Chapter 5
Chapter Five
The following morning began much as the one before: Madame Moreau stacking the hot, crusty baguettes into baskets, me piling the golden, flaky pastries on the counter and the sweets in the glass display, while Manu packed his boxes for delivery.
It still felt strange to be transplanted into this completely different environment, but less so than the day before.
At least now I knew what to expect when the doors opened and the regulars poured in.
I filled the baskets with warm pains au chocolat and almond croissants and stocked the display case with a delicious-looking tray of éclairs au chocolat.
Madame Moreau was still stubbornly clipped in her dealings with me, though she oozed personality with her customers.
Of course I couldn’t understand everything she said, but it was obvious she was something of a neighbourhood character – always with a sharp quip to throw her opponent off-guard, and a wit and intellect to rival any French philosopher.
This made me keenly aware of the fact that she and I were polar opposites.
I tried too hard to make people like me, and for the amount of time I succeeded in this endeavour, it hardly made all the effort worthwhile.
Yet this cantankerous old dame had everyone eating out of her hand.
On the plus side, I was beginning to pick up some charming phrases while dealing with the customers, such as ‘Je vous en prie’, which literally meant ‘I beg of you’, but it seemed to be used as more of a ‘you’re welcome’ or ‘oh, it was nothing’ kind of phrase.
It was interesting how, if you heard a phrase used enough times in the same situation, you kind of construed your own meaning, without the need to consult a phrase book.
My accent was still frightfully clunky, like a pair of steel-toed boots clodhopping over all the delicate French phrases, but the customers seemed to appreciate the efforts I made.
Before closing at noon, it was announced that I was to have the afternoon off. That was how Madame Moreau operated: she made things known, rather than telling you straight to your face. Apparently two days spent in France without the proper papers was two days too long.
‘Il faut aller à la préfecture pour chercher votre carte de séjour,’ Manu advised, in a failed attempt to make things clearer.
‘I have to go where to get my what now?’ I asked, squinting my eyes in an attempt to understand.
Madame Moreau hefted herself onto the stool in the kitchen just behind us, showing for the first time some signs of her age. She looked tired and it was clear by the way she rubbed her wrists that there was a stiffness there.
‘It is a residence card. If you are living in France for more than three months, you must ’ave one.’
Three months? I wasn’t sure if I was going to last three days, but I wasn’t about to argue with an afternoon off. After all, how hard could filling out a few forms be?
Wrong again!
After spending the best part of an hour trying to find the right building (which was eventually marked out by its grey walls and grey people), I waited two hours in an unending queue of foreign students, immigrants and a lot of tired and forlorn-looking people, only to be informed that I could have done the entire thing online.
The receptionist, a kind enough woman with an obsession for bangles, loaded my arms with half a rainforest’s worth of leaflets.
I spent the rest of the afternoon in a café trying to make sense of everything I needed, with four strong coffees and a dictionary.
I ended up with a list that looked something like this:
Passport
Birth certificate
Attestation de residence (proof of residency)
Attestation de bourse (proof of income)
Timbre fiscal (some special stamp that, quite frankly, sounded makey-uppy)
E111 Health Insurance
4 passport photos
Photocopies of all of the above
I can’t say my enthusiasm for form-filling to remain in a country that obviously did not relish my presence was at an all-time high.
But when it became clear that une carte de séjour was the key to opening a bank account and actually getting paid, I returned to the bakery and began rooting through my suitcase, which was only partially unpacked.
I felt just like that suitcase – still undecided as to whether I wanted to be here or not.
I found the E111 and my passport, but I knew I’d have to call home for my birth certificate.
I reached for the phone that I’d left on the bed and sat cross-legged on the floor in front of my open case.
The wooden floorboards were worn smooth and felt warm to the touch.
I hadn’t really taken a moment to just be since I’d arrived.
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.
It seemed like I was always running. Another deep breath.
My shoulders relaxed a fraction and my fingertips gently grazed the floorboards, feeling the warmth from the floor below.
Mindlessly, I began to trace patterns along the wood and wondered if I’d ever be able to stop running away from myself …
my life. I’d only been in France a few days and I already felt as though I had failed in some way and so I wanted to run again.
One final deep breath. My fingers caught in a groove.
One floorboard was slightly uneven and jutted upwards.
Without opening my eyes, I used my nails to pull at it and with a soft rasping sound, it lifted.
I opened my eyes and looked down. One of the floorboards had been cut and this small section, no more than ten inches, revealed a tiny nook.
Inside, I could see a small notebook. I almost held my breath as I reached inside.
It had a scarlet-red cover, curling at the edges.
In a neat script on the front in black pen was written Les Recettes.
What was it doing hidden up here? I opened it to the first page. The paper was yellowed with age, but the black ink was as clear as if it had been written yesterday.
Pierre, 1945
I was completely bemused by its presence and bewitched by what secrets it might hold inside. Had it been concealed under the floorboards all this time? And who was Pierre? Had he lived here once? I turned the page and found the first recipe.
Chocolat chaud pour réchauffer l’ame
I understood that it was a recipe for hot chocolate, but I had to type the remaining words into Google Translate.
‘To warm the soul,’ I read aloud. ‘Hot chocolate to warm the soul.’
I couldn’t help thinking that this recipe was written especially for me.
Of course that was a ridiculous thought, but as I looked across at my little kitchenette, I spied a small copper pot.
I didn’t even have milk, never mind any of the other ingredients.
I looked down at the recipe again and noticed something that looked unfamiliar.
Une cuillère de liqueur vanillao
Vanillao? The name stirred something at the back of my mind. I’d seen it somewhere before. Then I remembered…
I walked briskly down the stairs and into the kitchen.
No one was there, so I grabbed the large tin of icing sugar and then opened the small cupboard where Madame Moreau stored the boxes of sugar cubes.
Right at the back was a small bottle with a cork stopper sealed in wax and a handwritten label that read Vanillao.
I turned around, half-expecting someone to be there, but I was completely alone.
I hesitated before opening it. For all I knew it could’ve been poison.
But they’d hardly keep that beside the sugar.
I really wanted a hot chocolate by this stage.
I grabbed a large sleeve of dark chocolate from the tin on the counter, a carton of milk and the rest of the ingredients, before trotting up the stairs to my apartment and locking the door behind me, like some kind of kitchen thief.
I switched on the hot plate to medium and heated the milk and cream slowly.
A quick glance at the recipe and I noted that it said not to rush the process but to take a moment to indulge the senses.
I didn’t know who the author was, but they certainly knew how to make the experience something special.
I checked the ingredients’ measurements again…
200g chocolat noir (dark chocolate)
Une cuillère à café de sucre glace (teaspoon of icing sugar)
350ml lait (milk)
100ml crème entière
2 gouttes de liqueur vanillao (drops of vanilla liqueur)
Just as bubbles began to form around the edges, I took the pan off the heat and added the broken chocolate, found a whisk in the drawer and returned it to the heat.
Gently, I began to stir and watched the alchemy of the dark chocolate melting into the creamy milk.
The teaspoon of icing sugar counteracted the bitterness in the chocolate.
Just as the liquid began to thicken, I took the glass bottle in my hand.
There were vanilla sticks inside, so I was pretty confident that there wasn’t anything untoward in there.
Breaking the seal, I uncorked the lid and the scent of brandy filled the air.
Once the alcohol evaporated, my nostrils picked up on something far more delicate.
The sweet, blossomy vanilla bloomed, but there was something else I couldn’t quite put my finger on.
I carefully added two drops and then took the pan off the heat.
I found a small turquoise cup and saucer at the back of the cupboard, underneath the worktop.
After a quick rinse under the tap to remove any dust, I placed them on the table and began to pour the thick, syrupy liquid.
It looked sinfully dark and I couldn’t help but smile at the decadence of it.
I’d never made hot chocolate like this at home.
We’d only ever used the cocoa powder from a tin that always ended up tasting like some kind of chocolate broth and never truly satisfied.
This recipe seemed to have enough for two small cups, but I figured it was far too rich to drink two.
Even if death by chocolate didn’t seem such a bad way to go.
I lightly whipped some cream and placed a dollop on top, finishing with a light dusting of cocoa powder.
I had to stand back for a moment and admire it.
It looked like a tiny work of art. But now came the true test. I used a spoon to gently give it a stir, not too much, then raised the cup to my lips.
The surface was almost solid and met my lips like a kiss, before breaking and sliding onto my tongue, filling my mouth with an intense, velvety taste.
As I swallowed the dark liquid, I felt a mixture of ecstasy and contentment – it was the kind of completeness I hadn’t felt since— And just like that, a memory dislodged itself from some unknown place.
I was with my mother at a Christmas concert and we were singing along to carols and there were twinkling lights overhead and I remembered feeling that life was the best thing ever because there would be more days like that.
I felt woozy at the recollection. I hadn’t thought about that time in years; in fact, I’d all but forgotten it.
I took another mouthful and I could almost smell the sulphur from the sparklers we’d held in our hands, like burnt matches.
Without my realising it, a tear was rolling down my cheek.
But I wasn’t sad exactly, just present with myself.
I hadn’t been present in a very long time.
It was as though the hot chocolate unlocked something within me.
I suddenly felt ravenous, but there was nothing to eat.
‘Good job you live above a bakery,’ I joked to myself, wiping the tears away.
* * *
Back downstairs, all remained quiet. I uncovered the basket of choux pastry balls with chocolate hazelnut Chantilly crème inside and devoured them with an appetite I hadn’t felt for years.
I might not have stopped there, but I saw Manu arriving on his bike through the window and realised it was time to open up again.
I licked the cream off my fingers and tried to straighten myself up.
I had no idea whose recipe book I’d found, but they certainly knew a thing or two about hot chocolate!