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GILBERT
PARIS, 1942
‘Have you seen this?’ asked Gilbert, making his way into the kitchen, where Marianne was busy chopping up vegetables. A mushroom bourguignon was simmering on the stove. There were baskets overflowing with vegetables: tomatoes, aubergines, cauliflower, potatoes, turnips – seeing such a bounty, it was hard to imagine they were in the midst of war. Except that, of course, it all came from the invaders. Gifts from Luberon’sadmirers, chiefly Otto Busch and his friends. The dishes she made for the locals included a lot of legumes and other starchy carbs as opposed to meat; it was designed to be cheap and filling. Not that any locals had come by just yet, even with the extra rations and discounts.
On the small wireless, the sweet sound of Lucienne Boyer was singing, ‘Parlez-moi d’amour’, and Marianne was humming along as she prepared the evening’s meal.
She dipped a clean spoon in the pot, and scooped some of the rich liquid. ‘You must try this, Gilbert, tell me what you think?’
He took the spoon from her, tasted the rich broth, then closed his eyes in bliss. She was a magician. ‘Mmh, it’s wonderful,’ he moaned, picking it up to take another spoonful.
‘Tut, tut, no! Use a clean spoon, Gilbert!’
He did so and she turned to him and frowned. ‘Seen what?’
‘Oh… this,’ he said, handing her the latest edition of the Pariser Zeitung. ‘You’re in it.’
To his shock, she didn’t seem surprised, though she winced slightly. ‘I know. It was Busch’s idea. It’s not going to win me any favours with the locals, though.’
‘Probably not,’ he agreed, and opened it up and began to read out the article, which was titled, ‘Food like my grandmother used to make.’
‘The owner of the new restaurant in the charming village of the Batignolles in Paris has a wondrously unpretentious attitude towards food in that it should be good, but wholesome too. In a city that is known for its metropolitan sophistication, which has always looked down at anything deemed provincial, Blanchet’s attitude is refreshing – she is bringing the countryside to Paris, she says, by cooking the kind of food her grandmother used to make in Provence.
‘“When I was little, she ran a small farmer’s café restaurant in her village, and she served just one meal a day: lunch. As a customer, you almost never knew what you were going to get, it was part of the charm. People came because they enjoyed the surprise and the good food. No one was ever disappointed – not so that I ever knew anyway.”
‘One couldn’t for a moment imagine other nations, like the one across the pond with their “toad in the hole,” ever being so adventurous. It is a quintessentially French trait, this bold and brave approach to their love of good food. And now, just like her grandmother’s café in Luberon, there is no menu, just a long line of people who come to Madame Blanchet’s restaurant knowing that whatever she decides to make that day is likely to be wonderful.
‘“In this city where a menu can be as long as your arm – and yet some people just order the same thing over and over again – I want to give my customers something surprising.”
‘Well, we can safely say – mission accomplished. Well done, Marianne Blanchet, and all hail Luberon.
‘It is rather flattering,’ said Gilbert, which was something of an understatement. ‘And there’s a picture of you too.’
Marianne laughed, scrunching her small pretty nose as she pulled a face. ‘It makes my teeth ache – it’s so sugary,’ she said. ‘But I couldn’t exactly say no, I mean look,’ she said indicating the bounty, ‘these have been sent from officers, with cards wishing us well.’
Gilbert snorted. ‘Most likely they’ve seen your picture and your promise that you aren’t going to make anything fussy.’
Marianne’s lips twitched in amusement, but she shrugged. ‘It’ll be good for business, and anyway, first we need to feed the sharks in order to feed the minnow.’
He rolled his eyes, then grinned. That was such a Marianne thing to say.
Just then there was a sound of booted heels coming into the kitchen, and both of them tensed for a moment. They turned to find Otto Busch standing in the entrance, a folded-up newspaper beneath his arm. He looked positively jubilant. ‘Ah, madame! Everyone is talking about your restaurant! Why, I wouldn’t be surprised if it was as popular as some of the ones in the centre of the city.’
Marianne smiled, and it was the force of a thousand suns. Gilbert hated that she used it on the German. ‘You think so? I just want to make real food, nothing too fancy.’
He laughed, throwing back his head and revealing his perfect teeth, especially his sharp incisors. ‘But that’s why they’ll come! Everyone’s talking about it. Ha! Even I was congratulated for helping to cultivate such a jewel – but it’s easy when you have a diamond. That’s what you are, madame, a diamond!’
Gilbert had to work hard not to cringe. His mother, Berthe, always said that his face was like a map of his internal world, displayed there for all to see. She’d meant it as a warning. He hadn’t quite figured out how to stop it, so he often spent a long time examining his shoes. Luckily, Busch hardly ever noticed him.
Busch continued, enthusiastically, coming forward without invitation to sample the stew. He kissed his fingers to his lips. ‘Magnifique! Most of our boys, well, they’re more familiar with bratwurst and potato salad than fine cuisine, and if they discover country-style fare like your cassoulet and hearty stews, they’ll be over the moon.’ Then he tapped his nose, and winked at them both, smacking a hand onto Gilbert’s back. Gilbert let out a squawk that seemed to please the General, who laughed, while he said, ‘But don’t tell them I said that, eh, they are trying very hard to be sophisticated.’
Marianne laughed. ‘It’ll be our secret.’ As if they were discussing lovable, provincial scamps instead of men from one of the deadliest armies in the world.
Busch leaned forward and patted the side of her face affectionately and Marianne flinched. For just a moment, Gilbert saw something flash in her eyes, her face turn to stone, but before he could blink she was smiling again and he wondered if he’d imagined it.
‘So sorry, sir, I got a fright.’
Busch didn’t seem offended. His eyes had flared with interest.
