Lunch in Paris by Elizabeth Bard Read Free Book Online Page A

content to sit up all night on a silent windy watch. He shared my own father’s towering height, his
     wiry frame, his walk. As I had with my dad, I took two steps for his every one.
    Gwendal’s mother was already in the kitchen. As tiny as Yanig was tall, Nicole was dressed in black with a long blond braid
     trailing down her back. Did I mention that she’s a psychoanalyst?
No pressure there.
Except for the glasses and the delicate creases on her forehead, she could have been sixteen.
    Affif and Annick, Gwendal’s godparents (or as near to godparents as hippie atheists can get), had come early to help with
     the cooking. Annick teaches French as a second language. She made sure to speak clearly for my benefit. Affif is an Algerian
     painter with a disarming grin. As I sat down at the dining room table, he handed me a small paring knife and a leek.
    My only previous encounter with a leek was in something called a “soup pack” at our local ShopRite—a plastic box with a few
     carrots, a stub of leek, some turnips, parsley, and a brittle bay leaf, for those too lazy to cut their own veggies for stew.
     This thing was as long as a cricket bat, with unruly green ribbons at one end and bristly blond whiskers at the other. I wasn’t
     one hundred percent sure which end was up. Was I supposed to throw away the white part or the green part? There was dirt between
     the leaves. Was I meant to ignore it? I stared at the tablecloth while rapid-fire French conversation buzzed in my ears.
    I took the SAT, so I know how to make an educated guess: first I took a stab at the green bits; some of the thick outer leaves
     looked wilted—dead things seemed like a logical place to start. Then I tried cutting down the middle, but the leek bent like
     a dying tulip, and I was left sawing, one layer at a time. Affif surveyed the situation out of the corner of his eye. “
Pas sous plastique, celui-là.
” Not under plastic, this one, he said, winking. Then, as if on cue, the entire room burst into good-natured laughter.
    Affif took a leek from the pile, held it firmly by its whiskers (
oh God, those are the roots, you idiot
), and sliced into the white heart of the stalk, ripping straight up to the green tips in a single stroke. He made another
     slice at a ninety-degree angle and held up the leek like a cheerleading pom-pom, dirt clinging to the inside layers and a
     faint smell of sweet onion wafting through the air. Lesson over, Affif grabbed a bunch of leeks from the kitchen andpresented them to me like a bouquet. The knot in my stomach loosened. I had a vegetable in-joke.
    As if finding the business end of a leek was not culinary discovery enough for one afternoon, we then moved on to the mayonnaise.
     All these leeks were an accompaniment to poached cod—and to accompany the cod, a homemade mayonnaise.
    Not to put too fine a point on it, but I
despise
mayonnaise. The smell of the white rubbery gel was enough to dissuade this five-year-old forever, never mind the slimy way
     it soaks into tuna fish and sogs up a perfectly good tomato. I had a rule against sandwiches as a kid; I wouldn’t eat anything
     stuck between two pieces of bread. In this manner, I had avoided any contact with the stuff for the better part of twenty
     years. Now I was cornered, hung upside down by the toenails in the name of politesse.
    Nicole put a large pinch of sea salt, a dab of Dijon mustard, and an egg yolk in the bottom of a small plastic container.
     Then she turned on the electric beater while adding a thin but steady trickle of oil.
    “
Les femmes.
” Women, mumbled Yanig under his breath. Apparently he beats his by hand.
    Slowly, as if by magic, what should have been a mucus-like vinaigrette puffed up into a creamy yellow cloud. It was a little
     bit of French alchemy—suspicious, but promising.
    When we sat down to lunch I faded into the background. I let the conversation wash over me, happy (for once in the life of
     this only child) not to be