Lunch in Paris (7 page)

I took the SAT, so I know how to make an educated guess: first I took a stab at the green bits; some of the thick outer leaves
looked wilted—dead things seemed like a logical place to start. Then I tried cutting down the middle, but the leek bent like
a dying tulip, and I was left sawing, one layer at a time. Affif surveyed the situation out of the corner of his eye. “
Pas sous plastique, celui-là.
” Not under plastic, this one, he said, winking. Then, as if on cue, the entire room burst into good-natured laughter.

Affif took a leek from the pile, held it firmly by its whiskers (
oh God, those are the roots, you idiot
), and sliced into the white heart of the stalk, ripping straight up to the green tips in a single stroke. He made another
slice at a ninety-degree angle and held up the leek like a cheerleading pom-pom, dirt clinging to the inside layers and a
faint smell of sweet onion wafting through the air. Lesson over, Affif grabbed a bunch of leeks from the kitchen and
presented them to me like a bouquet. The knot in my stomach loosened. I had a vegetable in-joke.

As if finding the business end of a leek was not culinary discovery enough for one afternoon, we then moved on to the mayonnaise.
All these leeks were an accompaniment to poached cod—and to accompany the cod, a homemade mayonnaise.

Not to put too fine a point on it, but I
despise
mayonnaise. The smell of the white rubbery gel was enough to dissuade this five-year-old forever, never mind the slimy way
it soaks into tuna fish and sogs up a perfectly good tomato. I had a rule against sandwiches as a kid; I wouldn’t eat anything
stuck between two pieces of bread. In this manner, I had avoided any contact with the stuff for the better part of twenty
years. Now I was cornered, hung upside down by the toenails in the name of politesse.

Nicole put a large pinch of sea salt, a dab of Dijon mustard, and an egg yolk in the bottom of a small plastic container.
Then she turned on the electric beater while adding a thin but steady trickle of oil.

“
Les femmes.
” Women, mumbled Yanig under his breath. Apparently he beats his by hand.

Slowly, as if by magic, what should have been a mucus-like vinaigrette puffed up into a creamy yellow cloud. It was a little
bit of French alchemy—suspicious, but promising.

When we sat down to lunch I faded into the background. I let the conversation wash over me, happy (for once in the life of
this only child) not to be the center of attention. But as I picked up my fork, I had the feeling I was being watched. Nicole
mashed up a bit of cod with her fork and combined it with a dab of mayonnaise. I did the same. The result was a revelation.
The mayonnaise was silky without being oily; it didn’t really taste like anything, but it made everything taste better. I
felt like Moses, wandering for years in the culinary wilderness, finally come home. Clearly, I was not in the land of Hellmann’s
anymore.

N
OWADAYS, I AM
good at parties. This wasn’t always the case. Charm, it turns out—like whipping up a good mayonnaise—is very much an acquired
skill.

As an only child raised primarily in the company of adults, until the age of thirteen I had very little idea how to talk to
kids my own age. I was the kind of shy that came off as haughty, sensitive in the way that allowed smaller, crueler girls
(who had presumably spent their childhoods pinned in a headlock by their older brothers) to taunt me between rounds of jump
rope. Only children are famously bad at comebacks. We have no experience with smash and grab.

My transformation into a social being was sudden, almost mystical. I had just completed the kind of eighth-grade experience
Judy Blume novels are made of: suffice it to say that if there existed a more soul-crushing humiliation than Dave Ware’s discovery
of my first tampons during math class, I couldn’t think of it—until I was up to bat that afternoon for softball (I’m no Josephine
DiMaggio to begin with) and Dave led all the boys in a rousing chorus of “GO SUPER PLUS, GO SUPER PLUS.” Summer camp was torture
for me—
Lord of the Flies
with hairspray. I begged my mother to let me go to summer school instead. School was what I was good at.

Driving eighty miles an hour in our little Nissan without hubcaps up to a fancy boarding school in Massachusetts, my mother
was midway through a pep talk. “It’s a fresh start,” she said in that overly cheerful tone she trotted out to say something
that was true, obvious, and unhelpful, all at the same time.

“Come on,” she said, flipping down the visor mirror so I could smile into it, “repeat after me. ‘Hi, my name is Elizabeth.
Hi!
My name is Elizabeth. Hi!
My
name is Elizabeth.’ ” For three hours, all the way up the Mass Pike. I wanted to open the door and roll under the wheels.

When we arrived at the tree-lined entrance of Northfield Mount Hermon School, I instantly recognized myself in the Greek Revival
pillars and white-shingled Victorian houses. This school would turn out to be one of my happiest spots on earth, and I would
return not just for a summer program, but thanks to a scholarship and my auntie Lynn, three years of high school. Registration
was in the music building. As we waited for the line to inch forward toward the orientation packets and silver coffee service,
my mother excused herself to go to the bathroom. I knew it was now or never. So I sucked in my breath and turned to the girl
behind me. She was tall with a puggish nose and dark curls:

Hi, my name is Elizabeth.

The universe hung in the balance. The sun swung from a cord above my head.

Hi, I’m Catherine.

I couldn’t have been more shocked if I’d split the atom right there on the faded Oriental rug. I wanted a Nobel Prize, a plaque,
a medal.
It works
. And suddenly—what felt like instantaneously—I was someone who could talk to anyone.

So how hard could a French party really be?
Bonjour, je m’appelle Elizabeth.
Hi, my name is Elizabeth. I liked my chances.

As the guests started to arrive in the late afternoon, I practiced a more nuanced version of my standard greeting:
Bonsoir, enchantée de vous rencontrer
. Good evening, delighted to meet you. Even as I said it, I realized it might be a little early for
bonsoir,
and I got the feeling that
enchantée
might be limited to State Department cocktail hours.

Kiss or shake? Most went in for the double-cheek kiss just as I extended my hand. We ended up in an awkward tangle of jutting
heads and arms, as though we were midway through a good game of Twister. All I really wanted to get across was an old-fashioned
“pleasure to meet you,” but Gwendal told me flat out that I couldn’t use the word
plaisir
without implying something sexual. Maybe it wasn’t going to be such a pleasure to meet these people after all.

Many of Gwendal’s friends had come from Paris. Some were staying in nearby hotels, some were camping in the back garden. Everyone
was friendly but slightly… vague. No one asked me anything about myself, and no one, even the ones I knew spoke some English,
made the slightest effort in that direction. Struggling to piece together a sentence in French, I felt like Harry Houdini,
suspended upside down in a glass tank, mouthing words through a wall of water and blowing little bubbles through my nose.
Everything was muted. I felt half-funny, half-intelligent, half-charming—half-
there
.

When I had exhausted my limited stock of French phrases, I tried to move on to the next person. In the States, it is normal
to walk up to a stranger at a party and start a conversation. That was my first mistake. There are no strangers at French
parties; everyone has known each other forever. Breaking into a conversation is a little bit like starting
David Copperfield
in the middle. You’ve missed the formative years.

In the States, prefab questions like “What do you do?” or “Where do you go to school?” are an easy way to place people on
the social scale. It is assumed that your answer will reveal what you are proud of or passionate about, and of course that
all-important American barometer, how much money you make.

A French conversation starter is more subtle. Work is considered boring, money is out of the question, politics comes later
(and only in like-minded company). Vacation is a safe bet—it’s no exaggeration to say that French people are always going
on, returning from, or planning a holiday. But more often than not, social class in France is judged by your relationship
to culture. Here’s an example:

“What did you think of the new David Lynch?”

The new David Lynch is:

a. a comic book about mice

b. a film about lesbians

c. a brand of toilet paper

Your opinion (or lack thereof) tells them everything they need to know. Turns out, I had seen the new David Lynch. It gave
me a headache, but I didn’t have the vocabulary to tell anyone why.

Thank God there were dishes to wash.

By ten o’clock my jaw was sore from smiling, and I retreated to a safe spot near the kitchen sink. Nicole was already there.
This was really going back to my roots. I was the kid who stuck too close to the counselor at camp; when I’m uncomfortable,
I naturally gravitate to the oldest person in the room. Dishwashing turned out to be a stroke of genius. I could be busy,
purposeful, silent,
and
ingratiate myself with Gwendal’s mom all at the same time. Nicole and I rinsed and dried in silent harmony, nodding shyly
at each other.

After dinner, Gwendal’s father cleared a space on the living room floor. He had recently given up boatbuilding and taught
himself ceramics; he had a studio and a kiln attached to the garage. He was surprisingly talented, especially with the glazes,
which he mixed and measured with the same precision that he must have used in front of his navigational charts. Yanig took
the huge Moroccan brass plate they used as a coffee table and piled
it with tiny parcels, each topped with a metal hook. He handed an improvised fishing rod to Gwendal’s high school sweetheart
Nathalie, and each of us took a turn trying to catch our prize. Inside each bundle, carefully wrapped in tissue paper, were
miniature vases that Yanig had made especially for the occasion. I watched Gwendal as he took his turn, swinging the rod over
his shoulder like a kid on his way to the beach. It was easy to see the kind of boy he must have been, quick with a goofy
smile, full of intense concentration in front of the task at hand. He fished out a chubby black vase with flecks of blue;
I fished out a rose and gray one with a long neck and a big bottom. Hmph.

As everyone admired their prize, Gwendal dragged a large square of plywood out of the garage, put on some fancy shoes, and
started tap-dancing. Yup. Right there on the living room floor. I knew he’d been taking lessons, inspired by a love of old
American movies—anything with sword-fighting or a top hat and tails. I decided, in the interest of cultural sensitivity, to
suspend judgment. He looked like he was having fun, and I already had sufficient evidence that he was heterosexual.

The rest of us started dancing at about midnight; I was grateful for an activity that didn’t require me to conjugate any verbs.
Things were still going strong at three a.m. when someone turned up “Alexandrie, Alexandra” on the stereo. Suddenly the whole
room went into some kind of disco rain dance, whooping and chanting in a circle around the living room. I stood pressed against
the wall, like a field anthropologist caught in the middle of a buffalo exorcism. This must be how stupid Americans look doing
“Y. M.C.A.”

The crowd started to thin at about four a.m. I had barely seen Gwendal all evening; he was busy catching up with old friends.
Before we went to bed we finished mopping the living room floor.

I was beyond tired. My brain was fuzzy from the wine and hours of simultaneous translation. Could I really do this? Could
these people be my friends? Could this strange life, this language I’d mangled all evening, be mine? I saw myself at the bottom
of an enormous mountain, looking up, trying to decide if I was ready for a long, hard climb.

“Want to dance with me?” said Gwendal, pulling me close and turning up the Chet Baker. The French words I’d been fighting
with all evening drained from my head to a puddle at my feet.

Let’s get lost, lost in each other’s arms

Let’s get lost, let them send out alarms

A few weeks later, Gwendal called his parents. Nicole mentioned, in that tiny but determined voice of hers, that she was taking
English lessons.

A mother always knows.