Lunch in Paris (39 page)

Affif had been cooking for several days. He was preparing an ambitious North African New Year’s feast, sixteen dishes for
sixteen honored guests. When I arrived, he was adding a handful of raisins to a simmering pot. Inside were eight tiny quail,
nestled together like newborn chicks. The sauce was as thick and dark as molasses; it smelled as if it might rain cinnamon.
I inhaled deeply. I wanted my kitchen to smell like this.

I grabbed whatever scrap of paper was handy and tried to take some notes, but Affif is an artist; he doles out information
in snippets, as it comes to him, more philosophy than fact. How long he cooks things is a sideways bob of the head, indicating
maybe more, maybe less. I managed to pick up some general rules: “You need white onions for a sweet
tagine
, yellow for a
salé
.” “You can use ground cinnamon for the quail, but for the
poulet au citron
I use sticks. Otherwise the color gets a little muddy.”

While I was in the kitchen with Affif, my mother was outside trying to pet a chicken. Affif keeps several hens and a cock
in a wire pen with a corrugated iron roof, attached to the barn.

The chickens were scattered around the yard having a wander, and my mother, in her gray cashmere coat, approached them the
way you might solicit a friendly poodle, crouched low to the ground, making cooing noises and holding out her hand. Every
time she got within three feet, the hens bolted forward, leaving my mother running, hunched over like Quasimodo, in hot pursuit.

Affif observed the scene from the kitchen window, shaking his head with a smile.

Gwendal was asleep on the couch with a book on his chest. I’m pretty sure he’s more tired since he met me. But he still smiles,
even in his sleep.

Nicole was writing in a canvas notebook. It was our first holiday without Yanig, and though I occasionally caught her looking
lost and lonely, mostly she seemed as she always had, quietly determined. Even as she stared at the blank page in front of
her, I felt she was making plans.

Friends arrived throughout the afternoon. Affif’s cousin and his wife were laden with clementines and lychees and tiny tropical
pineapples for dessert. Old friends from Normandy brought the cheese, oozing and ripening in the backseat despite the cold.
Anne-Laure and her husband arrived from Paris. She is an economist with short blond hair and substantial but discreet gold
jewelry. “
Ah, mais vous êtes américaine?
” she said, shaking my hand with a formality I now found unusual. “But you speak French so well.” By now I’ve learned to enjoy
the compliment and ignore the subtle note of surprise.

Before dinner, Paul and Affif went out to inspect the grounds. Over the years, Affif had done almost all the work on the house
himself. He was in the process of converting the barn into a makeshift theater, where local performers could be invited. There
was no more common language between these two men than there had been at the wedding. But as I watched Affif point and measure
with his hands, Paul was enthusiastically nodding along, always a willing participant in a technical conversation, even one
he didn’t fully understand.

By seven, we were assembled in the
salon
. Gwendal and I had brought the oysters from Saint-Malo. We all sipped crisp white wine and slurped the briny mollusks, clinking
glasses and speculating about the wonderful smells coming from the kitchen.

The table was decorated with Annick’s brightest linens; a yellow tablecloth was covered with a striped one in sienna, deep
purple, and green. A swath of sheer gold fabric covered the center of the table, scattered with small votive candles.

We sat down at eight p.m. and didn’t get up from the table until four thirty in the morning, except for a brief pause at midnight
for champagne. It was the most spectacular meal I’ve ever eaten. Like the triumphal procession in Act II of
Aida,
after the spear carriers come the chariots, after the chariots the cavalry, after the cavalry the dancing girls. And just
when you think the stage can’t hold another thing, they bring out the elephants.

To start, there were small salads—the thinnest slivers of red and yellow pepper, slow roasted and glistening with olive oil,
and the simplest blend of carrots and golden onions, heady with the smell of cumin.

Then came the fish, its sauce simmered with saffron and tomatoes, thickened with ground almonds. I served myself the merest
spoonful or two. “
Elle est stratégique
.” Affif winked with approval. “She knows what’s coming.” I wanted to savor every bite, even if it was a small one, nothing
blurred by the rebellion of a tired palate. I plucked a toothpick out of the end of an oblong white calamari. It was stuffed
with rice and peppers, a curly violet-tipped tentacle poking out here and there.

I looked around the table. Affif and his cousin were engaged in a mock argument about colonialism. Nicole guessed at the herbs—cumin
and dill—in the baked squid. Gwendal got up to serve more wine. We had finally succeeded in buying the apartment upstairs.
Anne-Laure suggested a store in Paris where we might buy bathroom tiles. I had been working so hard these past few years to
figure out what France was about—how it operates, what makes it tick. In fact, most of what was important to the French was
around this table: close family, old friends, and fabulous food. I knew I would never entirely leave my New York self behind—never
stop wanting, never stop striving—but I also had
my place here, among these people, and this endless parade of dishes.

By the time we got to the quail with cinnamon and raisins, everyone else was groaning with the beginnings of a genuine food
coma. I was still going strong. I picked up the delicate leg with my fingers, the bone no thicker than a matchstick. The meat
melted on my tongue almost before I had a chance to sink my teeth in.

The next dish was a tart contrast to the smoldering sweetness of the quail. Chicken legs and thighs lolling in an unctuous
yellow sauce, thick with melted onions, flecks of coriander, and a julienne of fresh ginger. There were two distinct layers
of taste, the savory tang of pickled lemons and the sweeter acid pucker of fresh lemon juice, pressed over at the very last
minute.

My parents were living it up. Annick had done a judicious job with the seating plan; my mother and Paul were wedged between
two English-speaking family friends. After the quail my mother stood up, with Jean-Luc coaching her from one side, and raised
her glass toward Affif, reciting carefully, “
C’est
trop
bon.
” It’s
too
good. Everyone applauded.

It was suddenly ten minutes to midnight, and we stood up to stretch our legs. Affif peeled away the foil of the champagne
with Yanig’s pocketknife, which Nicole had given him. I sidled up to Gwendal, running my hand over his chest and clinking
my glass to his. “
Dans les yeux
,” I said, leaning in to give him a kiss. We wedged ourselves in on either side of Nicole, squeezing her shoulders, my parents
just beside us. As we counted down toward the new year, it felt more to me like Thanksgiving. I was making a new kind of checklist
in my head, all the things I was grateful for.

It seemed impossible that there could be more food, but we sat down again. The main event, we were told, was still to come.
Neat little parcels of stuffed cabbage made their way around the
table, bubbling under a Frenchified layer of melted cheese. Lamb with artichokes followed, each pale green heart slick with
meaty juices.

The final dish was a
tagine
of meatballs stewed with dried apricots, cloves, and cinnamon. Affif brought it to the table in the traditional conical ceramic
dish, lifting the cover with a flourish, releasing a fruity steam.

By the time we had finished, there was not an inch of interior space for the cheese, fruit, and fluffy meringue torte, but
everyone made a heroic effort. As the guests finally dispersed, I helped Annick with the first round of dishes.

“
Ça va?
” said Gwendal, sneaking up behind me as I rinsed some glasses. He still loves to grab me in the kitchen when my hands are
busy. “
Ça va,
” I answered, smiling to myself. I was better than OK, I was happy.

It was five a.m. by the time we settled into bed. I knew this meal would go down in the family annals, a memory we would savor
for years to come.

A
MERE FOUR
hours later, we were all gathered around the table again for breakfast. My mother padded downstairs, her hair only slightly
tamed from its short rest on the pillow. She was wearing two of her own sweaters and one of Paul’s. “
BON-jour,
” mouthed Annick with an exaggerated wave. “
BIEN dormi?
”

“
BON-jour!
” answered my mother crisply, raising her arm in a military-style salute. It was very early for French lessons.

Anne-Laure, already dressed in a camel-colored skirt, tweed blazer, scarf, full jewelry, and high-heeled boots, hung back
from the table. When a slice of brioche was offered from the wicker basket, she waved it away with her hand. “
Un café, c’est tout.
J’ai trop mangé hier
.” Just a coffee, she said. I ate too much last night.

I squeezed Gwendal’s knee under the table and continued to spread my brioche with a sticky layer of blackberry jam. Maybe
I would never be quite that French. I was perfectly ready to sit down and enjoy my next meal.