Chapter Five
The following day, after another busy shift at the patisserie, Poppy strolled down Rue Saint-André, contemplating what to cook for dinner. When she had asked Camille for ideas – making sure to emphasise the diminutive dimensions of her studio’s kitchenette – her new friend had immediately suggested that she dine at the restaurant she walked past on her daily commute to the patisserie– Bistro Fabien. Apparently, she had eaten there the previous week, and the food was “divine”, as was the chef who had recently relocated from “St Tropez, Cannes, Nice or maybe it was another town on the Riviera”.
Poppy made a mental note never to ask Camille for directions.
She hesitated outside the bistro. Its frontage was half the size of the patisserie with room for only two tiny bistro tables on its share of the pavement, both of which were occupied by a young couple enjoying a bottle of red wine, oblivious to their surroundings as they stared adoringly into each other’s eyes. Like the patisserie, Bistro Fabien’s fa?ade was freshly painted, this time in a rich burgundy colour, with two elegant brass lamps on either side of the front door that gave the place a welcoming feel.
She had just decided that her acquaintance with her toy-sized kitchen could wait, when a group of tourists appeared out of nowhere and headed straight for the bistro, chattering in high-pitched English about how amazing the food in Paris was. When the door opened, Poppy caught a waft of warm roasted garlic and her stomach rumbled in anticipation. She stuffed her beret into her satchel, straightened her fringe and followed the tour party inside, hoping there would be a table for one available.
The moment she stepped into the bistro, she was met by the glorious symphony of animated conversation, clinking glasses and the soft swirl of classical music. The space was small, home to only two long trestle tables seating a maximum of twelve diners – one of which was already occupied – but the atmosphere was congenial, with a well-stocked bar around which the group of English tourists had gathered, ordering a selection of complicated cocktails from the bemused barman.
She found herself being shoved further into the restaurant as the tourists collected their drinks and stepped aside to allow their friends to request their own apéritif. Having realised there were no tables for two, never mind for solo diners, she was about to navigate her way to the exit as unobtrusively as possible when she stopped in her tracks. A tall, dark, exceedingly attractive guy had emerged from the kitchen, dressed in a white chef’s jacket that showcased his impressive physique to perfection. To her surprise, a sharp frisson of attraction zipped through her body, and she was mortified when she saw that he’d noticed her reaction.
‘Is this our table?’ asked a woman with a profusion of ginger curls, pointing to the table on the left with a Reservé sign. ‘I don’t mean to rush you, but we’ve been on the go since eight o’clock this morning; first a trip to Versailles, then an afternoon exploring Montmartre, Sacré-C?ur and the Panthéon. I don’t know about my fellow visitors to your wonderful city, but my feet are absolutely killing me.’
‘Yes, this is your table, madame. Welcome to Bistro Fabien. I’m Fabien Dumont.’
‘I’m pleased to meet you, Fabien,’ the woman purred, clearly delighted to be shown to her table by the owner himself. ‘I’m Marianne Marshall.’
‘Please take a seat, Marianne, and I’ll fetch the meus.’
‘Mercibeaucoup,’ said the woman in a broad English accent.
However, it was Fabien’s accent that caused Poppy’s emotions to quicken; rich, smooth and very, very sexy, his voice sent shockwaves zinging through her veins and caused her extremities to tingle with desire. She couldn’t move, confused by the effect this man was having on her, oblivious to Marianne’s friends pushing their way past her to claim their preferred seat at the table. All she could think about was Fabien, his muscular biceps straining the sleeves of his chef’s jacket as he whipped up a cheese soufflé or prepared an herb omelette, before feeding her each delicious morsel, forkful by forkful, his dark mahogany eyes boring into hers as she devoured what he had created.
She felt flustered, disorientated, which meant that it was a few moments before she realised that Fabien had closed the gap between them, taken hold of her elbow and guided her into the only remaining seat next to a man wearing an orange kagoul and a green beanie hat. She was so surprised that when she opened her mouth to explain his mistake, no words ensued, and before she knew what was happening, Fabien was passing round leather-bound menus, offering the last one to her. There was a brief pause while he held her gaze, and she felt as though he was scouring the very depths of her soul.
‘Votre carte, mademoiselle.’
‘Oh, no, actually, I was just—’
But Fabien was already dashing back to the kitchen, and she wondered if he and the barman were the only people working there that evening; they did both look harassed. She remembered Camille saying that the chef had recently relocated from the south of France, so maybe Fabien had to make do with a reduced staff until his new business venture was profitable.
She glanced around the table, surprised to see that no one seemed in the least bit perturbed that she had joined them, and she realised that the tour group was made up of couples and smaller groups who had probably only met that day for the tour. Nevertheless, she felt awkward being there, sitting amongst strangers, and a prickle of anxiety began to worm his way around her chest at the unfamiliar situation she found herself in.
Should she stay or should she go?
As her stomach was now strenuously voicing its objection to being ignored, she made a completely out-of-character decision and decided to stay for dinner. What was the worst that could happen? A few minutes later she was glad she did, when she was forced to supress a giggle at the look of total disbelief on the face of the barman – who she saw from the gold badge on his smart burgundy waistcoat was called Pascal – when he came to take their orders, starting with the man sitting next to her.
‘What’s in the French onion soup?’
‘Erm, onions?’
‘But are they French?’
‘Mais oui.’
‘Okay, I’ll have that, and then the beef bourguignon.’
‘Bon.’
Pascal scribbled something on his notepad before turning to Marianne, his sandy-coloured eyebrows raised in question, a soup?on of anxiety in his grey-blue eyes as he anticipated the next off-the-wall question about the bistro’s food.
‘Et vous, madame?’
‘Is the confit de canard good?’ asked Marianne.
‘Everything in Bistro Fabien is supurbe! Fabien Dumont is an award-winning chef, although he prefers to keep his accolades to himself and let his food do the talking.’ Pascal flicked his honey-blonde hair from his forehead in a practised gesture. ‘If it were me, though, I would be shouting about those coveted awards from the top of la tour Eiffel!’
‘I’ll have that then, with a mixed salad and low-cal dressing on the side.’
Pascal was about to say something but evidently thought better of it, and Poppy smiled at him, gratified to see him share a discreet eyeroll with her, before she gave him her order. No sooner had he scribbled her choice onto his notepad, than there was a tinkle of a bell telling him that the food for the diners at the adjacent table was ready.
It wasn’t long before their entrées arrived – a mixture of French onion soup, blue cheese soufflés, quail eggs Benedict, melted camembert with cranberry jam and a tomato tarte Tatin for Poppy. Every mouthful was delicious, and she had an almost uncontrollable urge to excuse herself from the table to visit the kitchen so she could ask Fabien what herb he’d added to her tarte to make it taste so special. Their main courses were equally as mouthwatering – boeuf bourguignon, steak tartare, coquilles Saint-Jacques, Marianne’s confit de canard and the most amazing bouillabaisse Poppy had ever tasted.
The evening passed quickly with conversation swirling around the table on a variety of topics, and before she knew it, Pascal was handing round coffees and a selection of digestifs. He then disappeared to help the diners at the adjacent table to settle their bills – made more complicated by everyone asking to pay separately – before ushering them out of the door and returning to enquire if the remaining group needed anything else.
‘That was the best meal we’ve had since arriving in Paris,’ said Marianne, her cheeks flushed from the three glasses of Cognac she’d consumed in rapid succession.
‘Merci, madame.’ Pascal smiled, placing their bill on the table.
Poppy was relieved when everyone reached for their purse or wallet and proceeded to pay l’addition with cash, which meant she didn’t have to negotiate the problem of how to settle her share without admitting that she was an intruder on their evening of congeniality. When Marianne and her group headed for the door, Poppy hung back. Now that the bistro was empty, she wanted to come clean about her gate-crashing exploits to Pascal because she wanted to eat there again and again and again.
‘Your friends! You must hurry or—’
‘Actually, they’re not my…’
Unfortunately, Fabien chose that moment to emerge from the kitchen, his hair dishevelled, his jacket cracked open at the collar to reveal a tantalising glimpse of dark chest hair. He made his way straight to the bar, poured himself a large glass of red wine and took a generous gulp, his shoulders relaxing as he exhaled a long sigh. Poppy experienced the same zip of attraction she had felt earlier in the evening, even more so now as she slid onto the tall wooden barstool next to him, accepting her own glass of red wine from a smiling Pascal.
‘Won’t your party be wondering where you are?’ asked Fabien, his voice as velvety as melted chocolate.
‘I was just about to explain to Pascal that… well, I didn’t know those people.’
Fabien stared at her, confusion written boldly across his face.
‘Je ne comprends pas.’
Poppy could feel her cheeks colouring as she realised how that sounded when she said it out loud. What she had done was crazy, not to mention presumptuous, despite the fact that she’d been immediately accepted as part of the tour group and had enjoyed chatting to her fellow diners.
‘I just happened to come into the bistro at the same time as them, and well, you thought we were together, so you understandably offered me a seat at their table. I hadn’t booked, and there was nowhere else to sit.’
Poppy saw Fabien’s jaw loosen as he exchanged a glance with Pascal.
‘You didn’t know them? I just assumed… because you spoke English. Mon dieu, mon dieu, mon dieu!’
Fabien dropped his head into his hands and Poppy saw Pascal’s lips twitch into an amused smirk, clearly enjoying his boss’s embarrassment as he finished wiping down the bar and returning the clean glasses to their allocated spaces.
‘Je suis très désolé.’
‘It’s fine, I—’
‘No, it’s not fine. I shouldn’t have… Will you still be in Paris tomorrow?’
‘Yes, I’m here until the end of the month. I’m helping Olivier Bourdain—’
‘Olivier Bourdain? Le patissier?’
‘Yes, he’s a friend of my brother’s; they were at culinary school together. Anyway, he broke both his wrists in a skiing accident, and he needed someone to help out at Patisserie Madeliene. I trained as a pastry chef, and I work… or I should say I worked at a bistro in Devon before I came over here. I’m Poppy, Poppy Phillipson.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Poppy. As you now know, I’m Fabien Dumont; chef de cuisine, sous chef, chef de partie, dishwasher, trainee waiter, and now I can add “idiot” to that list! Once again, may I express my sincerest apologies for my unforgivable error at seating you with a table of strangers. Please allow me to make it up to you by offering you dinner – on the house – tomorrow evening.’
‘No, no, that’s really not necessary.’
‘You didn’t enjoy your tarte Tatin and bouillabaisse?’
To Poppy’s surprise, she saw a trace of what looked like fear sweep across Fabien’s eyes as he exchanged a glance with Pascal. But she didn’t have to sweeten the truth with placatory compliments; her meal had been one of the best she’d had for a long time.
‘Oh, yes, they were both fabulous, and I’d really like—’
‘Have you had time to explore Paris, yet?’
‘Not yet, I only arrived a couple of days ago, and I’ve been working at the patisserie…’
‘Then you must permit me to offer my services to you as your personal tour guide. I have Sunday morning free. Please, meet me outside the bistro at ten a.m., and I promise to show you the Paris that only the Parisians see.’
Fabien met her gaze, the look in his eyes scorching hers, and she knew she couldn’t refuse his offer, nor did she want to. Even though she had only just met him – in the most embarrassing of circumstances – there was something different about him, something intriguing, simmering behind those dark, brooding eyes that seemed to draw her to him, made her desperate to find out more. Electricity thrummed through the air between them, something she had never experienced before, either with Drew or during any of the encounters she’d had with her brothers’ friends, which both unnerved and excited her.
‘Thanks, Fabien, I’d like that.’
‘Then it’s a date.’
Ten minutes later, as Poppy climbed the stairs to her studio in the eaves, her eyelids heavy with tiredness, she realised with a thud of remorse that her decision to avoid the dating arena had conveniently slipped her mind when accepting Fabien’s offer to show her around Paris. However, she consoled herself that Fabien hadn’t used the word “date” in the romantic sense, but in the sense of an arrangement for an inhabitant of one the most beautiful cities in the world to show off its iconic sights to someone who was keen to enjoy a more authentic experience than that enjoyed by Marianne’s tour group.
Nevertheless, a pleasurable curl of anticipation had started to weave its way through her chest and Sunday morning couldn’t come soon enough.