaining 1 tablespoon of sugar with 1 teaspoon water in a small, heavy saucepan over medium heat, shaking the pan occasionally to evenly distribute the sugar, until the mixture turns a deep golden brown, 3 to 5 minutes. Don’t stir the sugar, which might encourage it to crystallize, just rotate the pan so the sugar and water caramelize evenly. When the sugar has caramelized, drizzle it over the top of the
clafoutis
. Wait about 5 minutes so the caramel hardens, then serve.

4
TO
6
SERVINGS

TWELVE
               

Notre Dame

THE YEAR JOE ENTERED CP, the equivalent of first grade, was a big one for us. Not only was it his entry into the world of
les grands
, or the big kids, but he went from a small village
maternelle
, or nursery school, to the much larger school in downtown Louviers, and from the public system to the private.

We’d chosen the only private establishment in Louviers, a Catholic school, after I’d visited the public school in our sector and met the principal, who basically discouraged me from sending Joe there. She was transferring out of the school at the end of the year and she said the teachers weren’t very
sympa
. I had only to observe one class for five minutes to get a sense of what she was talking about, as the teacher verbally pummeled the children into doing their work.

We already knew the director of the Catholic school, a nun who passed our house often and was sweet and interested in Joe’s progress. When I told her we would like to come speak with her about Joe’s going to Notre Dame, she was visibly delighted.

I grew up in the American Catholic school system, so when, in the course of our meeting with her, she suggested I might want to volunteer for something, such as teaching English, I wasn’t surprised. I remembered
my
mother’s volunteer days and I told her I would consider it. I was surprised, however, on seeing that the curriculum included no formal catechism. In fact, the emphasis on religion was minor, which greatly reassured both of us, particularly Michael. He had only agreed to send Joe to Notre Dame because it was clearly the better of the choices available to us.

I couldn’t believe the list of school supplies necessary to launch Joe into the French school system. Single-spaced on two sides of a sheet of paper, it included an astonishing array of specific
cahiers
, or workbooks with their dimensions and number of pages, the specific colors of protective folders required, and the exact number of pleats for the accordion folders that would, presumably, hold his work. There was also a daunting list of writing instruments and art supplies.

Convinced of the need to be prepared and to follow directions to the letter so that our son (or I) wouldn’t be subject to that oh-so-French criticism of
travail mal fait,
or work poorly done, I set out first to the supermarket where I had been told I could find everything.

I entered the school supply aisle and checked my list.
Trois cahiers de travaux pratiques, sans spirales
, practical workbooks without spirals. I chose three, though they had more pages than called for. “Will he be reprimanded for that?” I wondered, understanding how important conformity is in this often frustratingly conformist country. I put them in the basket along with the
carnet, sans spiral format
,
11
×
17 cm, 96 pages
—which also had too many pages.

Feeling uncertain, I spied a woman across the aisle and asked if she was buying supplies for her children. When she said she was, I showed her my list and asked her if I had chosen correctly. She was wonderfully tolerant, smiled in an understanding way, and looked through my basket and my list. I had made some errors and she set me straight. I thanked her profusely.
“Ne vous inquiétez pas
,
”
she said. “Don’t worry—I had to go through this when my first one went to school. Each year teachers want specific things and they are always different from the year before.”

Feeling confident, I moved on to multicolored plastic folders and large, imposing envelopes filled with sheets of heavy, ivorycolored drawing paper, a weekly
agenda,
or calendar, and three large spiral notebooks.

I went to the writing implement section and found the red, the blue, and the green pen, the twenty-centimeter ruler, the pencil sharpener in its box (
pas de fantaisie
was written on the list next to pencil sharpeners, which meant that I couldn’t buy one shaped like an airplane or a truck, just something plain and workaday).

I put a
trousse
or leather pencil case in the cart and it fell next to the ruler, which was longer by several centimeters. Oh no. The ruler was meant to go in the pencil case. I returned the pencil case and measured all of the others with the ruler to see if one would fit. None were long enough. I double-checked the list. “Twenty-centimeter ruler.” “Why would they want that?” I thought. There seemed to be no pencil case that existed to hold it. “Is it just to be difficult?” I wondered. “Do the public schools ask for this size? Is there something I don’t understand?”

I continued down the list, picking out the colored markers and the easy-clean board they would write on. I opened one of the markers and just about passed out from its intense, petrol odor. “They let kids use these?” I thought. I was sure they were toxic, though nothing of the sort was written on them.

On the list was a rag for wiping the board clean, so when I got home I went to my linen armoire and pulled out a red and white checked napkin that had little lobsters dancing around it. I thought it was perfect for a six-year-old’s school rag.

I found nearly everything on the list including the long ruler. Surely I would find a pencil case to fit. Indeed, at another supermarket I found one with a Dragonball Z logo on it that I knew would send Joe into a fit of ecstasy.

Joe, who seemed remarkably poised about this upcoming experience, which tugged my heart in all directions, was thrilled with the school booty. We carefully organized and labeled it all, checking off on the list the items I had found, marking in red the items still to find. We filled the pencil case and put the rest of the supplies directly into the blue leather satchel he would wear on his back when he walked to school. In went the math book I’d bought—its separate pages of pop-out cardboard coins, which I assumed the children would use to learn the currency, falling out and exciting Joe’s interest. He immediately wanted to pop them all out and start playing
magasin
, or store.

“No,” I said. “You must wait until the
maîtresse
tells you what to do with those.” I was terrified he might use them before school and be the only child whose parents had allowed such a grave breach of discipline.

In went the reading book, whose stories Joe had already told me were
stupide
, and the writing book. I lifted the satchel and put it on his back. He straightened, looked at me, and said, “Mama, it’s really heavy.” And I still had things to add.

I put it all away, feeling nearly prepared. I would look for all the items marked in red at the local
papeterie
, or stationers. It was August and the
papeterie
was closed for a month so I would have to race in there the minute it opened to finish this laborious task in time for the first day of school. I could only hope they’d have everything I needed so that Joe could go to school with a full satchel. Imagine the shame if he didn’t.

There was still more to do, for his clothes needed labeling because one of their weekly activities was to be a morning in the city swimming pool. My anxiety level about this whole thing was very high, mingled, I’m sure, with the anxiety of seeing our son go off into the big, grown-up world of real school. I could tell I was anxious by my dreams—in one I forgot to label his things and he lost them all the first day. In another I labeled them illegibly and everyone made fun of him.

As much as I worried, I was excited, too, for this year Joe would learn to read (by Christmas, we were told). Joe would probably also learn to pray at school. We both figure he will make his choice about religions when he’s old enough to have thought about it. Until then it won’t hurt him to be exposed to Catholicism, particularly in the land of Joan of Arc and St. Theresa, the little flower, where the history of religion is practically a part of daily life. Every time we go to Rouen we pass the Vieux Marché where Joan of Arc was burned at the stake, and we’ve been to the cathedral in nearby Lisieux several times and seen the exhibit there about the life of the beautiful St. Theresa.

We’d been told that Joe would have homework every day, a novel experience.

In primary and middle school, students go to school Monday and Tuesday, have Wednesday off, then go back Thursday, Friday, and Saturday morning. This meant his school week would be four-and-a-half days long instead of the four-day week he had at the
maternelle
. The system was instituted long ago to give children a day during the week for religious education, and it holds true for Catholic as well as public schools. Today many teachers in the French school system would like to change it, for it leaves everyone with a very short weekend, but for the moment it holds. Michael and I have adjusted our work schedules to fit the school schedule, and we each work half a day on Wednesday so we can spend time with Joe, and take Saturday afternoon and Sunday off.

As the date approached I found myself becoming increasingly nervous. I recognized the symptoms. As a child I changed schools every two years as we followed my father’s military career. All the first days at school were flashing before me. I was much more nervous than Joe, as though it were I, not he, who would be going to school. Michael rolled his eyes and thought I was overdoing it. He was right and I knew it, but some things you just can’t control.

The night before the big day Joe polished his new leather shoes and set them out to wear. We laid out his clothes, checked his list of school supplies once again, folded and refolded the red and white cloth with the lobsters on it. He went to bed easily, excited about his first day at school.

We were up early and at 8:45—a half hour later than the normal hour, the school administration’s concession for the first day—all three of us left the house, Joe with his satchel on his back. After about ten steps he asked his father to take it for him. “It’s really heavy, Papa,” he said in a little voice. I looked at him. I could tell he was nervous, his face set in a serious look. But he eagerly walked the ten minutes through town, down a long narrow street and up to the double metal doors that opened into the school playground.

The school used to be a boarding school. I’ve met many adults my age who lived there during their early school years. Now there is a small handful of nuns who live there who have added a few homey touches like paintings and little doilies on the furniture in the entrance to the administrative offices, and a pretty little flower garden with a shrine to the Virgin Mary across from it, which the children aren’t allowed to enter. The playground is huge and divided into three sections—one for the preschoolers in
maternelle
, who start as early as age 21/2; one for the younger primary children, who included Joe; and one for the “big kids” ages nine and ten. I had noticed when visiting the school that there wasn’t a toy, a painted line, a basketball hoop in sight. “What do these kids do during recess?” I wondered.

The playground was filling up with parents and their children who were starched and clean behind the ears. We didn’t know a soul and weren’t quite sure of the protocol. All we knew is that the children of Joe’s age had to arrive by 9
A
.
M
., so here we were.

The principal, a dour-looking woman, arrived and clapped her hands for attention. She took up a microphone and announced that she would call the name of the teacher then the name of each child in her class. I was excited about Joe’s teacher, Brigitte, whom I’d met briefly years before when she taught Edith’s children. A tiny woman with thick red hair and an angular face full of humor, she was the first teacher called.

She looked expectantly at the crowd, a smile twitching at the corners of her mouth. “That’s your teacher,” I whispered down to Joe, who was clutching and unclutching my hand and stepping on one foot with another. He was so nervous.

The principal started calling names and children walked up to Brigitte, offered their faces for a kiss, then got in line behind her. “Loomis, Joseph.” Joe put his satchel on his back and without a backward glance strode up to the teacher, offered his cheek like everyone else, and got in line. He didn’t look at us, nor give us a sign. We waited until all the children’s names had been called and Brigitte had walked them off toward their classroom before we left the schoolyard. We walked home, both filled with a mixture of excitement and apprehension for Joe in his new world.

At 11:25 I was back at school to pick up Joe for lunch. The bell rang and he, along with several classmates, burst forth from the school. “Mama,” he yelled as he flew toward me. “I love it!”

And that began his first year at Notre Dame. Every morning Joe and I left the house at 8:15, stepping outside into air redolent of the morning smells of France—butter, freshly baked bread, caramelized sugar. We would wander our way past bakeries, succulent-smelling
charcuteries
, and a handful of shops that include the
parfumerie
, the
graineterie
, a shoe store, then across the marketplace to school.

We usually arrived about five minutes early and would walk into the playground and wait together until the bell rang. Then Joe would put on his satchel, and line up with the other children behind his teacher. I would wait with the other parents until Brigitte led the children into school, then go home.

Standing in that playground in the early mornings made for good people-watching as parents arrived with their charges. I marveled at the well-dressed mothers who even if they wore jeans had high heels on their bare feet, perfect makeup and hair, and perfume trailing sweetly behind them. Many of the fathers wore the
bourgeois
uniform of olive green overcoat with yellow cashmere scarves, their shoes slightly scuffed in the way Frenchmen have of ignoring that one detail of their dress.

There was another fashion category among the parents which surprised me. Particularly on Saturday mornings many would come in shiny sweat suits with brand-new Nikes (pronounced
“n-eye-ks”) on their feet. I hadn’t expected the French to dress so casually, though admittedly their sweat suits were starched and ironed, the shoes unblemished.