Page 40 of Love In Provence
‘Actually, there was something else …’ It seems like a window of opportunity. A bonding moment, getting Henri’s name back on the bistro window and planning to open again. ‘I wanted to talk to you about Henri’s funeral, or service, whatever it is. People are still asking. I know you said about keeping it small, family only. But it really would help people. Henri was family to a lot of people around here,’ I say, watching his reaction, hoping to have good news for Rhi and for Fabien. I know he’d want to be there, and as soon as we have the date, Fabien will be on his way home.
He says nothing, just stares at the front window and the signwriter at work.
‘Well, as I say, let us know when it is. We’re all keen to give Henri a good send-off. He’s very well thought-of.’I can’t bring myself to say ‘waswell thought-of’. I swallow. ‘It would be very good of you to include us, the community, in it.’
He still doesn’t respond. Slowly he turns towards me. ‘And so, Del,’ the use of my name so pointedly catches me off guard, ‘I am here and you wanted to speak to me. Was that it?’ He seems to smile.
I was ready for battle, but perhaps he’s softened – and we could be on the same page. He’s here having the window fixed and painted, getting ready to reopen, and so am I. Let’s hope.
‘The most important thing is to reopen the bistro. This place brings in a good income. Not massive, but it sustained Henri and me. I know you had a valuation done—’
‘Just for my personal information,’ he cuts me off. ‘The valuation,’ he clarifies.
‘Oh … good.’ I heave a sigh of relief. ‘So, you’re not intending to sell the place.’
‘I’m not,non,’ he confirms, with a brusque nod.
‘Oh, that is good.Bon!’ I gush. ‘I was getting worried, what with you meeting Rhi and asking for the ashes yesterday, but I’m guessing it’s grief. We’re all grieving, which is why it will be good to have the funeral or service or whatever you call it. We all say things we don’t mean in the heat of the moment.’ I think about me idiotically insisting that Fabien go on this tour and wishing I could turn back the clock.
I smile at him, but he doesn’t smile back and turns to the window.
‘Right. Let’s get this place sorted and ready to open,’ I say, clapping my hands. As soon as I’m back in the kitchen the recipes I know and love will come back to me. I’ll be where I belong, feeling Henri by my side. Life can go back to the way it was, even if Henri isn’t actually in it. I’ll make sure his name is written bigger and bolder on the daily blackboard so no one ever forgets why this place is called Henri’s and who was at the heart of it. He changed people’s lives around here and we won’t let anyone forget that.
‘We just need to decide how this is going to work,’ I say. ‘I mean, are you planning on helping out or hands-off, as Henri was?’ I’m hoping for the latter, a sleeping partner, so that I can carry on as I was.
The glaziers finish putting in the new glass and I step forward to thank them, but Zacharie beats me to it, thanking them for coming so fast. Not fast at all, I think. I’ve been waiting since the mistral. Then I realize, it’s not the same glazing company I had booked, or the signwriter, who steps forward to start on the window, stencils in hand. The glaziers leave and Zacharie returns to his spot, watching the work on the window.
‘The thing is, this town has money,’ Zacharie says slowly and thoughtfully. I’m not even sure if he’s talking to me or to himself. He’s staring straight ahead.
‘Well, yes, there are some wealthy people here, big holiday homes, but there are also the ordinary ones who want to eat affordable home-style cooking, like Henri has always done. There’s room for all here.’
‘It needs more proper French restaurants, not Italian recipes or, God forbid, anything British.’ I wince, wondering if he’s referring to the fish and chips I’ve put on the menu on a Friday sometimes.
‘This place is crying out for high-quality classic French cooking.’
‘Well, yes, and Henri’s does all the French classics: coq au vin, beefdaube, ratatouille …’
He laughs, surprising me. I start to smile with him, hoping this is his way of going forward working together. It might take some getting used to but …
‘Peasant food,’ he says suddenly, repeating his description of Henri’s dishes, practically spitting out the word with disgust. Then the smile returns to his lips.
For a moment I’m stuck for words as if I’m standing on sand and it’s shifting under my feet. I try to find my way back into the conversation.
‘Well, the customers seem to enjoy it and that’s what counts,’ I say. ‘If you have any dishes you’d like to add …’ I attempt to move things forward again. It’s like herding a cat down a street full of alleyways for it to turn into.
He takes off his sunglasses and stares straight at me. ‘They will all be new dishes,’ he says decisively.
‘Well, um, I think we should include some new ones but definitely keep the favourites,’ I say, keen not to be walked over and overruled, but also to include him in the business. After all, we’re partners now and we need to try to work together.
‘Non,’ he says flatly. ‘There will be nothing of the old left behind.’ He walks towards the window where the signwriter is at work inside.
‘Well, hang on a moment.Un moment, s’il vous plaît,’ I say, trying to appease him. ‘I think people liked—’
He interrupts me. ‘For it to be a high-end Michelin-starred restaurant, it will need a completely new menu.’
‘Michelin-starred?’ This time it’s my turn to laugh. He doesn’t. I stop and look at his face. He’s not joking.
‘I have no doubt,’ he says, with confidence, ‘for the cooking that we will produce, you will need deep pockets to eat here and, in time, I will expand.’
