Page 11 of From Paris, with Butter
“You’re from Provence?” Smiling even wider, I gave a double thumbs-up,which indicated the level of desperation this hellscape of a conversation had put me in.
“I’m from Aix,” he said slowly, as though each word pained him.
Despite the man’s obvious lack of desire for a conversation, I would consider it a moral failing to not learn anything about this person with whom I’d now be sharing a (poorly-insulated, sometimes rat-infested) wall. And if my new neighbor thought he wasn’t giving me enough to work with, conversation wise, then he was quite mistaken.
I had once waited on a table of born-again Buddhists on a silent retreat, and by the end of dinner I not only knew their names, home countries, and general life goals, I’d also counseled two of them through relationship troubles they were struggling with. This was child’s play.
“I love Aix,” I said, beaming widely. “I used to go on holidays there with my grandparents. It’s most beautiful at the end of summer, don’t you think? When it’s cooled down a little and the lavender is all in bloom.”
This was an excellent opening to many potentially fascinating conversational paths of the man’s choosing. He took none of them.
Straining a little now, I plowed on. “You must be an excellent cook. I’m always smelling something delicious when I get home from work.”
The man’s face darkened. “No,” he said shortly. “I don’t cook. You must be smelling my takeaway meals.”
I knew enough about cooking to know that takeaway food didn’t smell like a meal simmering for hours, the flavors slowly building on each other. Even atthisvery momentI could smell the chicken currently roasting in his oven.
A little smirk played across the man’s face. “I do takeaway mostly these days. I’ve had a hard time finding a restaurant that meets my standards.”
Touché.
I took stock of what I’d learned about this man. My new neighbor was glowering, impatient with the service industry, excellent at holding grudges, and a compulsive liar about cooking. Excellent.
When the previous occupants of his apartment—two cousins extremely dedicated to their Daft Punk tribute band—had moved out, I’d thought things could only go up from here. Instead, the universe had tossed something evenbaffling my way: a man who lied about roasting chicken.
What could cause such a twisted personality? Was he breaking a ritual fast and didn’t want to get caught? Had he signed a blood oath to PETA that’d he’d only ever make vegan food and was now regretting it? It was nonsensical.
The man was edging sideways, clearly trying to get around me.
“Please,” I said, trying one last time to right this ship. “I must have missed your name.”
The man paused. “I’m Laurent Roche.” He sounded perplexed, as though he couldn’t understand why I’d ever need that information.
He was right. Neighbor or not, I had no intention of speaking to this Laurent Roche again. Looking away, I stepped aside so he could move past me.
Chapter 5
Laurent Roche was sautéing onions. I smelled them the moment I woke up. Inhaling, I stretched luxuriously. It was late morning, and my bedroom was full of daylight. I always liked keeping the curtains open as I slept, so that I awoke in a pool of sun.
I wondered what would become of the onions. Would they be the star ingredient in a soupe à l’oignon? Tucked into a quiche? Mixed into a ratatouille?
Oh, but that’s right, he doesn’t cook. Well, let him keep his eccentricities. If a person wanted to cook up a storm, then fervently deny it, I wasn’t going to stand in his way.
I got up, ran a bath, combed a conditioning treatment into my hair, then slipped into the warm water and let all the tension of the previous day melt away. When the water was tepid, I stepped out, then applied my face serums and blow-dried my hair. I put on a black dress (the staple of my wardrobe even before working at Le Jules Verne), and slipped my mother’s emerald ring onto my finger.
I opened the windows, and my lace curtains fluttered gently in the warm morning air. As I prepared a late breakfast of earl gray tea and a raspberry lemon scone, I mentally ran through the day’s schedule.
Tonight, Mateo would be proposing to his girlfriend, Anna. From his home in Santiago, he’d emailed us several times to make sure every detail was set. I spread a thick layer of blackberry jam across my scone as I reviewed my notes.
Mateo had asked for customized menus with a message celebrating his and Anna’s third anniversary. A standard request. Furthermore, he’d asked for a second set of menus to arrive with dessert, after he’d proposed, that congratulated the newly-engaged couple.
He’d also mentioned how he would very much like a photo of him proposingand that he hoped we might make that happen. To be helpful, he’d included a minutely-detailed description of how he expected the proposal to go, from the course during which it would happen, to exactly how he’d pull his chair out and get down on one knee, to the words he’d open with: “My dear Anna, if there’s anything these last three years had taught me…”
He’d even included a drawing, complete with two stick figures, a table, and a diamond ring, so the photographer would know just how to frame the shot.
Mateo had offered to pay for these services, but the request had been politely, but firmly, declined. The proposal team at Le Jules Verne (i.e. me) would be more than happy to help make his dreams a reality.
When I arrived at work, preparations for the dinner service were already in full swing. There was clanking and grumbling coming from the kitchen, Paul was looking over a new shipment of wine, and Yasmine was calling out instructions to Colette and Leïla while Luc thumbed through the list of the evening’s reservations.
