Lunch in Paris (40 page)

T
wo years had passed, and we still hadn’t bought much for the new apartment upstairs. After the plumbing, there wasn’t a lot
of money left over for furniture. The one thing I really wanted was an enormous table. We chose a long rectangular farm table,
the blond wood darkened by age and use. It seated twelve without touching elbows, sixteen in a pinch. So much of what I’d
learned about France I’d discovered
autour de la table—
around the table. Finally I had one of my own.

It had been eight years since that first lunch in Paris, six since I’d dragged my overstuffed suitcases up the spiral stairs
to Gwendal’s student flat to stay. We still live on the same street, though now there are ornate plaster moldings, a bathtub—and
heat.

The kitchen is the first thing you see when you enter our new home. At the moment, it was in chaos; we were preparing for
our annual Passover seder. Passover, the holiday commemorating the Jewish people’s liberation from slavery in Egypt, was always
an important (if not terribly reverent) tradition in my family, one I had decided to import to Paris.

The menu, like the guest list, was a mixture of new friends and old favorites—the tastes I’d grown up with adapted to my market
discoveries. Freed from the tyranny of Manischewitz gefilte fish, I had replaced the beige lumps of carp with wild salmon,
roasted rare with just a drizzle of good olive oil and some fresh dill. For the main course I decided on a lamb
tagine
with prunes and sweet potatoes; I was looking to make a livelier version of my grandmother’s
tzimmes,
a mush of brisket, prunes, and sweet potatoes that she cooked to disintegrating Eastern European death. With a few adjustments,
I was sure a slow-cooked
tagine
would yield similar, but prettier, results. I hoped I had absorbed enough of Affif’s technique by now to pull it off.

Though I was anxious to give the meal that special French touch, I had to have at least one old standby, so my mother brought
the cans of College Inn chicken broth from New York to make the matzo ball soup. In New York, the cans were an open secret,
recognized by all to be better than hours of boiling, skimming, and salting. But in France, food is a labor of love, not a
convenience, and I was afraid my French family would be insulted that I had not made it myself. We charted a middle course,
cleverly disposing of the cans before everyone’s arrival. As a precaution, I considered asking my mother to bring the parsnip
as well, but I didn’t think they would make it through customs.

I needn’t have worried about the parsnip. All things come to those who wait. In fact, gentrification had given me back my
humble root. The neighborhood markets had begun to cater to a younger, hipper clientele, nostalgic for comfort food. Heirloom
vegetables began to appear—ridged and heart-shaped beefsteak tomatoes, as big as a boxer’s fist and as red as your first valentine.
Knobbly roots like the
topinambour,
the Jerusalem artichokes that the older generation was forced to survive on during the war, were now being shaved and braised
and mashed in the trendiest
bistros. On this wave of newly fashionable grub, I finally recovered my parsnip.

Courtney came in from London, and on Saturday morning we got up early to go to the market for last-minute supplies. We picked
up the wild salmon from the fishmonger (Courtney is still fascinated by the glassy-eyed stares of whole fish) and garden roses
in pale butter yellow, peach, and lavender from the flower stall. The vegetable man wrapped up an equally large bouquet of
parsley, coriander, and dill. When we got home, my mother was vigorously wiping wineglasses and Paul was elbow-deep in silver
polish. I still needed to go to the butcher to pick up the lamb shank I’d forgotten for the seder plate. This year I would
roast it myself.

The nicest thing about Passover—about any family tradition, really—is that it is never one event, but many years of memories
rolled into one. Every recipe, every piece of silver, brought up a story from years past. As I placed my paternal grandmother’s
thimble-sized silver kiddush cup down next to one of Yanig’s gold-flecked vases on the long table, I felt my past and present
coming together.

M
Y MOTHER’S GOAL
when entertaining is to be seated in the living room with a glass of wine one half hour before the guests arrive. Clearly
this requires some practice. An hour before our guests were due I had a mini meltdown, hissing at Gwendal, accusing him of
hiding the black sweater I
needed
to wear. I shut the door of our new bedroom behind me and took a few deep breaths. The control freak of yore still reared
her ugly head from time to time, but she was a less frequent visitor.

Unlike most carefully planned dinner parties, surprise guests are always welcome at the Passover table. Kelda brought Dave,
a
friend who was in town for the week from California; two more strong voices would help with the songs. Katherine, my friend-date,
arrived with her French husband in tow. Gwendal handed her a glass of Vouvray, which she immediately passed on to Sylvestre.

“I’ll have water,” she said, doing her best to sound casual. I raised my eyebrows in her direction as I stirred the soup.
She put her finger to her lips. “It’s early days. We’re not saying anything yet.”

Fernanda, my friend the Argentinean beauty queen, walked in with a perfectly round bouquet of lilacs and roses, formally trussed
and tied as only a French florist can do. She had just started dating our
osteopath
—only in Paris does your date get to see you naked
before
he asks you out. Ludovic was from a German Jewish family, and he was thrilled to have a place to go for the holiday. Axelle
arrived with a snow-white orchid for our new mantelpiece. “
C’est nouveau?
” I said, admiring her soft gray tights, woven through with a pattern of silver threads. Oscar had called on Friday afternoon—he
was in Paris for a trade show, what were we doing for dinner?—and brought the number up to lucky eighteen.

P
ASSOVER IS A
symbolic meal; we eat parsley dipped in salt water to remember the tears of our ancestors, and charoset, a mixture of apples,
nuts, and dried fruits, to remind us of the mortar that the slaves used to build Pharaoh’s cities. Meals can, and do, tell
stories.

As I sat down at the head of the table on Saturday evening, I felt the beginning of a new chapter. An idea for a book was
taking shape in my head—the tale of an American who discovers Paris, one meal at a time. Gwendal’s small consulting company
had merged with a larger firm; a few months earlier, he’d signed a deal for the first European cinema chain to go fully digital.
At the far end of
the table, my mother and Nicole had their heads bent together, inspecting the silver asparagus tongs, a cherished family
heirloom brought over for the occasion. It had been three years since Yanig’s death; Nicole was looking to move her practice
to Paris and start a new life. I’d recently thrown away my last packet of birth control pills; Gwendal and I felt ready to
embark on our next adventure, a family of our own.

The Haggadah, the book used to lead the seder service during the meal, is the same one my family has used for twenty years.
I held my grandfather’s leader’s book, following his neatly penciled notes in the margins (he liked to skip pages) and surprising
myself as I translated easily into French as I went along. Each year my mother asked her guests to sign the inside cover.
I followed her example. The names were different, but the feeling was the same: warmth, community, and a sense of home.

Everyone loved the soup (no questions were asked about its origins), and my
tagine-tzimmes,
with cinnamon sticks poking out between the prunes and slices of bright orange sweet potato, received a deep nod of approval
from Affif. Fernanda’s finely honed sweet tooth led her to a spot on the couch right next to Aunt Joyce’s chewy coconut macaroons.

When my mother walked into the kitchen with the empty coffeepot, she caught Gwendal and me smooching as I loaded the dishwasher.
She smiled even as her eyes watered over. With central heating and closet space to spare, a project to keep me busy, and a
family and circle of friends to keep me sane, maybe, just maybe, it would finally be OK for her to leave me here.

E
VERY PASSOVER, AFTER
we tell the biblical story of where we came from, we say where we are going. The seder meal ends with the words “Next year
in Jerusalem.” It expresses our hopes for the
year ahead, that we may move forward, toward freedom, but also toward home.

When Gwendal and I think about the “promised land,” our perfect life, we sometimes imagine an island in the middle of the
Atlantic Ocean, halfway between Paris and New York. It’s a place where people take professional risks but also have time for
personal pleasures. A place with an outdoor market that stretches as far as the eye can see, and one skyscraper, as tall as
the market is long, for ambition and effect. There’s a café, with chipped Art Deco mirrors and sugar cube wrappers on the
floor. It serves scalding hot
café crème
with buttery, flaky croissants, and, on the first Sunday of the month, an everything bagel with scallion cream cheese. There
is a museum to preserve the stories of the past, and a movie studio to create the dreams of the future. We imagine a school
for our children that teaches philosophy and physics—but also inspiration. It’s a place where just-do-it and
joie de vivre
live side by side, hand in hand.

The promised land doesn’t quite exist, but we are getting there.

I met Gwendal’s gaze down the other end of the table, raised my wineglass, and we recited together: “Next year in Jerusalem.”

Next year in Paris sounds good to me.