A Dinner Together

As I walked down Boulevard Saint-Germain, I pictured Madame Cheminal, her hair wizened and grey, shoulders slightly stooped, stirring ratatouille over the stove in our small kitchen. The roses would be a deep, dusky red, and she would place them in the center of the family room in a vase, as she often did. I smiled slightly, imagining her gravelly murmur of pleasure.

Sounds of election night were blaring over the TV as I slipped back into the apartment, unnoticed. I retreated to my bedroom, a moment's peace before the arrival of my (real) parents. They came on time, bags of presents in hand, smiling nervously. Clever kitchen tools and a framed photo of our backyard cherry tree in bloom for Madame, an aerial toy for Monsieur, the engineer. We sat together in the spacious family room, snacking on peanuts and crispy potato chips and sipping sweet aperitifs. Attracted by the sounds of new people, eight-month-old Maéva crawled into the room, instantly delighted by my mother (who so resembled me) and slightly perturbed by my bewhiskered father. I glanced around the room, relieved to hear the smooth cadence of easy French conversation.

Madame steadfastly refused my offers to help in the kitchen. It was her sphere, always under her careful control. I never saw her use a recipe; she cooked with vegetables from the market and meat from the butcher's. Our meals together during the week were quiet, usually served after the evening news: a bottle of well-aged red wine retrieved from the cabinet below the flatware, an ample supply of bread and strong cheeses.

Tonight was special: my parents had come to visit from the States, eager to meet my host family, with whom I had lived for three months. Madame graciously agreed to have them to dinner during the week; her big meal was usually Sunday lunch, when all four of her children and others arrived. I had grown up an only child in suburban Maryland, hardly comparable to the savvy urban upbringing of the Cheminal children. I loved the constant flow of people in that apartment, the intimacy of their relationships, the tightly bound love.

My father's French was impressively fluent, though he struggled to find verbs for complex phrases and questions about politics. My host mother's English was pidgin at best, which matched my mom's fractured French. The two acknowledged each other quietly as the men sank deeper into discussion.

Slightly giddy from the aperitifs, at ease with the company, we moved to the table. Madame had outdone herself as usual, stubbornly trying to prove she fed me well. Everything was perfect: the crusty Paul Keyser bread from around the corner, a bottle of oak-infused Côte du Rhone retrieved from the cave below the building, the familiar flowered jug of water, the simple white flatware. Bites of fish, steamed with parsley and other aromatic herbs, settled warmly on my tongue. The ratatouille disappeared quickly: a hearty stew of squash, bell peppers, eggplant and herbes de Provence, simmered together—my favorite French dish. The wine, dusky as the bouquet of roses, brought a glow to everyone's eyes. The dinner plates were quickly whisked away to make room for the small plates—the cheese course. My mom's eyes widened in surprise. "More?" She clutched her stomach in mock agony. My dad laughed.

Monsieur refilled the wine glasses as we inspected the options. "For Martha, it's always comté," Madame joked. In addition to comté, a hard mild cheese often found in sandwiches, I also loved the herb-crusted chèvre—creamy, with a slight herb crunch. My dad indulged himself, sampling as many as possible. My mom nibbled delicately, trying to show restraint. Then it was time for the final course: dessert. Madame had baked her exquisite gâteau au chocolat, dark and liquid at the center. As she set the metal platter in the center of the table, I was struck by the memory of my first taste of this cake: when Madame discovered I had a weakness for chocolate, she immediately baked one and demanded I have a slice for breakfast.

This evening, we took the time to enjoy each other's company, to eat and live each culinary moment. Coming from the American go-go-go society, where dinners are eaten on the run and between business calls, I had learned to make space for meals, eating unhurriedly and relishing every bite. I noticed that night that even though faith in France's political system was dwindling, eyes twinkled and wine-thickened voices warmed the conversation. My two sides of the Atlantic were united that night, with the full bellies and lasting smiles to prove it.


Martha Cargo is a first-year Masters of Music candidate at SUNY-Purchase, concentrating in Flute Performance. She studied abroad in Paris, France in her last undergraduate semester at Oberlin College. She currently works in a five-star French-influenced restaurant in Greenwich, CT and loves to cook ratatouille in her own small kitchen.