As my dish progressed I was convinced that Sébastien would turn up his nose at it, categorically refusing even to touch it. As far as that’s concerned, did he use a fork or a spoon? Would I insult him if I gave him a spoon when he was allowed to use a fork like the grownups?

As my nervousness grew I decided I was just being silly. Honestly! All this fuss over a four-year-old who just eats because he’s hungry . . .

Right after “Passe-Partout,” at six-thirty, Sébastien came to the kitchen.

“I’m hungry and I can’t smell any supper!”

For the first time I showed some impatience, then ­immediately regretted it. I took him by the shoulders, turned him around and sent him back to his father, raising my voice to say something along the lines of I’m in charge in the kitchen, I don’t like to be bothered when I’m cooking, go see Daddy, he’ll tell you a story . . .

Obviously I was trying to do things too fast because the child was hungry and I ended up with the most hideous dish I’ve produced yet: it was a pinkish-white that would make you shiver in disgust and it looked as if the shrimp and vegetables had been doused with glue that had ­thickened too fast.

I added some soya sauce to give it colour, but that only made it turn beige.

I marched into the dining room feeling far from ­triumphant but trying to put a good face on things: “Wait till you see what I’ve made for supper!”

Sébastien and Mathieu were already waiting, impatiently; Sébastien was clutching a soup spoon and pounding his plate to the tune of the endless theme from “Passe-Partout,” the words distorted by his childish vocabulary, while his father mildly told him, “Now, now, big boys don’t bang their plates with their spoons, big boys don’t sing at the table, you aren’t a baby, Sébastien . . .”

As soon as he saw me come into the room Sébastien dropped the spoon and waved his knife: “I don’t need this, I’m too little. You have to cut up my meat!”

I set the dish on the table; Sébastien stuck his nose in it. “What’s that?”

Mathieu sniffed, really overdoing his appreciation (years of children’s theatre had given him some strange ways of behaving with his son).

“Mmm . . . Doesn’t that look good? And doesn’t it smell yummy!”

“What is it?”

“All sorts of good things.”

I hoped I was doing the right thing when I gave him a ­fairly small serving. It was steaming and Sébastien recoiled. His father blew on his empty plate like a clown—I hate clowns—miming a child who is blowing on his plate.

“Do this, sweetheart, it’ll cool off faster.”