BooksBarbecue
Back Blame It on Paris Save as PDF
Chapters (45)
  1. Cover
  2. Blame Iton Paris
  3. Copyright Notice
  4. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  5. Book One
  6. One
  7. Two
  8. Three
  9. Four
  10. Five
  11. Six
  12. Seven
  13. Eight
  14. Nine
  15. Ten
  16. Eleven
  17. Twelve
  18. Thirteen
  19. Fourteen
  20. Fifteen
  21. Sixteen
  22. Seventeen
  23. Eighteen
  24. Nineteen
  25. Twenty
  26. Twenty-one
  27. Book Two
  28. Twenty-two
  29. Twenty-three
  30. Twenty-four
  31. Twenty-five
  32. Twenty-six
  33. Twenty-seven
  34. Twenty-eight
  35. Twenty-nine
  36. Thirty
  37. Thirty-one
  38. Thirty-two
  39. Thirty-three
  40. Thirty-four
  41. Thirty-five
  42. Thirty-six
  43. Thirty-seven
  44. Thirty-eight
  45. Thirty-nine

There was a tiny pause. “My meals nauseate you?” said my French potential mother-in-law.

I ground my foot hard into Sébastien’s toe under the table. “What?” he exclaimed loudly. “You shouldn’t have to eat some-thing you hate!”

“I had already eaten it,” I pointed out between gritted teeth. “What was the point of bringing it up now?” I smiled weakly at all the people on whom I was trying to make a good impression.

“Non, non, non, he’s absolutely right,” Claudine said, plucking what was left of my salmon off my plate and putting it on Sébastien’s. “What would you like, instead? I think we have some sausage.”

After that, the second course of rabbit was a relief. It didn’t scream Thumper at me or anything. About eight hours into the meal, Sébastien’s Aunt Martine arrived with her husband, children, and two galettes. These eight hours, from 11:00 A.M. to 7:00 P.M., had been relieved only by brief breaks between courses to stretch our legs. With the pouring rain, stretching one’s legs consisted mostly of huddling on the threshold of the house freezing to death, surrounded by people smoking cigarettes. Exceptionally, no one was smoking inside. This was for the health of Pierrette, one of the few people not smoking. René, spry and happy, rolled his own cigarettes with a particularly dark and rich tobacco, making what the others called des brunes.

Eager to be a queen, I sat on the edge of my seat when the galettes were set out, filling the room with the scents of butter and almond paste. I concentrated on willing a fève to come to me. Everyone else tried to get Justine to climb under the table and crouch in the mud we had all tracked in. “You’re the youngest, Justine! It’s your job.”

She held firm. “I’ll cover my eyes.” While Sébastien cut the slices and Justine named whoever should be served the piece just sliced, I watched suspiciously for any cracks in her fingers. I’ve read Shakespeare—when a crown is at stake, you can’t trust anybody.

Needless to say, I didn’t get a fève. Needless to say, Bruno did. It took us forever to find the second galette’s fève, and people were starting to accuse the baker of forgetting it, when Titi spotted it tucked under the edge of Justine’s plate. “Cheater!” he said, outraged. “You got it?”