I was trying to explain Pan Catalán to Claire. I gave her the
words I could and drew in the air with
my hands. We had just finished a plate of endive apiece, Claire and I. Her
window was open behind her, blowing the shy perfume of rain-loosened soil into
the kitchen. I drained my glass of wine. Claire refilled it automatically.
“Tiens,” she said, setting it by my plate. “Fin, c’est très à la mode, t’as remarqué?”
“Pas trop…mais j’imagine,
ouais…”
We had been speaking about des
gourmandises. Claire said that in the last few years it had become very
popular in France to have a platter of little desserts with coffee. I said I hadn’t noticed it especially, but
could imagine that being the case. Couldn’t you? Couldn’t you see someone taking
an espresso after dinner, feeling the smoky bitterness wash away the velvety
taste of wine and duck? Punctuating it with something sweet? Little tastes to
stimulate the palate without detracting from the tranquillity of the café?
Of course you could.
I once had something like that back home. Vietnamese coffee with strawberries
cooked in maple syrup, with little almond cakes, with candied pecans, with
mixed raisins. I described it all to Claire, who sat attentively before me. I
explained that the strawberries were the crowning glory, the pièce de résistance. They were sliced
and cooked in maple syrup with hints of lemon zest and pepper, topped with
mint. I had demanded the recipe.
“Recipe?” my friend said. “What recipe? There’s no recipe.” But
she wrote down what was in it, explaining that no two batches came out the same.
“Strawberries, maple syrup (I’ve experimented with agave. Don’t
you make the same mistake) lemon juice and/or zest (or any citrus, really.
Sometimes I don’t bother at all), vanilla extract (not if you have that cheap
Costco shit. No buts, Cynthia), pepper (non-negotiable!), and mint for garnish
(or cinnamon, rosemary, lavender, or whatever the hell else. Add nuts and I’ll
kill you, though).”
The corners of Claire’s mouth turned downwards and she tilted her
head pensively. You know the look. It’s the universal gesture of “ah, okay, not
bad.”
“ Bon, j’ai tous
les ingrédients dans ma cuisine, ” and she stood with a grin. I blinked
dumbly back at her. Claire started pulling things out of the cabinets: maple
syrup, pepper, lemons…
“Allons-y, Cynthia.”
“Maintenant?”
“Oui!”
“Maintenant, maintenant ? “
“Ben, oui!” Claire laughed at my surprise.
So we did. We sliced the strawberries with little paring knives
against our palms. Claire drowned them in maple syrup and soon the kitchen was
filled with the smell of it. Sweet, tangy
warmth, mixing with the quiet smell of rain slipping in from outside.
“C’est fini?”
I shrugged. The bright crimson of the strawberries had faded
somewhat, and the syrup was bubbling.
“Pourquoi pas?” I said. Grinning, Claire switched the stove off and
ladled the fragrant mixture into the two bowls I handed her. I ate mine with
yogurt (soy, don’t fret!) and she ate hers nature.
It was good. The lemon added acidity to cut through the heaviness
of the maple syrup, and the strawberries retained their freshness. The pepper
was the snap, the vanilla the muted note of class.
“C’est bon!” Claire exclaimed. “Sucré, mais pas trop. Le citron est
parfait…pas trop lourd…pas du tout. ” So we finished our dessert, laughing
at the spontaneity of it all, and talking politics. Claire took out an old
yellow notebook book to show me. It was a recipe book she’s had for over fifty
years, since she was a little girl. It was filled with recipes, but also doodles,
diagrams and notes taken by Claire as a child, Claire as an adolescent, Claire
as a young adult, the Claire I know today. You could see the handwriting
change, become neat, then extravagant, then elegant, then simple and clean. She
flipped to a blank page, and wrote:
Gourmandise
à la Cynthia.
