13, Rue Therese - Elena Mauli Shapiro [25]
“Perhaps, but I am done with marriage myself. Besides, I need only one woman, and that is my little Louisette!” As he says this, he reaches across the table for his daughter’s hand and presses the top of it briefly. She looks at him for a moment, and makes a visible effort to smile at him.
“Once was enough, eh?” Henri asks him, with a mixture of joshing and genuine curiosity—curiosity because the man seldom discusses his dead wife (and never his dead son).
“I suppose,” he answers softly.
“And you want me to do this to myself why?” Pierre asks, then turns to Louise: “Not that women aren’t wonderful, but I am afraid that I am not suited for any one woman, you see.”
“Well, that might be for the best. I cannot think of one woman who would find you suitable,” she answers mockingly.
“She is a pistol, that one!” Pierre says to Henri, pointing to Louise with his trigger finger, as she gets up and clears the emptied soup bowls from the table. As she walks to the kitchen, she hears her husband declare, with pleasure and pride, “That’s why I married her.”
In the kitchen, she readies the next course by putting it in serving dishes. It is a boeuf bourguignon with potatoes, Henri’s favorite. She likes the three men together; her father and Henri and Pierre have a certain chemistry. When they come together, they always laugh a lot and have conversations that border on the improper. Louise knows that this is because of the addition of Pierre. She thinks he is marvelous and always likes seeing him, but she knows that he would weary her if he stayed too long. Seeing her father and Henri without him is a more sedate experience—not as lively, and entirely decent.
She reflects that it is slightly unusual that her life should be so crowded with men, considering the excess of postwar women that they were just discussing. She is lucky. She knows this. She loves feeding the three of them, having them to herself.
She brings out the potatoes first in a big bowl and then comes back with the stew in a large white tureen ornamented with painted blue curlicues, the serving spoon firmly planted inside.
“Ah,” Henri sighs contentedly. “Darling, it smells delicious.”
She smiles and puts her culinary opus in the middle of the table. The men wait for her to sit, and Henri begins to serve everyone: first Pierre, then his father-in-law, then Louise, and last himself.
For a minute, they eat silently. Everything is precisely the correct texture: the peeled potatoes split apart under the pressure of the fork; the beef shreds in the mouth, from the mere wiggling of the tongue. The vegetables are soft, but not flaccidly overcooked.
“This dish is wonderful. It warms the heart,” Louise’s father says. She blushes at his florid compliment.
“Yes, a toast to the cook,” Pierre says, and raises his glass. The other two men repeat his gesture, and they all sip from their wine. It is a deep, rich Burgundy, naturally, to match the main course.
The conversation begins to flow again but is more subdued: the main dish demands a greater portion of everyone’s attention than the soup. They thoroughly devour the contents of the tureen, and Louise is surprised: she had counted on having some for her lunch tomorrow. She will have to think of something else to eat.
They sit in a satisfied haze until her father asks if there is any cheese.
“I have a Camembert,” Louise says, “but are you sure you want some? I made a custard for dessert. Do you have room for all this?”
“Oh, I will not spoil my appetite for your custard, dear girl— I just want a tiny sliver of your Camembert, please.”
She clears everything and comes back with the cheese and a small basket of baguette slices. Her father is the only one who eats. The rest of them are saving room for dessert.
The dessert is a heavy chocolate custard, a marvel of cream and eggs and decadence. A