from a breast pocket. The Thomases, making up for earlier neglect, drew Mallory out and quizzed her on all she had seen in France, and gave her a list of must-sees in London, which she said she planned to visit next.
At the end of the meal, the chef walked around the table, stopping to share a word or two, complimenting us on how well we did. He ended up behind René Bonassé. He rested his hands on the young man’s shoulders and addressed all of us. “Merci, mesdames et messieurs. Thank you for coming to the cooking school. Today’s lesson shows you the basic marinade, and the creation of the sauce from the marinade. Also the charlotte. You can vary the filling and the sauce. Perhaps even use a simple bread and fill it with vegetables. It is a flexible recipe.” He gave René’s shoulder a slap, returned to the head of the table, and leafed through his papers, then pulled out one and squinted at it. He raised his reading glasses, which made his blue eyes look very large. “Tomorrow we will make the famous fish soup of Marseilles, the bouillabaisse.” He looked at all our faces to see the pleasure his announcement had given. “To prepare for this class, I will require you to return here in one hour for your assignment. Each of you will be responsible for contributing an ingredient. We will discuss where they are available and what markets to visit. Right now, however, Guy and I will handle the cleanup.” He looked at his watch. “You have one hour, and then back here, please. You may leave your folders and belongings where they are. They serve coffee and tea in the atrium upstairs.”
We abandoned the table as a group and ambled toward the elevator, basking in the glow of self-satisfaction from having assisted in the creation of a Provençal dinner, our mood only slightly improved by the addition of a few glasses of wine. Behind us, the clatter of dishes as our plates were gathered up was punctuated by a stem “Guy!” from Bertrand. “Where are those papers I asked for?”
The elevator was too small to hold the six of us. The Thomases said they would take the stairs and meet us. “Be happy to treat you to a spot of tea,” Craig offered. “We’ll save you seats, as we’ll probably be there ahead of you. This old lift is as slow as a hound that’s lost the scent.”
Only one table in the atrium was occupied; a couple of smartly dressed men frowned over some documents. We found a table with enough chairs for everyone, but René Bonassé excused himself to make a phone call, not indicating whether or not he would return. Mme Poutine dispensed with the niceties altogether and walked straight past us to the front desk.
“Ah, don’t you find the French so warm and friendly,” Craig said, settling into an upholstered armchair, while Jill and I sat together on a sofa. Mallory remained standing, shifting her weight from side to side.
“Bertrand was telling Guy off as soon as we left,” Craig said. “We could hear his scolding echoing up the stairwell.”
“I’m sorry to hear it,” I said. “Guy seems like such a nice man.”
“Well, I don’t see how he could be a fan of the big guy. There probably aren’t many. What an arrogant one that Bertrand is.”
Jill made a face at Craig, and glanced at Mallory. “Claire at the desk is lovely,” she said.
Craig took the hint. “Yes, she is,” he said. “I stand corrected.”
Mallory hopped on one foot and then the other, saying, “The French are only nice to the people they know. If they don’t know you, they usually don’t make the effort.” She ran her hand across the back of the sofa, and craned her neck to look up at the skylight several floors above us.
She’s a restless teen, I thought, and has been cooped up too long this morning. I wondered, not for the first time, what happened in Marseilles to make her seek me out. Did some incident spook her? Or was it just loneliness that brought her to Avignon? Where were her parents? Shouldn’t
At the end of the meal, the chef walked around the table, stopping to share a word or two, complimenting us on how well we did. He ended up behind René Bonassé. He rested his hands on the young man’s shoulders and addressed all of us. “Merci, mesdames et messieurs. Thank you for coming to the cooking school. Today’s lesson shows you the basic marinade, and the creation of the sauce from the marinade. Also the charlotte. You can vary the filling and the sauce. Perhaps even use a simple bread and fill it with vegetables. It is a flexible recipe.” He gave René’s shoulder a slap, returned to the head of the table, and leafed through his papers, then pulled out one and squinted at it. He raised his reading glasses, which made his blue eyes look very large. “Tomorrow we will make the famous fish soup of Marseilles, the bouillabaisse.” He looked at all our faces to see the pleasure his announcement had given. “To prepare for this class, I will require you to return here in one hour for your assignment. Each of you will be responsible for contributing an ingredient. We will discuss where they are available and what markets to visit. Right now, however, Guy and I will handle the cleanup.” He looked at his watch. “You have one hour, and then back here, please. You may leave your folders and belongings where they are. They serve coffee and tea in the atrium upstairs.”
We abandoned the table as a group and ambled toward the elevator, basking in the glow of self-satisfaction from having assisted in the creation of a Provençal dinner, our mood only slightly improved by the addition of a few glasses of wine. Behind us, the clatter of dishes as our plates were gathered up was punctuated by a stem “Guy!” from Bertrand. “Where are those papers I asked for?”
The elevator was too small to hold the six of us. The Thomases said they would take the stairs and meet us. “Be happy to treat you to a spot of tea,” Craig offered. “We’ll save you seats, as we’ll probably be there ahead of you. This old lift is as slow as a hound that’s lost the scent.”
Only one table in the atrium was occupied; a couple of smartly dressed men frowned over some documents. We found a table with enough chairs for everyone, but René Bonassé excused himself to make a phone call, not indicating whether or not he would return. Mme Poutine dispensed with the niceties altogether and walked straight past us to the front desk.
“Ah, don’t you find the French so warm and friendly,” Craig said, settling into an upholstered armchair, while Jill and I sat together on a sofa. Mallory remained standing, shifting her weight from side to side.
“Bertrand was telling Guy off as soon as we left,” Craig said. “We could hear his scolding echoing up the stairwell.”
“I’m sorry to hear it,” I said. “Guy seems like such a nice man.”
“Well, I don’t see how he could be a fan of the big guy. There probably aren’t many. What an arrogant one that Bertrand is.”
Jill made a face at Craig, and glanced at Mallory. “Claire at the desk is lovely,” she said.
Craig took the hint. “Yes, she is,” he said. “I stand corrected.”
Mallory hopped on one foot and then the other, saying, “The French are only nice to the people they know. If they don’t know you, they usually don’t make the effort.” She ran her hand across the back of the sofa, and craned her neck to look up at the skylight several floors above us.
She’s a restless teen, I thought, and has been cooped up too long this morning. I wondered, not for the first time, what happened in Marseilles to make her seek me out. Did some incident spook her? Or was it just loneliness that brought her to Avignon? Where were her parents? Shouldn’t
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