Page 69 of Love In Provence
Ralph gives a bark and little Louis claps, raising his hand too, and everyone laughs.
‘One big push to show him we’re more popular than his fancy tasting menu,’ Jen says.
‘To see if he can be convinced to work with me, and put Henri’s back at the heart of the town. Just until Fabien comes home at the end of the week,’ I say.
‘Let’s do it!’
27
‘You’re joking! Another complaint? What about this time?’ I say, a couple of days later, to the younggendarmeat thebrocantegates.
‘He says you’re operating as a restaurant without a restaurant licence. You have been open every night this week.’
‘It’s a supper club! On private property. People make a contribution.’ I’m reminded of the group of expats who tried to close down the riverbank project, saying we were running it illegally. ‘It’s all above board.’
‘I had to tell you. And the curried goat was amazing last night.’
‘Merci!’
‘But he’s right. You can’t operate as a restaurant here.’
‘What? It’s just a few friends sharing food. A taste of home for travellers on a journey. Come back againtonight. I’ll save you some of the Spanish chicken. And there’ll be some Moroccan flavours too from Jen’s travels.’
She smiles. ‘I’ll pass on the message. And, as a friend, I’ll be dropping in tonight.’
The only thing I can do is have it out with the man. I storm down to the restaurant, push open the door and stride in. We may have only one more night ahead of us, but I’m not going to let him spoil it.
‘This has to stop!’
The delivery man takes the signed paper from Zacharie’s hand and makes a hasty exit from the restaurant.
There’s no time for fake niceties. He retaliates straight away. ‘You cannot operate your home-cooking kitchen as a restaurant,’ he says, leaning across the pass from his kitchen.
I throw up my hands. ‘It’s a supper club! Friends gathering!’
‘Phffff!’ He throws up his hands. ‘Friends gathering!’ He turns down his mouth in disgust. ‘You are open every night! Advertising in the town! Handing out samples and pointing them towards your “supper club”.’ He makes speech marks in the air. This time he’s more irate than I am. ‘Trying to recreate Henri’s bistro just a few feet from where it used to be. But you need to accept that Henri’s is gone! There is a new place here now. L’expérience!’
He comes out angrily from behind the kitchen counter and indicates the new chrome and grey interior. ‘We are cutting edge. With great reviews. Not plates of food you would get in your granny’s kitchen. Going out to eat should be an experience.’
‘Home cooking, made with love! Not tiny pipettes of food, too pretentious to be called a meal,’ I fire back.
He puts his hands on his hips. ‘It is high-class French cooking. Something you would know nothing about.’ He takes a step forward, confronting me.
‘I know it’s not what Henri would call French cooking.’ I stand my ground.
‘What do you know about my father?’ He inches further forward.
‘I know he loved you.’
He leans in. ‘He abandoned us!’
‘He was trying to give you space when your mother met her new partner. He told me about it when he taught me his recipes here in the kitchen, how much it pained him, but he did it for you, to help ease you into your new life.’
‘Is that what it was? Space!’ he spits. His face is angry, and close to mine.
‘And I know that when you were growing up he would cook for you, cook your favouritemoules friteson a Saturday, followed by crème caramel and on Sundays you’d join him in the kitchen …’
Tears are rolling down his cheeks. He brushes them away.
