I mustered a smile. “Please tell me more about the food scene here.” And with those words, the building tension escaped the cab like a whistling kettle taken off a stovetop.
* * *
* * *
A minute’s walk from the tea shop, Aunt Evelyn’s luxe two-bedroom apartment was bigger than those in San Francisco. Her Victoriana tastes underwent a subtle change with the infusion of French Romanticism. Against muted cerulean walls, giclée reproductions of La Grande Odalisque and La Source by Ingres in gilded frames hung in the living room. A bouquet of white roses with lilacs stuffed in a Lalique crystal vase adorned the small, rectangular cherrywood dining room table. Our bedrooms overlooked rue de Montalembert, a small street off the much larger and busier boulevard Saint-Germain to the south.
My aunt instructed me to emerge whenever I was hungry and ready to move. I collapsed onto the fluffy bed waiting for me.
Later that evening, I awoke famished following a zombified sleep.
The apartment kitchen was small as compared to the one in her spacious Victorian. Dark blue cupboards with glass panes and wrought iron hardware highlighted a mosaic herringbone-tile backsplash. Her impressive tea collection shone like jewels—rows of colorful tins from all over the world containing her favorite blends. If I didn’t view the beverage with such hostility, I’d want a proper introduction from an expert such as my aunt.
A set of gorgeous milky, pastel ceramic jars perched on the gleaming white counter. I recognized them from her home in California; they contained cookies. My aunt’s sweet tooth was as potent as mine.
Aunt Evelyn was seated at the round table in the kitchen, browsing a stack of forms in a manila folder while sipping tea. “How do you feel?” she asked.
“Starving.”
She tucked her forms away and fetched her purse. “Then let’s eat. I made the reservations hoping you’d be up to enjoy them.”
We headed for dinner at a lovely bistro in the fifth arrondissement, near the Panthéon. All the beautiful lights highlighted the historic, stunning architecture. The clouds thinned into wispy columns revealing the dark sky overhead. Above us, the stars twinkled, flashing bright in their vanity. The restaurant was crowded: locals dined outside on the patio, and inside, the booths and tables were full.
“Parisians love to eat late and they tend to take their time. It’s a wonderful trait. As for this place, it’s pricey, but for your first night, this is perfect.” Aunt Evelyn winked, then spoke in immaculate French to the hostess behind the podium.
The handsome hostess led us to our reserved booth.
I opened the leather menu cover and then closed the portfolio with a sigh. Of course it was all in French.
My aunt laughed. “You can get by with English in the city. There’s enough tourists around to keep everyone bilingual. You’ll fit right in.”
“I didn’t even know you spoke French.”
“You should hear my German. It’s getting there.” She blushed and reviewed the menu.
I’d known her for years, yet the woman before me seemed like a stranger. My aunt had so many secrets, which tumbled out like errant breadcrumbs. Where did the trail lead? What lay at the end? I was curious, but nowhere near Auntie Faye’s level.
“Why expand to Europe now?” I asked. “And wouldn’t London have been better?”
“The competition in London is fierce. Here, coffee is king; therefore, we can start small and grow our customer base. It’s why I picked this area. It has enough tourists. Plus, I fell in love with this part of the city. Once you see it during the day, you’ll understand why. There’s a friendly community here.”
My aunt caught the attention of our server and placed our order. I was curious to see what she had in mind.
“Michael mentioned you’re a fan of Audrey Hepburn. We’ll go dress shopping tomorrow. I know a few charming shops that carry her style. Some are vintage. Will you cut your hair to match?”
I’d had long hair all my life. Even with my usual high ponytail, the thick waves fell past my shoulders. I did, however, indulge in auburn highlights during a recent salon visit. “No. I don’t think a pixie cut works with my bone structure.”
Aunt Evelyn laughed. “You’d be lovely if you chose to get one. I think the city will suit you.”
“I don’t know. Paris might be too elegant for me.” I smiled.
The server returned and placed two appetizers on the table.
The first was a sumptuous salad laid out in a lush line on a round plate. Among the green were dots of color: pickled vegetables, golden cassava curls, slices of decadent black truffles. Dabs of cumbawa cream added rich acidity. The fragrance of spring drifted up from the fresh ingredients.
The second was more-familiar fare. On one side, thin slices of smoked salmon layered over each other as if they were a continuous peach-colored ribbon. On the other was a small arrangement of mango chips interrupted by hints of red chilies. An intriguing bumblebee-yellow sauce separated the two.
With food like that before me, I was sure the city and I were destined for a passionate love affair.
* * *
* * *
The following day, Aunt Evelyn fulfilled her promise and showed me the city’s best dress shops in le Marais. I came away with enough clothes to last a month. My aunt took doting to a new level: extreme generosity, without crossing the line to overkill.
We returned to the apartment, hauling armloads of bags. I spent the entire time thanking her as we climbed the stairs from the courtyard.
“Drop everything off in your room,” Aunt Evelyn instructed. “We’re not done yet.”
“This is more than enough clothes, Auntie.” I deposited the purchases into my bedroom and returned to the hallway. “I don’t need anything more.”
“This isn’t about clothes. I’m talking about fragrance. You’re in Paris—you need perfume. It’s essential.”
The beautiful Parisian women we walked past smelled lovely, with a subtle perfume that was unique and unlike the wall of sheer suffocating fog I had encountered from an auntie or two. Aunt Evelyn’s scent, I realized, was like a Parisian. It had always been.
“Wait, is your perfume French?” I asked her.
She smiled. “You’ve discovered my secret. Your aunts have been forever guessing what I wore. My favorite perfumer is based in Paris. I’ve been having it imported for years. Until now.”
My aunt locked up and we made our way back downstairs and onto the street.
Along rue de Montalembert we walked past jewel-like shops as shafts of sunlight peeked through the leaves of the trees overhead. A church bell rang in the distance. My aunt identified it as belonging to the Saint Thomas Aquinas Catholic church. It rang every hour, and it amused me to no end that a person could be responsible for the task.