Page 63 of Love In Provence
In town, the sun is shining and the cream walls of the shops look brighter than ever. Jen and I make our way with keen eyes to the outside stalls. I remember Henri doing this with me, pointing out the sellers to buy from and those who were more geared towards the tourist, happy to pay a little more for a slice of Provençal life.
Heads down, we look over the tomatoes in the shade of a parasol. The heat of the sun warms the backs of our necks.
‘I’m thinking pork and peaches,’ says Jen.
As well as thedaube? Lovely, withherbes de Provence, just a hint of lavender, I think, feeling Henri with me, talking through his idea for a recipe, always with the herbs including the lavender. It’s comforting, like I’m walking in familiar shoes.
‘And a splash of crème fraîche. Or a peachtarte,’ I say, ‘liketarte Tatin, but with peaches.’
‘Perfect!’ She smiles.
‘Roasted peaches, one of Fabien’s favourite things.’
‘Sounds just right!’ says Jen. ‘And we’ll make plenty, if last week was anything to go by.’
I’m starting to feel this might not just be beginner’s luck.
I reach for the peaches, imagining them caramelized in dark sugar sitting on a buttery pastry served with vanilla ice cream just as another hand reaches for them.
‘Del.’ The familiarity of that voice, which fills way too many of my thoughts and sounds taunting, sarcastic and dismissive.
My heart dips. My chest tightens and twists. Suddenly I’m feeling the heat on the back of my head, racing around my neck and up into my cheeks. I snatch my hand back, feeling like I’ve touched an electric fence. I straighten.
‘Zacharie.’
‘We meet again,’ he says, as if I’m some traveller passing through.
‘Yes,’ I say tightly. ‘Well, it is where I live and shop.’
‘It’s a good town. A little pricy maybe, but once the sellers know what we’re doing, I’m sure they’ll come down a little, to be associated with l’expérience. In the meantime, I shall be bringing in produce from elsewhere. Higher quality.’
‘But this place has everything from the local area!’
‘Then they should up their quality and lower their prices if they want local business,’ he says, peering down at the peaches. ‘However, for now, I’ll have to make do with what’s available.’
He points to the peaches and calls to the seller.
‘Oh, actually,excusez-moi,’ I say. I point to the peaches. ‘Pour moi, Renard,’ I tell him.
But Zacharie has already scooped up the box and is holding out a note, pushing it on the seller. Renard looks between him and me. Zacharie puts the note on the scales. ‘Like I say, they’ll need to learn who to prioritize around here. I’m a restaurant attracting high-class clients. Yours is just a hobby that cannot compete.’
I’m left with my mouth waggling up and down.
Renard picks up the note and puts it into his money-belt.
Then he looks at me. ‘Désolé,’ he says.
‘We need to have a rethink,’ I say to Jen, who is waiting in the shade across the road.
‘Why?’
‘Zacharie took the peaches.’
‘We can get more.’ She looks around. ‘Or we stick with atarte Tatin. An apple one. We don’t need to overcomplicate things.’
We wander the market a little more, but the wind has left my sails.
Later that afternoon when we’re setting up for dinner, my spirits lift. Thetartes Tatinare beautiful, amber and golden. And the homemade ice cream is fabulous. Rich and creamy, with flecks of vanilla, served with a sprig of lavender.
