Opposites Attack: A Novel with Recipes Provencal (17 page)

“Did I get the date or time of our lunch wrong?” she asked in a voice that was trying not to be angry.

He could see steam building in Alyce’s face. When the call ended, she asked, “Don’t you believe in honoring commitments?”

“Your French is improving. Now I will teach you how to make
pissaladière.
What your pizza wishes it could be.”

“Don’t change the subject. You stood up a woman without giving it a second thought?”

“I barely knew her. And she suggested the lunch, the place, the time. I do not remember giving her a firm yes. That is the truth. Should I have told her I was with you?”

He removed two aprons from a hook on the wall and handed her one covered with sunflowers. “You look like you were born down the road.” That put a slight smile on her face.

His apron was classic white and covered his chest and upper thighs. Written across the front: Kiss Me, I’m French. They cheek-kissed three times. All ill will vanished.

“First we caramelize the onions.” He took out a bag of pretzel rods and handed her one. “Put it in your mouth while you peel and slice them. Your eyes will not tear.”

Alyce pretended it was a cigar, then dug into their task with it sticking out of her mouth.

After a minute she took it out. “You’re right! No watery, stinging eyes.”

The tart and sweet scent of freshly sliced onions filled the air as a thick layer filled a cast-iron skillet. Sprinkled on top were thyme, rosemary, and extra-virgin olive oil.

“We cook them on a low heat. No browning. Plenty of stirring.”

Next was the making of the crust. Alyce watched intently as he added ingredients to a food processor and it worked its magic. As he slowly added flour when the dough was too sticky, she commented, “You look like a scientist in a lab.”

“All cooking is science and art. Please stir the onions again.”

He rolled out part of the dough and fit it into a rectangular rimmed baking sheet sprinkled with cornmeal. She did the other half. They added the onions, green and black olives, sprigs of thyme. She made a face when they reached the anchovies.

“These are not like the ones you are used to,” he said.

She tried one. “Mmm. It tastes like a swim in the ocean, not pure salt and oil.”

Another small victory for France.

When the
pissaladière
came out of the oven and cooled down, he allowed her one square. “The rest will be an appetizer for tonight.”

After taking a tentative bite, she exclaimed, “It’s zingy, crusty, gooey—and the onions give it a sweet finish!”

The delightful moment did not last. Her cell phone rang.

“Hi, honey, you just landed? Get my text? You won’t believe what this kitchen smells like. I’ve been cooking all day.” She winked at Jean-Luc. “After customs and renting a car, it should be about two hours to get here. Oh! There’s an incredible open market in Nice anyone can direct you to. Jean-Luc said to look for a man with large copper pans set on an outdoor fireplace made of bricks. He makes
socca
—a nice snack that won’t be too heavy…
socca.
It’s made from chickpea flour and olive oil with salt, pepper, and fresh rosemary. I’ve had it here but his is supposed to be the best.”

Jean-Luc said, “And get his fresh-squeezed grapefruit juice, too.”

She repeated his suggestion and motioned she was going back to the cottage. “I can’t wait to see you, sweetie. How was your flight…”

Honey. Sweetie.

Oh, this was going to be rich.

She soon returned, showered and in an understated light blue dress and sandals. Unfortunately she was back to wearing makeup. She twirled around to get his reaction before Nelson, Glorianna, and Luther arrived.

“Aside from the war paint, I approve. You look like a true lady.”

“Nelson’s never seen me without makeup. It’s nothing compared to his mother. I think she applies it with a plaster knife.”

“I can’t wait to meet her.” He rolled his eyes to imitate her. She playfully batted him on the arm.

Pushing up the sleeves of his white linen shirt, he said, “Now it is time for you to master bouillabaisse, a fish stew made from catches of the day.”

“It better be good after what I spent on the ingredients.”

“Your obsession with money is as unattractive as my lack of concern for it.”

He asked her to go to the CD player in a hallway closet and put on Johnny Hallyday. It was essential she knew who he was. When she came back, he’d taken out a book on the “French Elvis.” It was filled with photos.

Alyce gasped at one image. “She looks just like my sister.”

He looked at Hallyday and wife number four (or five?) taken after they were wed. She was about 20 to his 50-something then; a perfect pretty blonde who did nothing for Jean-Luc. Too much like a doll. And she could have been Hallyday’s granddaughter.

Alyce launched into a monologue about her younger sister, Chantilly, and how ever since she was born strangers gushed over how beautiful she was. Alyce ceased to exist as her sister modeled, won beauty pageants, acted in commercials, and consumed all of her mother’s attention. The moment she graduated high school she had a Ford modeling contract and was off to New York City to live in a big loft with other models while Alyce’s home was a small, depressing basement apartment in Hoboken.

“That’s why I hate when we’re in public and people fawn over you. I know I shouldn’t feel that way.”

“With a name like Chantilly, how else could she be? I believe we grow into our names.”

“Why couldn’t they have called me Alyssa instead of
AL
-iss? Is that why I’m so practical and boring?”

“You are hardly boring. I imagine your sister is, though. She hasn’t suffered enough.”

He presented her with a bowl of striped baby clams and glossy purple-black mussels, and a brush. “Continue with your story. You scrub and de-beard, I’ll rinse. It is important to remove all grit.”

“De-what?”

He tried not to show his surprise. Truly, he did. “Remove the strings on the mussels.”

“Oh! Yeah, right. Of course. Just pull them?”

She seemed to follow his instructions but was so engrossed in her story he had to watch her every move.

“So she married a rich guy and now she’s pregnant. At 21.”

“You do not like that she beat you to it, eh?”

“No!”

“I understand. It is your
issue
, as Americans say.”

“Wanting to be a mother is not an
issue.
It’s called natural. Not wanting to be a parent is an issue.”

Is it possible she saw him as perceptively as he saw her?

He began to hum “La Vie en Rose” and soon they were lost in their own world as they prepped the
mirepoix
and worked on the seafood:
Rascasse rouge
(tiny rock fish not found anywhere but the Mediterranean),
cigale de mer
(the slipper lobster), slices of
Saint-Pierre
(John Dory),
baudroie
(monkfish), the head of a conger eel all would go into a big pot.

In the
mirepoix
pot he put carrots, celery, leeks, Spanish onions, garlic, seeded tomatoes, salt, and a
soupçon
of cayenne and saffron. He showed her how to make a bouquet garni of thyme, bay leaf, parsley stems, celery, fennel, and orange peel. That was tossed in as well, driving another intense aroma into their olfactory sensors.

“Now we wait a bit. Then add the clams and mussels.”

“How do you know when it’s ready?”

“You just do.”

They tackled what he considered the key ingredient in bouillabaisse: the
rouille.
After Alyce tackled how to say it.

“
Roo
ehyeh? It sounds like I’m throwing up.”

“I will as well if you keep pronouncing it that way.”

“I want to get it right!”

His head felt like it was being shrunk by a tight, large rubber band. “We will come back to it.”

He explained that
rouille
was made in a blender with roasted red peppers, olive oil, garlic, and a bit of mashed potatoes to thicken it. “Or bread or bread crumbs, if that is all you have. Some add a little fish broth but that limits the use of any left over. I use
rouille
as a spread on sandwiches in place of mustard, on crackers as a snack, on baguettes as an appetizer.”

“Mmm, that sounds great. No more mayo for me.”

“There is nothing better than fresh-made mayonnaise,” he said. “And it is very simple. We will do that another time. We need to get to work on dessert now. It has to chill.”

Crème au citron
was a rich custard flavored with orange blossom water and thin strips of lemon zest. He used whole milk and plenty of egg yolks and sugar. Just like the scene in
Sabrina
where Audrey Hepburn learned how to crack an egg with one hand, he showed her that the trick was all in the grip, the wrist, the surface you cracked it on, and what you did with your thumb and fingers after. They were both amazed when she did it right the first time.

“Beginner’s luck,” he said. “Do it again.”

She did and sweetly replied, “I have an excellent instructor,
monsieur.
”

“Don’t you dare try to suck up to me. Oh, go ahead.”

The sun fell lower in the sky, bathing the kitchen’s yellow walls and honey-colored oak cabinets a deep gold. By 6:00,
Macédoine au Vin de Bandol
—a mixture of cherries, strawberries, raspberries, white peaches, pears, and peeled green almonds in red wine marinated in the refrigerator.

He noticed her brow was slightly furrowed. “What is on your mind, Al-
ees?
”

“How come you people eat such rich food and don’t get fat? I haven’t seen one overweight person here.”

“You people? Whom do you mean? Men? Writers? Be precise.”

“The French.”

“Because we are perfect.”

Alyce’s eyes were getting a workout from the number of times she rolled them.

He asked her, “Why are the French like a rooster?”

“I have no clue.”

“Because it is the only animal that will stand in shit and crow.”

This time when her delightful laugh bounced around the room, he felt a familiar heartache. He focused on the newly painted white room upstairs. He willed Colette away.

They started the final preparation: the dessert custard. He finished whisking and poured the creamy mixture into a heavy saucepan over low heat, gently instructing her to stir it in a large figure-eight pattern until the spoon was thickly coated.

“Do not let it get even close to boiling.”

Alyce did so and after a minute seemed to be dreaming. A moment later she was turning off the burner and fleeing to her cottage.

How dare she run out like that! She could have ruined the custard. What could possibly have been so urgent? He poured the mixture into individual cups, tapped a touch of ground cinnamon on each one, and placed them in the refrigerator.

When she returned she was white as chalk.

Alarmed, he sat her in one of the kitchen chairs, rubbing between her shoulder blades. He knew she could feel the heat through her cotton shirt. He was born with abnormally warm hands.

“Stop it, Jean-Luc. I’m fine, I’m fine.”

“You are having a panic attack. With the Mansfield Mafia about to arrive, it is understandable.” He gave her back a final pat and grabbed her hand. “Come with me.”

He led her to his living room sofa and pulled up an ornate leather stool from Morocco.

“Tell me what is upsetting you, Al-
ees.
”

She made herself comfortable as she held his hand tightly.

“When I was stirring the custard it reminded me of how a baby smells. I suddenly wished I had one. Then I remembered I hadn’t taken my birth control pills for
two
days. I’ve never screwed up. I ran to the cottage, popped them out of the dispenser, and froze. I heard my little
loirs
squeaking.” Eyes tearing, she confessed, “I didn’t take the pills… yet.”

He felt a faint movement in his scrotum, dropped her hand, shifted on his stool.

Between sobs she managed to say, “I feel so unaccomplished.” The back of her hand was wet from the tears it had wiped away. “I’m
scared.
About everything.”

He grabbed a box of tissues from the bathroom in the hallway. She blew into one sheet so delicately it surprised him.

He nonchalantly said, “Life becomes most interesting when you are scared.”

“To you. You’re a writer who can turn it into a book. I can’t do anything but be terrified. Aside from being nervous as hell over Nelson
and
his mother coming, let’s see, I have no job, yet I can’t stop spending money.”

“A common reaction. But why would you need a job if you marry him?”

She hesitated before saying, “I’ve always worked. And I need to be able to take care of myself, especially if I get one whiff of him turning off like he did before. But a part of me doesn’t want to work at all. A real job, that is.”

She told him she’d gone to a mailbox a few weeks before to send out her résumés and almost couldn’t do it. As soon as she dropped them in, she turned and stepped in dog shit.

Brilliant foreshadowing, he thought, and mentally filed it away for a book.

“Maybe I need to stay here longer,” she said with a sparkle in her eye, “so I’ll crow the next time.”

He loved her sense of humor that was emerging now that she felt more at ease.

“How do you really feel about Nelson?”

“Like I won the love lottery. I knew the moment I saw him I wanted to marry him. I’ve never felt that way about anyone.”

While he sorted out why her words bothered him, she lightly blew her nose again and pulled herself together. A most fascinating portrait emerged of her inamorato.

“I knew him through work. We were never that friendly. Then one day I ran into him, Carmelita, and their son. It was just one of those destiny things.”

Destiny things.

“That’s why his other relationships ended,” she said. “Once they knew about her they couldn’t deal with it.”

“Does she have another man in her life?”

“Nelson says she dates, but I’m not aware of anyone.” She wrinkled up her little nose and stared beyond him. “These are the times we live in. Blended families are hard to escape.”