Page 35 of From Paris, with Butter
I laughed. “A few other places. Do you want to hear all of them?”
“Of course.”
I settled back in my chair. “Well, I was born in Austria, but my mother and I moved back to Colmar shortly after, and we lived there until I was about five. Then we moved to Brussels. That was nice because it was close enough to home that we could still visit a lot. We stayed there for two years, then moved to Martinique when my mother was offered a pastry chef role at a new hotel there. We were in Martinique for about a year and a half, then we moved to Washington DC for about three years while she was a pastry chef at the French Embassy. After that, we were in Madrid for about a year, then back to Colmar for a few years, then my mother moved to London after I finished secondary school.”
“Is she still there now?” Laurent asked, smiling.
I ducked my head. I’d had years to practice, but I was still so bad at telling people.
“She died, actually,” I said quietly, looking down at the table. “About five years ago. Well, closer to six now. She was in a car accident.”
I chanced a glance at Laurent. He looked crestfallen. I knew I looked miserable too, because I’ve never been able to talk about my mom without being on the verge of tears. It had made countless dates uncomfortable, and I was sure he’d be joining the long line of men who made their excuses (with varying degrees of believability) and quickly exit rather than deal with the woman who’s still cut up over her mom’s death.
Nervously, I raised my eyes. Shockingly, Laurent wasn’t glancing around for an exit or mumbling about an errand he had to run. He was looking right at me.
“That’s both of us stepped in it this conversation,” he said, a tiny sad smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. “I’m so sorry about your mom. When my sister got sick, I couldn’t even consider the possibility of her not making it. It took my breath away.”
“Thanks,” I mumbled, dropping my gaze again. “It was very hard. My dadwas never in the picture, so after my grandparents died, she was the only family I was close to.”
“And she was a pastry chef?”
I smiled. “She was an amazing pastry chef.”
Laurent smiled back, the smile that lit up his entire face. “You clearly got her talent. Have you ever considered becoming a professional?”
My mood, which had been slowly inching upward, plummeted again. I shrugged uncomfortably. “I tried once. It didn’t work out.”
I was worried Laurent would ask me to elaborate but, perhaps noticing my discomfort, he changed the subject.
“Was it difficult moving so much growing up?”
“Sometimes,” I said, my shoulders relaxing. “Sometimes it felt like my mother dragged me to every corner of the world.” I smiled faintly, remembering. “But she loved going to new places, starting fresh. I’m not quite the same way. I’m happy to be back in France, and to stay here. I still visit Colmar often as well. It’s the one place that’s ever really felt like home.”
Laurent smiled. “That’s wonderful to have a home you want to return to. I’ve always wanted to get away from Aix. My sister, on the other hand, loves it there. Noelle went to university less than an hour away, but she still came back every weekend because she missed home. She helped me move in when I came here, and I think even that made her a little homesick,” he said, laughing. Laurent’s face softened as he spoke of his sister.
Our mussels and fries arrived, and we paused to try them. They looked gorgeous, the fries golden brown and shining lightly with oil, with flecks of sea salt dotted across them. The mussels had been steamed in cider and Pernod and were swimming in a pool of sautéed shallots, garlic, and parsley. I fished one free of its shell and tipped it into my mouth. It tasted perfectly of the sea, but the sea enhanced, the sea melded with aromatics and layers of flavor.
I remained still a few seconds after swallowing it, savoring the moment.
“They’re wonderful,” I told Laurent, and his face lit up.
“I was worried about choosing a place you wouldn’t like,” Laurent said, and his concern for my happiness, even though we barely knew each other, was so sweet it was almost painful.
By the time we’d finished the moules frites, I was on my second drink, having switched to the cider Laurent was enjoying. It gave me the courage to ask the question I’d been wondering about since learning of his past as a chef.
“At the gala meeting, Fatima mentioned the restaurant you owned.”
Laurent froze, his drink halfway to his lips, then gave a reluctant nod. I took it as permission to continue.
“I’d love to hear about it.”
Laurent took a slow sip of his cider, then put his glass down with a sigh. He looked tired all of a sudden, but when he met my eyes, he smiled.
“It was called Les Champs D’Or,” he said, and I heard in his voice how much he had loved it.
“After secondary school, I went to culinary school then worked around France and Italy. The biggest, most important dream I had for myself was to open my own restaurant. I had planned on opening a restaurant in Tuscany or maybe Lyon, but when some friends of my parents offered me a head chef position with partial ownership of a new restaurant in Aix, I jumped at the chance. I had to clean out my savings to afford even just the partial ownership.”
“But it was worth it,” I said, not really needing to hear the answer. His feelings were clear on his face.
