Chapter 3
Mebel launches herself into her plan with newfound ferocity.
The next few days are a flurry of research, which is no small task for someone who adapted to the use of smartphones in her fifties and still types with her index fingers “like T-rex,” Luciana observed.
Mebel ignores the less-than-flattering observation and continues squinting at her phone screen through her reading glasses.
The amount of information to be found at her fingertips—or her index fingertips—is staggering.
Who knew that there were so many culinary schools around the world?
There’s the CIA, not the kind that trains spies, but rather the kind that trains people who feed the spies.
The International Culinary Center, the International School of Culinary Arts, the Culinary School of America, and so on and so forth.
To add to that, they are all over the globe, each one claiming to be the best at what it does.
And, Mebel realizes, she needs to decide what kind of cuisine she wants to learn.
Her first instinct is to gravitate toward Chinese cuisine.
She and Henk are of Chinese descent, after all, and they mainly eat Chinese food at home, and on Sundays, they gather for dim sum, where they eat yet more Chinese food.
But then again, what’s the point of learning how to cook Chinese food when one can so easily get it in Jakarta?
She can get excellent Chinese food by ordering it through an app, and it’ll be here in under thirty minutes.
No, that won’t win Henk back. He’ll be like, “Great, now you’re on par with half the wives in Jakarta. ”
Maybe Japanese food? But there’s the same problem.
Too many Japanese restaurants here. Mebel dismisses the idea of Korean food and Italian food for the same reason.
Then, as she scans the never-ending list of culinary schools, it comes to her so clearly that she wonders why it took this long. French food.
Yes. What could be better than learning how to make soufflés and onion soup and—uh—whatever else they eat in France?
Isn’t France known as the most romantic country in the world?
“I have such fond memories of Paris,” Mebel says to Sammy and Hannah.
She and Henk had been a handful of times, and each time was magical.
Those trips to Paris were filled with multicourse meals at Michelin-starred restaurants and hours spent at the Hermès store at Saint-Honoré, letting her fingers trail across their silk scarves and luxuriating in the richness of the fabric.
Once, she and Henk were in a cab. At the red light, a man broke their window, reached in, and grabbed her handbag.
She would’ve prioritized her safety and let go of the bag if it hadn’t been a quilted lambskin Chanel with vintage hardware, but as it was, she was not about to let this random man have it.
Would he know to moisturize it every sixty days?
Probably not. Henk had hit him over the head again and again with a box of macarons they’d bought at Ladurée while the driver shouted, “Just give him the bag!” In the end, the light turned green and Henk shouted, “Drive!” and so they did, and Mebel had clutched her purse and Henk’s arm, and they’d laughed hysterically and then popped a bottle of champagne back at their hotel room.
“Then we let off all that adrenaline by having the wildest, most passionate—”
Hannah clears her throat in what Mebel thinks is an unnecessarily aggressive way. “Right, well!” Hannah says, clapping her hands once. “Good memories from Paris, yes, point taken.”
“I felt about twenty years younger there,” Mebel says wistfully. “What a magical city.”
“It does sound exciting,” Hannah says. “And going to culinary school in Paris sounds like a dream. I would love to do something like that.”
“Please don’t,” Sammy says. “At least not until the girls are older.”
“Well, as you have pointed out yourself,” Mebel says, “you are a grown man, and now there’s nothing holding me back from realizing my lifelong dream.”
“Mami, you literally thought of this dream a few days ago,” Sammy says.
“Always such a pedant,” Mebel mutters. “You must have gotten that from your father.” She turns her attention back to her phone and taps on Paris, France, to get a list of schools there.
There are so many of them, one would think there’s one on every street corner.
And their names sound so fabulous. Mebel taps on each link and looks for a sign-up sheet.
She rejects the first three schools because their semesters have already begun and the next earliest course would be in four months’ time, and who has that kind of patience?
Then, finally, she finds it. A school with vacancies that is starting—oh my—next Monday. In five days’ time, in fact. Mebel can feel the large vein in her temple begin to pulse with excitement. The possibility suddenly feels so real. Oh my god, is she actually about to do this?
“Uh-oh,” Hannah says to Sammy. “I think Mami’s found one.”
“What is it?”
“The Saint Honoré School of Culinary Arts,” Mebel breathes. “Oh my god, it’s a sign.”
“Sorry, what’s a sign?” Sammy says.
“Saint Honoré! Don’t you get it?” Mebel says.
Sammy and Hannah both look blankly at her. Honestly, anyone would think she hadn’t taken the time to educate her son.
“It’s where the flagship Hermès store is?”
“So?” Sammy says while Hannah goes, “Ah. That’s exciting, Mami. So you’ll be within walking distance to the Hermès store?”
“Yes! I can just see it. Me giving out freshly baked culinary school treats to the Hermès store employees. Can you imagine? They’ll be presenting all of their Birkins to me in no time.”
“Tell me again, Mami,” Sammy says, “are you doing this to win Papi back or to buy more Birkins?”
“Silly boy, why not kill two birds with one stone? And what a stone it is. I win not only your father back but also a Birkin.” Mebel claps excitedly, then settles back down on the sofa. “Now, do not disturb me, I need to fill out this form. My goodness, term starts in less than a week.”
“Is she really doing this?” Sammy says to Hannah.
Instead of answering him, Hannah turns to Mebel and says, “You know, Birkins would make the most excellent souvenir.”
Mebel laughs and shakes her head. She can already see it, her wearing a beautiful Hermès scarf around her head, her eyes shaded by her Dior sunglasses, a shiny new Birkin dangling on her arm, and a tray full of warm, richly indulgent pastries in her hands as she sashays down Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré.
Mebel, a traditional, uptight Chinese-Indonesian housewife, has never sashayed a day in her life, but she feels strongly that this new version of her would adopt a French sashay as soon as she sets foot in the country.
And when she comes back to Jakarta, she will bring that sashay home with her, present a Michelin-star-worthy meal to Henk, and he will fall to his knees and beg her to take him back.
What a magnificent plan. Mebel can’t wait to enact it.
Getting everything ready is surprisingly not as hard as Mebel had expected.
True, there are a million things to consider, such as which outfits she should take.
Paris is the fashion capital of the world, after all, and Mebel would rather chew hot coals than turn up looking anything less than fashionable.
But she has to take into account the weather.
Most of her outfits have been curated for Jakarta—not quite tropical island weather since she spends 99 percent of her time in beautifully air-conditioned rooms, but they’re still warm weather clothes, inappropriate for Parisian fall weather.
Therefore, the first thing Mebel does after submitting her application is to jump in the car and speed—well, there is no speeding in Jakarta due to the bumper-to-bumper traffic on every road—to the nearest mall.
There, she pays homage to Gucci for a leather jacket, Louis Vuitton for two Monogram suitcases to add to her collection of Monogram LV suitcases, Tod’s for sensible shoes, Ferragamo for less sensible shoes, Dior for a quilted handbag in lavender, Prada for a more casual handbag because leather is heavy (and at her age she secretly prefers nylon), YSL (she always says “YSL” because she can’t pronounce “Yves Saint Laurent”) for a wallet, Chopard for one of their Happy Sport watches to boost her spirit, and Burberry for a camel-colored trench coat.
She also drops by Chanel, but can’t find anything new that she doesn’t already own, which is a shame.
Something, she thinks, that she will rectify in Paris.
With all the shopping done, Mebel struts into the Singapore Airlines office on the fifth floor of the mall to buy her plane ticket.
Sammy has been trying to get her to switch to buying plane tickets online, but Mebel doesn’t believe in such things.
If she were to purchase tickets online, she wouldn’t be able to regale the salesperson with the entire story of her life and why she is going to Paris.
The salesperson is staring at her with a dumbfounded expression, and when Mebel says, “And that is why I need a first-class one-way ticket to Paris, my dear,” he jumps up and says, “Of course, ma’am, right away! ”
After furiously typing into his computer for a few minutes, he glances at Mebel and says in a conspiratorial voice, “I’ve put in a note to say that you are a VIP on a very important trip. They will treat you like royalty.”
See? Try getting that on .
On her way down to the lobby to be picked up, she decides at the last minute to buy a carry-on suitcase from Tumi because, let’s face it, Monogram Louis Vuitton suitcases are pretty, but they’re also a pain in the ass to drag around.
By the time Mebel arrives back home, she is beaming from ear to ear. The first time she’s smiled in days.
“You look happy,” Sammy says, looking up from his laptop when she strides into the house.
“That’s the name of my new watch,” Mebel says, brandishing her wrist at him.
He glances at it, then does a double take. “Is that a Chopard?”
Mebel puts her hand up. “I know what you’re about to say.
I’ve always been a Franck Muller girl, I know, I know, and this is taking you by surprise.
But hear me out: This is called the Happy Sport.
Isn’t that just the perfect name? And every time I move my arm, I can feel the diamonds and rubies swirling around in there, and it makes me happy. ”
“Mami,” Sammy groans.
“Doesn’t it make you feel happy too?” She shakes her wrist near his ear so he can hear the soft tap-tappings of the loose diamond and ruby pieces as they spin and rattle across the watch face.
“You can’t be spending money like this.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re getting a divorce? And you don’t know how much you’ll end up with. Or how little.”
Mebel stares at him, her mind refusing to comprehend the words coming out of his mouth. “Well, in the event that I do end up getting divorced, which I won’t because I’m winning your father back, but if I did, surely I would get half of everything?”
Sammy shrugs with a sigh. “I don’t know, Mami. I hope you do, but surely you can also understand my caution. I don’t know what Papi would do. He’s got all the connections, all the lawyers. I just don’t want you to be strapped for cash.”
The concept of being strapped for cash is so foreign to Mebel that when she tries to think of it, her brain goes, Nope, LOL! She tries again, harder this time. “Do you mean I might need to shop at Tory Burch?” she says in a small voice.
“I mean you might not even be able to afford Tory Burch.”
“Michael Kors?” she says in an even smaller voice.
“Not even Michael Kors.” Before Mebel can answer, Sammy goes on, “And not even Coach or Kate Spade or…I don’t know Mami, whatever else you think is ‘affordable luxury.’ No luxury items at all.”
Tears rush into Mebel’s eyes and she glares at her son. “My god,” she gasps. “You are so cruel. How did I raise such a cruel son?”
Sammy rolls his eyes. “I’m just being realistic, Mami. If I could, I would obviously finance all of your shopping sprees, but I can’t afford to just yet, okay? So in the meantime, can you please be more careful about your spending?”
It’s probably the worst thing anyone has ever said to her, but somehow, Mebel manages to keep herself from breaking down.
Mostly by moving her wrist a tad so she can feel the diamonds and rubies rattling in her watch, which soothes her.
My god, she thinks, whoever invented these Happy Sport watches knew what they were doing.
These things are much better than Prozac.
The acceptance letter comes in within two days, and that Sunday, Mebel stands at the front door of her mansion saying goodbye to her family. She’s all packed and has four large suitcases and two carry-ons. Plus a hatbox, which contains her bouffant wig.
“I really don’t think you should bring all this stuff with you to Paris, Mami,” Sammy says, bouncing Aelgifu on one hip.
“My goodness, Sammy,” Mebel says. “When did you turn into the counterweight to my joy?” She turns to Hannah, who’s carrying Freydis. “Is he always like this?”
Hannah smiles. “He’s just concerned, Mami. He wants you to be okay.”
“I will be okay as soon as I finish this culinary degree and win your father back.” Mebel crouches down so she is eye level with Luciana. “Lulu dear, you’re going to look after my Dior sunglasses collection well, aren’t you?”
“I told you not to give them to her,” Sammy says. “She’s five.”
Luciana lowers the massive sunglasses and gives Mebel a conspiratorial look over them.
“I was four when I got my first pair,” Mebel says, winking at Luciana, who smiles back at her.
“It’s quite the collection,” Hannah says.
“Feel free to wear them. But not the DiorClub. You don’t have the cheekbones for it.”
Hannah rolls her eyes but remains smiling. “Have fun in Paris, Mami.”
“Oh, you know I will.”
“Not too much fun though,” Sammy mutters.
As Mebel steps into the waiting car, she overhears Hannah saying, “That city isn’t going to know what hit it.” Mebel doesn’t bother with a retort. And, anyway, Hannah wasn’t wrong about that.