Chapter 13
13
Lismay
1985
Every time she went to a new village or town in Provence, Lismay thought it was her favourite. She’d flipped her allegiance from Gordes to Ménerbes to Rousillon, shamelessly. But when she arrived in Bonnieux, it stole her heart, with its panoramic views, narrow streets and charming maze of shops and restaurants.
The cookery school was down a hidden passageway that wound its way past a terrace of tiny houses. It was impossibly quiet as she walked over the cobbles, trying to peer into darkened windows for signs of life – there didn’t seem to be any this early on a Saturday morning. At the very end, there was a much larger building which looked as if it had been an old stable block. Over the door was a sign saying La Cuisine Cyrille in dark red writing.
Lismay stopped for a moment before she went in. It was going to be strange, being a student again. It was a long time since she’d been in this situation. She remembered arriving at the secretarial college in Oxford, feeling the same jangle of nerves, until she’d caught Jeanne’s eye and they’d made friends straight away. She wondered if she’d find a kindred spirit here.
Inside, eight students were already waiting, mostly women of a certain age, and one young couple who must be boyfriend and girlfriend.
And Cyrille. Lismay had imagined someone slightly rotund and getting on a bit – a chef who couldn’t stay the pace in the restaurant business and had taken a back seat. But Cyrille was probably not even as old as she was. He was lean, radiating energy and charisma, with scorchingly dark eyes. He had a red bandana tied around his head, and several earrings, which made him look more like a pirate than a chef. If it wasn’t for the huge dimples when he smiled, he would be intimidating.
‘OK, guys, let’s start by introducing ourselves,’ he began, pouring cups of rich, dark coffee for everyone and handing them round. ‘I’m Cyrille. I’m from Lyons. I travelled the world learning to cook, ending up in New York, which is why I speak like this.’ Everyone laughed. His accent was heavy French with a transatlantic twang. ‘I came back to my home country and opened a restaurant in Bonnieux. I had a health scare a while back, so I sold my restaurant and opened this school.’ He held up his hands. ‘And I love to teach as much as I love to cook. Parfait, non ?’
Next, the young couple introduced themselves. They were American, and they had just got married.
‘We’re both terrible cooks, but we love food. And France,’ explained Marianne. ‘So we’re on an extended honeymoon in Provence. And yes, we know how lucky we are.’
She turned to smile at her husband, Brad, and everyone’s heart melted.
When it came to Lismay’s turn, she felt like lying. Admitting to owning a chateau would make her an object of curiosity, and she craved anonymity. But she wasn’t a natural liar and couldn’t think of another guise.
‘I’m Lismay, and my husband and I have bought a chateau near Barles. We’re hoping to open it in spring for guests, and I’m going to be doing the cooking, so I thought I’d better raise my game.’
‘A chateau?’ Cyrille looked interested. ‘Not the Chateau Villette?’
‘Yes.’
Cyrille gave a sigh of longing. ‘It would be my dream, to have somewhere like that.’
‘It’s a bit of a nightmare at the moment.’ Lismay tried to laugh, to make light of her privilege. ‘I’m starting to think we’ve bitten off more than we can chew. But we’ll get there. And if I learn to cook well, I’m hoping we’ll be forgiven if it’s less than perfect.’
After the introductions were done, Cyrille made it clear he meant business. His kitchen was about discipline.
‘You must keep up and pay attention. If you do something wrong, I will pick you up. I will watch you like a hawk.’ He pointed a finger at them all. Everyone exchanged glances and scuttled to their stations to put on their aprons.
As the morning’s demonstrations began, Cyrille taught them how to hone their knives, and the importance of a razor-sharp blade if you had any hope of cooking professionally. He was like a magician, performing magic tricks for them all as he diced onions and carrots and courgettes into tiny uniform pieces, then filleted a fish and jointed a chicken like a swordsman, his knives flashing silver.
When it came to their turn to put everything he had shown them into practice, Lismay felt panicky, worried that she was going to show her lack of dexterity in front of all the others. Occasionally she would catch the eye of one of the other students and would see they were overwhelmed too.
‘ Qu’est-ce que tu fais? ’ Cyrille would demand, gesturing in horror at someone’s pitiful efforts. ‘ Qu’est-ce que tu fais? ’
What are you doing?
By the middle of the afternoon, Lismay asked herself just that. They were making stock, and she was trying to hack the wings off a chicken, wielding her cleaver awkwardly as she tried to find the knobble of the joint he’d shown them during the demonstration. She was struggling.
‘You must be firm!’
Cyrille placed his hand over hers and pushed the cleaver down. The bone snapped clean in half. Lismay gazed up at him and he grinned.
‘No prisoners,’ he said.
He didn’t take his hand away for a moment. Lismay felt the warmth of his fingers on hers. She was starting to melt, like dark chocolate left in the sun. Did he know what he was doing to her? She thought he probably did.
And then he was gone, onto the next station, leaving her staring into space, her breathing a little ragged. Marianne caught her eye and gave her a conspiratorial wink, together with a little eyebrow raise. Lismay tried to pull herself together. She couldn’t get the hots for the first red-blooded male she’d come into contact with just because she and Piers were having a bit of a dry spell. She focussed on the task in hand, adding several peppercorns, a bay leaf and an onion to her stock pot. She was here to learn to cook. Nothing more.
At the end of the afternoon, Cyrille poured everyone a glass of crémant and passed around melba toast with duck liver terrine and onion confit.
‘Next week we will make these.’
Although he had seemed strict and fierce during their session, he was much more relaxed now it was all over, complimenting everyone individually on what they’d achieved. Lismay supposed it was harder work than it looked, teaching people how to cook, and that he had to be an authoritarian to get everyone to pay attention. With his apron off and a glass of wine in his hand, he was funny and convivial, and everyone relaxed. It had been a challenging day, and she had so much information whirling around in her head.
‘I’ll never be able to remember it all,’ she admitted to the group, and they nodded in agreement.
‘Do not worry,’ Cyrille reassured her. ‘There will be notes. But not until the end. I need you to concentrate while you are here. You learn as if you are in a real kitchen. And I am the monster chef you want to kill.’
He mimed throttling someone and everyone laughed. He’s got everyone eating out of his hand, thought Lismay. He’s utterly charming.
She jumped as he appeared at her side to top up her glass.
‘The Chateau Villette,’ he said. ‘Maybe you will want a guest chef some time?’
‘Oh!’ said Lismay. ‘Yes. If people want a gourmet experience for a special occasion. That’s a great idea.’
Cyrille clinked his glass against hers. ‘We should talk.’
Lismay nodded. ‘We should.’
She was aware that Marianne was watching them. Conscious that everything she was feeling was written all over her face, Lismay stepped away and helped herself to another melba toast. She couldn’t cope with Cyrille in close proximity. She felt like a pan of full cream put on to warm: if she wasn’t careful, if she stayed too close to his heat, she would boil over. Instead, she tried to read one of the recipes he’d had photocopied from Larousse Gastronomique and put in a frame. There was a row of them pinned on the wall. Blanquette de veau , she read, but that was as far as she got for the words were dancing about in front of her eyes.
She turned to find Marianne standing next to her.
‘Be careful, honey,’ Marianne murmured. ‘Men like that are …’ She shrugged. ‘They only care about themselves.’
Lismay opened her mouth to protest, but she knew there was no point. Instead, she sighed. Marianne wasn’t being a busybody. She looked genuinely concerned.
‘I know,’ she said. ‘Don’t worry. I can look after myself. Honestly.’ She flashed her a reassuring smile. ‘Do you think we’ll ever be able to cook as well as Cyrille?’
Marianne paused for a moment. She understood the message: that Lismay was changing the subject and didn’t want to talk about it. ‘I don’t know. I feel like such a klutz right now. But it’s fun, that’s for sure. Right?’