“That’s a good idea. Might as well take advantage . . . A stroke of luck, you could say . . . And I’ve got no plans for tonight.”

I thought we were both very brave.

We’d kept the conversation going while Mathieu’s ­customer tried on some trousers. Much was made of the early snow and the heat inside the store.

When Mathieu came back, frowning and wide-eyed, ­followed closely by Sébastien who seemed to be having the time of his life and to have forgotten all about feeling sick, we told him the news.

Sébastien let out an “All right!” throwing himself at his grandmother’s legs; Mathieu leaned against the counter.

In the taxi I stole a look at her. She was trying to compose a mask of impassivity and, astoundingly, she actually ­succeeded, but something unguarded in the way she moved—her hand too busy on her cloth coat, her head turning too quickly when she’d finished talking—betrayed her ill-concealed nervousness.

She answered my questions succinctly, then immediately turned to Sébastien, who had started describing the rest of Bambi in minute detail.

Perhaps she regretted having accepted my invitation as much I regretted having issued it. To begin with, I didn’t know if I had enough to feed four people, but that wasn’t the real reason: the real reason was panic at the possibility of finding myself, after dessert, with three persons I’d have trouble talking to because of the embarrassment that would no doubt grow as the evening progressed. There’s nothing grimmer than a silent dessert, and it seemed to me we were heading for precisely that.

“You’ll see, Mamma, Jean-Marc’s very impressive with his wok.”

She looked around the kitchen.

“His what?”

Mathieu picked up the metal pan I’d just set on the stove and held it out to her.

“His wok . . . This . . . It’s Chinese.”

When he saw the wok Sébastien made a face. Smiling, I pinched his nose.

“You’ll like it, Sébastien, it’s shrimp again. Yesterday you told me you love shrimp . . . In fact I bought them just for you.”

Mathieu’s mother, the expert cook, examined the wok. “I remember, I’ve seen them in the stores . . . And there’s a Chinese fellow on the English channel that does demonstrations . . . But he talks a mile a minute so I can’t follow . . . Is it good?”

I was about to launch into a full and detailed hymn of praise to the wok when Mathieu broke in. He was visibly nervous and so anxious for things go well that he was ­prepared to assume the burden of the conversation.

“At first, you’ll see, it seems a little strange, but everything tastes so fresh . . . It retains all the vitamins . . .”

His mother gave him a strange look.

“You mean I skimped on your vitamins?”