She laughed, but didn’t seemed fully convinced.

“You’re sure I can’t give you a hand? I’ve finished my beer and I’d like to move around a little . . .”

I gave in, telling myself she must be as uncomfortable as I was.

“If you really want . . . I forgot to slice the mushrooms . . .”

Sébastien tugged at his grandmother’s skirt.

“Me can help too!”

He often used “me” instead of “I” I’d realized during that day, and it bothered me. I crouched beside him.

“I can help, Sébastien, not me . . .”

Then I realized that I was the one who was behaving like a self-parody (my keen ear for grammatical errors is a ­particularly flagrant example) and I think I actually blushed.

“You can help your grandmother if you want . . .”

“All right!”

I had to restrain myself from telling him that his “All right” in perfect English crept into his conversation a little too often . . . The French teacher in me was too close to the surface, it must be nerves . . .

Rose took Sébastien by the hand.

“Come here, sweetheart, granny’s going to show you how to slice mushrooms . . . You’ll see, it’s lots of fun . . .”

She looked around the counter.

“Where’s your knives?”

I took out the best one I own, a very long impressive implement, brand new, whose merits I’d been hearing for ages but which I’d seldom used, since I was used to my old nicked knives.

“Here, use this . . . But I’ll give you a smaller one, Sébastien . . .” And to Mathieu’s mother:

“You’re so polite and formal, I keep expecting you to call me Sir. Let’s make it Jean-Marc, okay?”

“Fine. And just call me Rose and stop saying Madame!”

Rose speared a shrimp with her fork and looked at it.

“Shrimp with lemon—it’s different all right.” She tasted it reluctantly, then somewhat over-stated her appreciation of the dish.

“Mmm, it’s delicious, really incredibly good . . . I wasn’t expecting this . . .”

She chewed for a long time, watching each of the three of us in turn. Sébastien copied her, repeating his grand­mother’s remarks word-for-word.

I thought the game was won until Rose tasted a piece of broccoli. She couldn’t conceal her surprise.

“Crisp, isn’t it? It’s . . . It’s practically raw . . .”

I couldn’t answer, it was true. I’d added the broccoli at the last minute and it was a little tough.

Mathieu sipped some wine, then wiped his mouth.

“Mamma always overcooks vegetables . . .”

She leaned across the table and gave her son a little swat on the hand.

“You didn’t always say that . . . You used to think I was the best cook in the world, at least that’s what you said . . .”

We laughed.

I laid my napkin on the table.

“Would you like something else . . . Or should we send out for barbecue?”