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“Oh, he is, mostly,” agreed Florian, taking some white fish out of the fridge. “Although happy isn’t the right word. More like… resigned that he’s a widower, and he’s got to do this last bit alone, so he’s making the best of it? And I think I need to focus on that. That as long as he’s reasonably content, who gives a shit if his memory is fading?”
“You obviously get on well, living together.”
He glanced up at me. “Yeah, mostly. Sometimes he… well… he’s a bit childlike? He never used to be. Like he laughs or is disproportionately upset by silly things. And that irritates me sometimes and then afterwards I’m cross with myself. I used to rely on him as my sounding board for good advice, and I’m gradually losing that.”
His dark brows pinched together, and concentrating on his chopping, he gave a little shrug. “I suppose it’s no different from having the responsibility of keeping an eye on a small child. Except kids get away with murder and you can forgive them most things, because they’re cute, whereas old people… aren’t. And kids grow up and become more independent, whereas his forgetfulness, memory loss, whatever you want to call it, is only going to get worse.”
“I bet you’re much better at looking after him than you think. You’re allowed to feel a little frustrated sometimes.”
“That’s what Nico says, too.”
He made space on the table for our knives and forks, pushing some paperwork out of the way.
“That looks important,” I remarked.
He pulled a face. “You can look at it if you like, and you’ll see that Papi is the least of my problems. To be honest, the stuff in there sounds like your area of expertise. A big company is trying to take over the salt cooperative, offering us lots of money.”
“Nice.”
“Not nice,” he replied sourly. “They are promising the earth to persuade us to agree, but I don’t trust them. Papi always says if something is too good to be true then it probably is.”
Sounded like sensible advice, advice Marcus and I never offered our clients. “I’m intrigued. Are you sure you don’t mind if I take a look?”
“Look all you like.” He turned back to the stove. “I have ten weeks left to convince the old guard that the offer should be turned down. And I don’t know where to start. Or even if we should turn it down, or whether that’s just sentimentality talking.”
As I flicked through the paperwork, he dunked the green stuff in a pan of simmering water. “Is that asparagus?”
“Salicorne.” Samphire. He sprinkled the fish with ground pepper. “It grows wild on our salt flat; it has the same texture but is very salty, so it needs a quick boil first, then a gentle fry in garlic and butter. I brought a bunch home from work with me this evening. Papi loves it.”
“And the fish? Is that local too?”
“Bien sûr.” Of course. “And these mini potatoes are grown in his friend’s allotment. He fertilises them with seaweed. Trust me, they are chef’s kiss.”
He made a kissing motion with his fingertips at his lips, which did strange things to my green, as if he’d turned up the brightness a notch. His—I didn’t know what to call it—his contentedness and ability to take such pleasure in something as simple as locally grown potatoes and vegetables picked from the wayside was an enviable trait. A better guest—and cook—than me would have asked if they could help, but I was enjoying watching him.
“Is there anything about this dinner not sourced locally?” I asked, as he moved the fish around in the pan. A heavenly smell settled over the small kitchen.
“Just you.” He smiled and took a sip of wine. “Slow food, isn’t that the fancy name for this type of dinner? But we haven’t added the essential local ingredient yet.”
He reached into his back pocket, retrieving a couple of tiny plastic bags filled with white crystals.
“Cocaine?” I joked feebly. “I didn’t know it was that sort of dinner party.”
“Better than cocaine, Charles. White gold. Fleur de sel. These particular flakes were harvested by my own fair hand yesterday evening.”
He held one of the bags open to me. “This one is the dried gros sel, the coarse salt. Your blisters helped me collect that. Wet your fingertip and taste it.”
Doing as he asked, I touched the greyish grains with my damp finger then brought them up to my mouth.
“Dab them on the tip of your tongue,” he instructed.
Yep, they tasted like salt. No different from the powdered stuff I purchased from the supermarket back in London, although I kept that heinous opinion to myself. Florian tried some too, rolling his tongue around his mouth a little, like a wine connoisseur.
“You can taste salt, of course,” he said, following it up with more wine. He motioned for me to do the same. “Less bitter than cheap supermarket crap, but still salt. Good for sprinkling on English fish and chips, or even on Belgian frites, non? We sell tonnes of this at the cooperative, it is shipped all over France.”
I could have done with some cheap supermarket crap to compare with, but I had a suspicion I’d not find a pot for sale within a ten-mile radius. Sliding into the seat opposite, Florian prised open the second bag, dipping a moist finger inside.
“Close your eyes and stick out your tongue.”
