On Rue Tatin (17 page)

We’d won. The bishop’s representative looked at us. “It’s a good idea. You have my permission, and the permission of évreux. Go ahead,” he said.

I was weak with relief and I could tell Michael was, too. The bishop’s representative shook our hands and, with the deflated priest, quickly went on his way.

It took a good month for Michael to build the path from the sidewalk to the parish house, and cut a hole in the fence and fashion a gate. I didn’t tell anyone else what had happened unless they asked, but when they did I told all. Meanwhile, Michael finished up the new gate, installed a lock, and presented a key to one of the helpers at the parish hall, as required. Then, he cut a large piece of metal to fit across our gate to afford us some privacy.

We planned a gate-locking ceremony and invited a few friends. It was summer and sardines were in season, so I prepared several dozen to grill and Michael built an impromptu brick fireplace in our courtyard, for a barbecue. I made gazpacho with cucumber ice sorbet for a first course, and a simple nectarine tart for dessert. Michael opened a bottle of champagne and, glass in one hand and key in the other, went to lock the gate. Our friends had all been privy to the two years of discomfort this whole process had caused, and they all cheered with us as he turned the key in the lock.

Not twenty minutes later we saw the priest emerge from the church and head for the gate. We saw the handle turn, then saw the yank, then the priest’s red face as it popped above the gate. He looked at us there enjoying our meal, turned on his heel, and stomped away.

For the first time since we moved in we felt at home in the garden. The headaches were over. Michael could breathe more easily, and return back to work on the house. We could look forward to many Sunday breakfasts and evening meals in our garden, undisturbed.

The priest still held and exercised his
droit de passage
, or legal access through our garden, at least once a week, entering through a small wooden door in the wall next to the gate, which we left open at all times. A priest appointed after Michael built the new entry also walked through, but they were the only traffic we saw.

We did many other things to create privacy for ourselves. Not allowed, by the terms of our deed, to build a wall on the property line between our land and the parish hall, we instead planted espaliered apple trees—two Cox’s Orange Pippins and two reines de reinettes, both luscious old varieties. Required to leave a passageway through the yard for the priest we planted rosebushes along part of the boundary, leaving just enough room for him to get through. The first time he walked through after they’d been planted he bellowed to Michael about scratching his feet on the thorns. Needless to say, Michael’s sympathy was limited.

Many of our French friends hadn’t really understood the problem. “Just lock the door and build a wall, don’t worry about it,” they had advised. “That’s what we would do. It’s not like anyone would ever make you change anything.”

That is where being foreigners makes us different. Having not been brought up in France, we don’t inherently understand the elasticity of the law. When we read that we can only let our trees grow to a certain height, we trim them once they get to that height. When a deed indicates we can’t lock our gate, we don’t lock it. Even our immediate neighbors are astounded at our adherence to the law. “But you must lock your gate,” Mme Bruhot, our elderly neighbor, said. “It’s unthinkable to leave it unlocked at night.” When I mentioned the deed, this upstanding and respected member of the town simply shrugged.

We are learning to be more French about these things. It has been two years since the priest has walked through our garden. It must have ceased to be an amusement to him. We’ve relaxed a bit, as well. The rosebushes have grown wide and tall—though there is still space to get through if one steps carefully enough—and our apple trees are at just about five feet, higher than specified in our deed. We realize there won’t be any repercussions for these minor breaches.

We see the priest often, sailing by on his bicycle. He’s active in the parish but now there’s another priest we see much more often, closer to the type I recall from my childhood. Albert Dedecker, or simply Albert as everyone calls him, appears to be a
bon vivant
, a cheery soul who has instituted many changes, most of them seemingly for the better. He loves bells, and they ring with abandon all the time. He has begun a prayer service in the parish hall behind our house, so that on certain nights we look into the windows and observe the faithful in a room lit only by candles that surround a large statue of the virgin. It’s a beautiful, peaceful sight.

GAZPACHO WITH CUCUMBER SORBET
GAZPACHO AU SORBET DE CONCOMBRE

This delightful chilled soup with its cloud of cucumber sorbet in the center is an inspiration of Parisian three-star chef Alain Passard, who makes the gazpacho in summer when tomatoes are ripe and filled with summer’s warmth, cucumbers are crisp and flavorful, and bell peppers are bursting with sweetness. I added the cucumber sorbet as a further way of cooling off when the temperature soars. Serve this with a lightly chilled rosé. Salad burnet has a flat, round, serrated leaf and a fresh cucumber flavor.

6 medium (about 11/4 pounds/600g) ripe tomatoes, peeled, seeded, and diced

3 ounces/90g diced red bell pepper

1 large (about 8 ounces/250g) cucumber, peeled and diced

1 small garlic clove

1 small/21/2-ounce/75-g onion, quartered

4 ounces/120g fresh fennel, coarsely chopped

1/2 cup/125ml extra-virgin olive oil

1 tablespoon freshly squeezed lemon juice

Pinch of fine sea salt

FOR THE CUCUMBER SORBET:

2 large cucumbers (about 1 pound/500g each), peeled and diced

8 fresh mint leaves

2 tablespoons freshly squeezed lemon juice

1/4 teaspoon fine sea salt, or to taste

FOR THE GARNISH:

18 chive tips

Salad burnet leaves, optional

1. To make the soup, place the tomatoes, bell pepper, cucumber, garlic, onion, and fennel in a food processor or blender and process to a coarse purée. Transfer the mixture to a nonreactive fine-mesh sieve placed over a bowl and refrigerate for 2 to 4 hours.

2. Remove the soup from the refrigerator. Transfer what remains in the sieve to a medium-size bowl. Discard the juice in the bowl. Stir in the olive oil and the lemon juice, then season to taste with salt. Return to the refrigerator.

3. To make the sorbet, purée the cucumbers in a food processor, place in a nonreactive fine-mesh sieve placed over a bowl, and refrigerate for at least 2 hours. Just before freezing the sorbet transfer the cucumber pulp to a medium-size bowl. Mince the mint leaves and stir them into the cucumber pulp, along with the lemon juice and the salt. Taste for seasoning, transfer to an icecream maker, and freeze according to manufacturer’s directions.

4. To serve the soup, divide it among 6 chilled, shallow soup bowls. Using 2 soup spoons, shape the sorbet into an elongated oval (quenelle) and place it in the center of each bowl of soup. Garnish the soup with the chives and the salad burnet leaves and serve immediately.

6
APPETIZER SERVINGS

ROSEMARY GRILLED SARDINES
LES SARDINES GRILLÉES AU ROMARIN

Summer means eating outside in the courtyard at the foot of Notre Dame. I stuff meaty sardines with rosemary and grill them over a wood fire and serve them with fresh green salad from our garden, or freshly made tomato and pepper salad, and a full-flavored rosé.

About 16 fresh sardines or small mackerel, cleaned

Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper

4 tablespoons/60ml extra-virgin olive oil

16 sprigs fresh rosemary

Fleur de sel, optional

1. Light a small fire in the barbecue.

2. Carefully rinse the sardines and cut down along their backbone from the inside and rinse them again, to remove any blood or impurities inside that might make them taste bitter. Pat them dry and lightly season them inside with salt and pepper. Rub each fish on the outside with olive oil, using about 2 tablespoons (30ml). Place a sprig of rosemary inside each fish, and set them on a platter in the refrigerator.

3. When the coals are red and dusted with ash, set the grill about 3 inches (71/2 cm) above them. When it is hot, carefully lay the fish on the grill. Cook the fish until they are opaque, about
3 minutes per side. If the fire is too hot and starts to flame,
simply put a cover on the barbecue, which will result in slightly smokier fish.

4. Carefully transfer the sardines to a platter and drizzle with the remaining 2 tablespoons (30ml) olive oil and sprinkle lightly with fleur de sel, if desired. Serve the sardines either hot or at room temperature.

SERVES
4

WALNUT GÂTEAU BRETON
GÂTEAU BRETON AUX NOIX

This is my variation on a traditional butter cake from Brittany. Its dense, rich, and very buttery flavor is amplified by the lightly toasted walnuts, which give it a whole other dimension. In Brittany this cake is served for an afternoon snack, with coffee, or after a meal. I sometimes put it on the breakfast table as well.

1/2 cup/60g walnuts, lightly toasted

11/4 cups/250g sugar

7 large egg yolks

16 tablespoons/250g salted butter, melted

2 cups/265g unbleached, all-purpose flour

1. Preheat the oven to 300° F/150° C/gas 3/4. Butter and lightly flour a 9-inch/23-cm cake pan.

2. Place the walnuts and 2 tablespoons (30g) of the sugar in the bowl of a food processor and grind so that most of the walnuts are finely ground but not anywhere near a paste.

3. In a large bowl, whisk together 6 of the egg yolks and the remaining sugar until the mixture is blended, just a few minutes; there is no need to use an electric mixer here. It will be thick and yellow but shouldn’t form a ribbon. Slowly whisk in the walnuts and sugar, then the butter. Sift the flour over the mixture and whisk it in just until the mixture is homogeneous. Don’t overmix the batter or the cake will be tough.

4. Whisk together the remaining egg yolk and 2 teaspoons water to make an egg glaze.

5. Turn the batter, which will be quite stiff, into the prepared pan and smooth it out. Lightly but thoroughly paint it with the egg glaze. Using the back of the tines of a fork, deeply mark a crisscross pattern in the top of the cake, going three times across it in one direction, then three in another. (The marks in the cake will fade, leaving just their trace on the top of the cake.)

6. Bake in the center of the oven until the cake is deep golden on the top and springs back slowly but surely when it is touched, about 1 hour and 15 minutes. Using a knife or cake tester isn’t recommended as it always comes out looking slightly damp because of the amount of butter in the recipe.

7. Remove from the oven, transfer the cake to a wire rack, and let it cool for about 10 minutes before turning out of the cake pan. Let it cool thoroughly before serving.

8
SERVINGS

TEN
               

The Rug Salesman

I ANSWERED A KNOCK on the door one spring day and found a short, robust, balding man standing outside rubbing his hands together and staring at the church across the street. He turned his head slowly and introduced himself. “
Bonjour
. My name is Monsieur Richard Lafertin and I have a selection of rugs I would like to show to you,” he said in careful French. “I asked around the neighborhood and everyone told me to come to this house and see the Americans.”

I must have stared at him, for he repeated himself. He looked perfectly respectable, so I invited him into the entry, which at that time was still a dingy mess of plywood sheets placed over a dirt floor, stained plaster walls, and very dim lighting. His face revealed nothing as he looked around, though the sight must have been disconcerting to someone with rugs to sell. Michael emerged from upstairs where he was installing more electricity and came down to meet Monsieur Lafertin, who explained once again who he was and what he was doing. Michael laughed. “Well, you can see we’re not quite at the rug stage,” he said. Monsieur Lafertin shook his head. “This does not matter. Let me tell you about myself and my rugs,” he said, and proceeded to talk to us about the generations his family had been in the rug business, how they handled very select merchandise, how he traveled throughout Europe to get it, and was often called in by families as they divided up inheritances to evaluate and buy their rugs. We were fascinated, not only by the story, which he told seriously and with dignity, but also by the fact that he was spending his time doing so when it was obvious we weren’t going to buy rugs, since we didn’t yet have any decent flooring.

Michael and I told him we were delighted to meet him, which was true. He was absolutely charming and at another moment we might have wanted to see his rugs, since we both have a weak spot for them. But we assured him now was not the time. “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “It’s just that everyone said ‘Go see the Americans,’ and of course I had to do so!”

We laughed. None of our neighbors knew us or what we were doing, and we had already suspected that they viewed us as the “rich Americans.” How could they not think that? We’d bought one of the oldest, most showy houses in town and were fixing it up. Neither one of us seemed to work. The only times anyone saw me I was leaving the house with an empty basket and returning with it full of groceries. The only time they saw Michael he was driving off in an empty truck or returning with it stacked with sheets of plywood or Sheetrock or squares of marble or loads of gravel. Of course they sent the rug salesman to us.

We looked at Monsieur Lafertin and he laughed right along with us. “One day we’ll need rugs,” I explained, shrugging. “But not right away.”

“No problem, I’m delighted to have met you and here is my card,” Monsieur Lafertin said, then with a gracious smile excused himself and left.

What a charming man, Michael and I agreed, then returned to our respective tasks and forgot him.

A year later, I answered a knock on the door. There stood a young, dark-haired, robust man who introduced himself as Monsieur Lafertin, a
marchand de tapis
. I stared, reaching back in my memory. “Oh yes,” I said, remembering the other Monsieur Lafertin.

“My father came to see you a year ago,” this young man said. I invited him in. He was charming, smooth, polished, and well-dressed, the way any good rug salesman should be. He looked around at the entry. It was much improved in a year’s time—the floors were now covered with clean gravel, the walls had been plastered and painted, a long wood table sat in it off to the side and the stairway had been dusted and polished so the house looked, to a casual observer, lived in and chic.

“I’ve got some beautiful rugs out in my van I’d like to show to you,” Monsieur Lafertin said in a jovial, sincere way. We explained that we still weren’t in the market for rugs. “I know, I know, my father told me all about you,” he said kindly. “But he also told me that you have an interest in rugs and I’d like to show you a couple of things that I have, for you’ll never see any like them anywhere.”

We knew we couldn’t buy any rugs and we knew we shouldn’t look at them so I explained once again, telling the young Monsieur Lafertin that I didn’t want him to work for nothing.

“No problem,” he said. “Let me bring them in anyway. It will be a pleasure for me.”

We looked at each other. We shrugged. Monsieur Lafertin left to get his rugs.

Within minutes he was back, humping an impossible number of rugs over his shoulder. He eased in through the narrow front door and set them down gently, like eggs, on the floor. I glanced above him at Michael. What were we in for, I wondered.

He proceeded with the polish of a ringmaster to unroll his treasures, talking all the while about their origins, their beauty, their quality, and how we would never see anything like them anywhere. He smoothed and caressed each rug.

And the rugs were gorgeous. Mostly from Iran, they were all sizes, from two by three feet to large area rugs, to hall runners. The colors, all natural according to Monsieur Lafertin, were spectacular, the designs unusual, intriguing. Monsieur Lafertin treated each rug gently, turning over a corner to show us the tight, artful weave, the quality, the expert workmanship, stroking the fringes, pinching the tight pile. He spoke moderately and thoughtfully, pausing now and then after whispering, “Can you imagine the work this involved,” or “These were made by a family and they were meant to be hung in a mosque,” or “This, this is from a mountain tribe and was used to cover the floor of a tent,” or “This, you see, this rug with the double signature means it was made by two families.”

We were impressed, and not just by the rugs. This young man’s performance was masterful, award-winning. He had the right mix of confidence, charm, and humor.

There was one rug in particular that kept calling to me. Smallish, it was an alluring deep rose with touches of turquoise and salmon. Its wide border was filled with subtle and complex designs and its center was a green-gray geometric pattern. I could tell Michael was intrigued by it, too. We said nothing, but such was the skill of Monsieur Lafertin that he kept placing that rug on top of the others, showing it to us in one light then another, in one direction then another. “You see how it changes color depending on which way you set it on the floor,” he said. “It is magnificent.”

Finally we ran out of things to say and I asked him about prices. He looked at the one we both preferred. “This is the one you like the best, is it not?” he asked. When we agreed he looked at it, long and thoughtfully.

“I know you don’t have much money, but I know how much you love rugs, and particularly this one,” he said, then mentioned a figure. “Because I understand what you are doing and because you are new clients.”

The sum he mentioned was between expensive and astronomical. I already knew we didn’t have the means to buy any rugs—we were still weighing the cost of flooring, paint, electrical wires, and Sheetrock—but I had been sorely tempted by the beautiful rug at my feet and urged on by Monsieur Lafertin’s epic performance. However, his price made it easy. I refused him, then he looked at Michael, who refused him, too. Then he looked back at me and cut the price in half. I was shocked. That made the rug a decent deal. As we looked at the rug and struggled with our decision (which we knew we really shouldn’t have been considering at all), Monsieur Lafertin explained further about the tribe who had made it, how he’d obtained it, and how, though he was making an extreme sacrifice, he was happy to do it so we would be the owners of the fine rug.

It’s not that we believed he was making a sacrifice for us. It really wasn’t that which made us cave in. It was the fact that the rug would be exquisite in our bedroom.

Monsieur Lafertin was naturally delighted, promising us we would be forever happy with the rug, that it was such a good investment we’d never be sorry. He offered us whatever terms we wanted and when we decided on postdated checks he pocketed them, rolled up all his rugs except the treasure he’d sold us, and beamed at us.

“I will be on my way. Do not worry, if there is any problem you just call me, I will return your checks and take back the rug, I promise you,” he said. “And if ever you decide to sell this rug you call me and no one else. I must be the one to buy it back from you.”

With that last, artful assurance he was gone. And we were left with an absolutely beautiful rug that we couldn’t afford but would cherish, I was certain. Not only that but we felt positively wonderful for having acquired it.

Since that first visit Monsieur Lafertin has stopped by our house regularly three or four times a year, always with new stories about his hunt for merchandise, and always with different rugs. As each new room in our house is completed we adorn it with a rug or two from Monsieur Lafertin’s seemingly endless supply. He appears to live in a whirlpool of rugs as he buys, sells, buys back, and sometimes resells rugs to the families who have sold them to him in the first place.

While our relationship with Monsieur Lafertin is clearly one of buyer and seller, we’ve grown very fond of him. We don’t always buy from him but we always drool at his selection, and he remains accommodating in every way. Once we bought a very expensive rug, then realized, almost as soon as he’d walked out the door, that we might crash into bankruptcy if we actually tried to meet the payments we’d set up. I called and told him we had changed our minds. Within a few weeks he was back with our uncanceled checks and no rancor.

Monsieur Lafertin often seems to stop by on a Wednesday, when Joe is home from school. Since he has three young children of his own he knows how to talk to kids, and he has won over Joe, too, who gets down on his hands and knees to look at the warp and weft and the knots in the rugs, and to peer at the colors. He always wants all of them and often comes up to me, his back to Monsieur Lafertin, and mouths, “Mama, we HAVE TO KEEP THIS ONE!”

One day when Joe was home from school to participate in the affair we decided on two rugs. At the conclusion of the deal Monsieur Lafertin looked at Joe. “I have something for you,” he said, and went out to his van. He returned with a lovely, vividly colored rug. “This rug was made to use in a tent; here is the color turquoise, which represents the city it was made in, and it is made of goat hair,” he said, turning it over so Joe could see the weave and having him feel the tufts of goat hair that bordered either end of it. “It is a beautiful rug and it is yours,
jeune homme
,” he said.

Joe has that rug at the door of his bedroom and beware anyone who tries to move it elsewhere.

Monsieur Lafertin is also an incorrigible gourmand who loves to talk about food. We always know he’s going to launch into a food story when he pats his considerable bulk, looks down at his highly polished and very expensive shoes, and shakes his head mournfully. “You know,” he says each time, “I love to eat and my wife, my wife, she is a wonderful cook.”

One day he eyed a crusty loaf of bread that Michael had just brought from the oven. He didn’t say anything but his eyes were drawn to it repeatedly, hungrily. I offered him a piece and to my surprise he accepted, for he has never eaten or drunk anything at our home. But that piece of bread broke down a barrier. He left that day—after selling us a rug—with half the loaf of bread in a bag, as happy as if we’d given him gold bricks.

Monsieur Lafertin loves to hunt, too, and many of his gastronomic stories involve hunting with his band of friends. Frenchmen always hunt in bands and there are never, at least that I know of, any women involved, neither in the hunting nor in the subsequent feasts that follow, which sound opulent. While I have a hard time relating to the actual hunt, the food these men prepare and eat afterward is the stuff of medieval banquets, as haunches, shoulders, and ribs are all served and duly sauced and spiced, and the wine flows like a river.

I love watching Monsieur Lafertin as he talks about food; his brow develops a sheen and he uses enthusiastic and forceful hand gestures. After one particularly lively description he stopped suddenly and said, “I will bring you something from my next hunt, yes, this is what I will do.”

While we like Monsieur Lafertin very much, we suffer no illusions. He is a terrific salesman, the best we’ve experienced. We know the rugs he has are valuable, but we also know we are paying good prices for them. We are not always sure that when he tells us they are unique they truly are, but we don’t care. What we care about is their quality and that we love them. The rest of his performance we simply enjoy, so when he promised to bring us some fresh game I didn’t think much about it, just chalking it up to a good sales technique and the fervor of the moment.

I underestimated Monsieur Lafertin, for not a month later he came by, a small package in his hand. “I promised you I would bring you something from the hunt and I have; I’ve brought you some
côtes de biche
, or deer chops,” he said. I opened the package to find a delicate little rib roast which, as Monsieur Lafertin advised, would be wonderful roasted whole and even better grilled over the coals.

“Oh, and I’ve got some beautiful rugs, too. Just let me show you one or two; I know you’re not in the market to buy any,” he said, hurrying out the door to get them.

He brought the rugs in and, as usual, they were stunning. We resisted, however, and he left, reminding me as he walked out the door how to cook the deer.

That night I cut apart the chops and quickly grilled them over the coals in Michael’s newly rebuilt fireplace in the dining room, with just a bit of salt and pepper. Tiny, delicate little things, they cooked in minutes and emerged crisp and lightly smoked,
delightfully tender and juicy. Along with a green salad from the garden, a simple chocolate cake, and a bottle of Burgundy they made an elegant meal. It was the first time I’d cooked in the
fireplace, after dreaming of doing so throughout the year it was under construction, which added to the meat’s exquisite
flavor.