6. Chapter Six
Chapter Six
The van pulled up a quaint eatery tucked between a florist and a pharmacy.
The golden clapboard siding was charming as hell.
Tall and thin with bright blue lettering on the wall between the second and third floors reading Le Grenier Doré which Esme, our French designer, translated to us as meaning The Golden Attic.
Five rows of small tables for two were packed into a tiny space on the sidewalk as servers in gold tops with black trousers were placing fresh floral centerpieces on the tables.
Parking was not happening on this skinny street so we were dumped alongside the curb like unwanted shoes.
Camilo moved us into the eatery where the smell of bread baking wafted over us.
My gut roared this time. Funny how part of my body like my stomach was right on track time wise for breakfast but other parts – such as my brain – were still foggy as it tried to adjust to a whole different time zone.
I hoped the fogginess didn’t interfere with whatever challenge we were taping for today.
The interior was done in shades of yellow, white, and gold.
The interior was warm. Stone-lined ovens baking gorgeous loaves of whole wheat, white, and rye kept this floor toasty.
Glass display cases filled with buns, rolls, and a dozen different sizes of breads were quickly being filled as we were hustled to the second floor along a narrow staircase that was barely wide enough for my shoulders.
There were more tables here, crammed in tightly, all with cloth tablecloths which matched the bright red ones outside.
More flowers arrangement as well, vivid mums of white, purple, and yellow stood out against the ruby table coverings.
“This way. We have the third floor reserved,” Camilo spoke over his shoulder as we continued to climb.
Small hand-painted scenes of Paris decorated the stucco walls of the stairwell as we made our way every upward.
What had, at one time, been an attic was now a small room with one massive table of deep dark wood.
Along each side were eight chairs. At the far end stood Soline and Claude, his dog on his hip, both smiling kindly at us as we emerged.
Four cameramen, two sound engineers, and a dozen other people – most like producers and the director – as well as lighting techs stood with their backs to the walls.
“Welcome to The Golden Attic,” Claude said with a motion to us to be seated. I took a seat between Mickey and Suki, my attention falling on Claude whispering to Soline as we all got settled. “Our breakfast should be up in a few moments. Please enjoy the atmosphere as we wait for its arrival.”
Everyone fell into light chitchat, introducing ourselves, getting to know what kind of clothes we designed, where we were from, the usual polite small talk between strangers.
My gaze kept moving to Claude and Soline as they had a private moment by the wide open window behind them.
A gentle wind rustled soft sheers of safflower on the rods.
Claude seemed tense. Soline was whispering to him in what looked to be a placating manner. What they were saying I couldn’t hear over the chatter of the tableful of designers. More than likely it was French they were speaking anyway so I’d not understand even if I did hear them.
“You’ve been pretty intent on those two,” Mickey softly mentioned.
“They’re so beautiful together,” I confessed, wishing I wasn’t feeling a twinge of jealousy over how breathtaking the two of them were.
“Oh right, yeah, they’re good friends. She and he were a thing back in the late eighties.” My sight flew from the way Claude’s hands moved when he spoke to my roommate. He smirked at my raised brow. “Not really I mean he’s a queer as they come obviously but back in the day she was his beard.”
“I remember reading about that,” I whispered, my sight now locked on the power couple by the window. “She was probably his beard. Things were way worse for us queers back then so he was just playing the straight to keep the heat off.”
“That’s the assumption. They don’t discuss it openly which, hey, good for them.
World don’t need to know bloody everything about a man.
Course then he came out. Not a soul in the fashion world was shocked to hear he was gay.
Who else but a gay man would tote around a tiny dog wearing a matching vest on his hip? ”
That made me snigger. “Yeah, you don’t see that back home in North Dakota among the straights.”
“Same where I grew up. East end of London down where you can hear the bow bells ain’t exactly poof central, and I mean poof in the kindest way as I am, in fact, a raging poof.
I want to reclaim poof. I might make a line of jumpers with that knitted across the back.
I’m a proud poof!” He made an arc in the air. “What do you think?”
“I think that would be fucking awesome,” I replied with sincerity. I’d buy one then promptly get beaten up if I wore it to the local grocery store back home.
SSDD in rural America.
The sweet smell of rose water hit my nose right before a woman barked out for silence. One of Claude’s silver-gray brows winged upward at the shout. Soline rolled her eyes.
“Hey, just wanted to say hello.” I looked over my shoulder to see a pretty round face framed with pink hair. “We spoke on the phone. Paloma?”
“Yeah, oh man I am so happy to see you.” I stood to embrace her then pulled back. “Sorry, my family are huggers.” We shook instead. “You were a godsend with all the paperwork and shit. Thank you for walking us through it.”
“My pleasure. We’ll talk more later. Sit before Xavier comes after you for ruining the atmosphere by standing. She gave me a smile as I plopped back down then she was off, disappearing among the throngs stuffed into this increasingly warming room.
Camilo flew around the table, placing sketchbooks and colored pencils beside our plates as a stoic looking man with a shiny bald head started directing the cameras to various locations in the attic.
“They’re going for unscripted on this segment,” Camilo told each of us as moved behind us.
Handhelds moved in closer to capture our reactions to whatever was going to be said by the host and guide.
I got a good look at Xavier Fontaine as he did what directors did.
Direct people. He seemed really good at it because the crew were leaping to it at warp speed.
“Fontaine is known to be a real proponent of tough love. Saw him rip into someone who upset his blocking on a scene yesterday afternoon. Humiliated the poor girl into tears. Total wanker so be prepared for crazy hours, micromanagement, and painful public humiliation” Mickey confided.
“Jesus,” I whispered as the stars walked from the window to stand at the head of our table, Soline looking unruffled while Claude gave us all a fast glance before a woman ran up to him to comb his hair back into place.
“He won’t help you here. Reality TV is the devil’s playground and old Xavier there is Satan’s righthand mate.
” I threw Mickey a worried look. He shrugged.
A dozen things happened in short sequence.
A shout to be quiet, an announcement to roll sound and cameras – not the hidden ones that I was sure were stashed in tricky places around the attic – then an assistant of some sort from our left shouted ‘Action!’ just as Soline gave her dark tresses a dramatic flip.
“So, Claude, we have assembled our designers here in the top floor of The Golden Attic to let them bask in the beauty of French breads,” Soline announced with flair.
The door opened to admit a half dozen servers carrying trays of breads, tarts, and what looked to be breakfast sandwiches made of eggs, avocado, and thick slabs of melted cheese on baguettes.
Serving trays with tiny cups of French pressed coffee arrived, elegant cream pitchers of warm milk, and sterling silver dishes that looked like small coal buckets.
Sugar cubes and small pincers rested in the dishes.
Tea kettles arrived, steam rising from the China spouts.
We all commented on the delicious treats being placed before us while also asking for coffee or tea to be passed this way or that.
When the servers left Soline and Claude, still standing, genteelly asked for our attention.
“We’d like you to study the platters of bread, buns, and sweets sitting before you,” Claude announced while his dog whined softly, big brown eyes locked on a fat baguette coated with thin slices of salmon and soft cheese.
“Bread is a cornerstone of Parisian culture as well as being a symbol of our culinary identity. Many of us buy fresh bread daily, stopping at a local boulangerie such as The Golden Attic which Soline owns, as part of a cherished routine. There are laws in France governing bread so yes, we are serious about our baked goods.”
Claude held my attention as he spoke. Nothing in this room was nearly as compelling aside from the breakfast sandwiches oozing cheese.
“Claude is right, France is bread and bread is France. Well, there are others things France is known for…wine, romance, fashion, art.” She ticked off the list on fingers with white tipped nails. “But we cannot fit all of those into one assignment, can we?”
“I can do bread and wine at once,” Dante chimed up. We all laughed.
“As can we but not on this day,” Claude replied with a smile playing on his lips. “Today we’re paying homage to French bread, and your assignment is to create a look that shows the judges your grasp of avant-garde creations.”
Damn, leaping right into the fire. This was not one of my strongest categories but I could certainly try to create an outfit inspired by bread. Sure thing. No problem. Shit.
“During your breakfast you’ll be able to sample the fare as many of you may not have had bread baked the proper way,” Soline teased with a wink. “After the dishes are cleared you will have thirty minutes to sketch.”