Читать книгу The Essential Ingredient - Love - Tracy Madden - Страница 6

It was a beautiful evening as Chilli walked out of the Brisbane airport with a spring in her step. She checked the time. Hopefully Rob should be pulling in any second. She’d had two fabulous days in Melbourne, was feeling great and looking forward to having dinner and telling him everything. She didn’t have to be apart from her husband for long to miss him.

Since Sam had finished school, whenever Rob had travelled for work, he insisted she travel with him. While he worked, she spent great, luscious portions of her life browsing book stores. When Rob’s business was finished for the day, they would try new restaurants and see shows that didn’t come to Brisbane. Her two favourite gourmet magazines were read from cover to cover and new restaurants circled. It became their delightful challenge to dine in as many of them as possible. In the last 15 months, with their latest venture, she had been unable to travel with him quite as much and had missed it.

At 25 degrees, it was much warmer in Brisbane than what it had been in Melbourne. Taking off her jacket, she placed it on top of her case, and thought once again that it was a shame that no one could see the beautiful silk lining of black and white stripes with huge red cabbage roses.

Rob’s silver BMW was nowhere to be seen. She dialled his mobile and it rung seven times before it went to message bank. She checked her mobile for any messages. Nothing. She was starving. Again she looked at her watch. How many times did she have to remind him to be on time? He was very frustrating. She stifled a yawn.

From where she waited, she saw Jeff Bryson leave the airport terminal and join the queue at the taxi rank. Five minutes later, a taxi pulled along beside her. The window went down. There were those green eyes and that wide smile again. “Can I give you a lift somewhere?”

“No, thank you. It’s fine. I am waiting for my husband. He’s just running a bit late, as per usual.” She gave a wry smile and raised her eyebrows. “Thank you very much anyway.”

She tapped her foot on the ground a couple of times and then thought about the nice weekend they had planned. Tomorrow they would start the day early with a brisk walk. This was their talking time without any distractions. The area they lived in was entirely surrounded by boardwalks and walking paths along the edge of the Brisbane River; the same river that graced their back door.

Chilli loved spring in Brisbane. Many of the native plants had burst into flower, attracting an assortment of birds, butterflies, bats and possums. The subtropical climate and green leafy suburb had always made Brisbane the perfect lifestyle choice for them.

She hoped they would have time for the Farmers Markets in New Farm Park where the fresh produce was unbelievable. She viewed looking at food the ways some women window shopped for fashion. There was not only green but also white freshly picked asparagus from the man who sold only asparagus, bags of mushrooms with their intoxicating earthy smell from the mushroom man, and all different types of potatoes from the potato lady, with the Dutch Cream being a favourite at the moment for the best potato mash.

There were flavoursome, rich, red baby Roma tomatoes still on their green vine, which she kept on a platter on her kitchen bench, so she could pluck off fresh tomatoes at any time and bite into the small, juicy, mouth-watering fruit. The apple people not only had apples, some still with their leaves attached, but divine apple juice that was not squeezed but pressed. Piled high next door were sweet and colourful small capsicums; green, red, yellow and orange. Not only delicious but ornamental, the peppers had a regular place on the kitchen bench as well, before sadly they disappeared into that night’s dinner, leaving a blank spot where so much vibrancy had been. The organic free range eggs had beautiful, rich, yellow yolks, and the leaves man had every possible green leaf or herb you could want in a salad.

After eating the organic garlic from the markets, it was hard to eat anything else. It was so moist and almost oily and it crushed so easily that it had become addictive. Of course there was the fabulous aroma of dozens of breads to die for. The red onion and olive had become a favourite. Thickly sliced with fresh real butter wrapped in paper and sold in a stick, was heaven. There was a huge range of marinated and stuffed olives and dips and antipasto to choose from, and the pungent aroma of ripe cheeses made it quite difficult to not buy too many at a time. But the piece de resistance was the chocolate brownie that she always had to have as her treat. To die for! After all of this shopping, they’d probably grab a coffee at Montgomery’s, and see what was happening.

Then, late afternoon they were meeting up with five other couples at Montrachet for an early dinner before going to watch a Rugby match at the Suncorp Stadium. The dinner was in honour of one of Rob’s friends turning 50. The 50th birthdays had started and it was Rob’s turn in November. The Montgomerys caught up with this group two or three times a year, usually during Rugby season, as the guys had all played football together 30 years earlier. They were a great bunch and Chilli was excited at the thought of going to Montrachet. She was in love with its divine food.

Their Pissaladiere, which was a sort of pizza with caramelised onions, aromatic rosemary, olives and anchovies, was a wonderful taste of sweetness and salt at the same time. Rob always started with it and gave Chilli a taste. Generosity was definitely one of his best traits. If he ordered a seafood dish with only one large prawn, he always offered it to her, insisting that she loved it more than him so she should have it.

Briefly she reminded herself of that just now, trying not to be too annoyed with his worst trait of constantly being tardy.

Anyway, already she knew what she would order at Montrachet; the double baked soufflé with sand crab and gruyere cheese. For her, good eating was a requisite of life. But now, simply thinking about tomorrow night torturously made her stomach growl in hunger and her mouth water with anticipation.

Where was Rob? Letting out an annoyed breath, her eyes scanned the oncoming traffic. She wondered if she should hail a taxi.

But her next thought went back to Montrachet. She hoped that the restaurant still had the strawberry tarte tatin on the menu.

Thinking of this, reminded her of her French grandmother, Grand-mere Celeste. The older woman had been a strong mentor, and as such, an incredible influence on Chilli. The woman had an amazing sense of style. She loved theatre and she loved music. She always used to say that all the money in the world could not buy happiness or style. Happiness was inside. “You must look within yourself for it. You can’t buy style, but you learn to appreciate it. It’s not about everything new and it’s not about everything antique; you need to bring it together elegantly. Grace and elegance will see you through. Remember that Chilli.”

After meeting an Aussie boy in France, Celeste had come to Australia as a young bride. It was a huge surprise to the rest of his family.

And surprise it was, her grandmother had told her, in her still heavily accented English, despite all of the years she had spent in Australia. “In those days, Australia was not as multi-cultural. Your grandfather’s family treated me as if I was going to serve them frog’s legs or escargot for dinner.” Her hands danced around as she spoke. “You could not buy frog’s legs much less escargot ’ere, so where did they think I was going to get them from?”

Chilli was a clone of her grandmother. Both tiny and slim, with feet the size of dolls, they were typical of a certain type of French women. Chilli had inherited her grandmother’s huge chocolate brown eyes, framed with long, dark lashes and thick straight dark hair. Both were quite unlike Chilli’s own mother, Solange, who was a tall leggy, blue eyed blonde.

Chilli attributed her love of food and her love of France to her grandmother. Somewhere tucked away at the back of a drawer, smelling faintly of lavender, were the diaries Chilli had scribbled as a little girl. In a childish scrawl, they recorded the magical holidays she had shared with Grand-mere Celeste in France. And the one theme laced heavily throughout the diaries was food. For her, food and France are one and the same, and that’s how it had always been. She had spent huge chunks of her childhood exploring her grandmother’s kitchen, where a fervent passion for cooking and all foods French flourished.

Back then, she was properly teased about her enthusiasm for all things edible – it was a family joke – but it was hardly surprising that French cuisine had such an impact on her; after all, it was in her blood. The family even used to joke that one day she would marry the French baker’s son Phillipe. But of course she didn’t, she married the Aussie butcher’s son Rob.

During the course of her love affair with that country, she had come to know Paris well; the brassy picture postcard Paris and the more demure private Paris. French life was vibrant. It was colourful as much as for the people as for the surroundings; whether in the city or the country. Over the years she was consistently drawn to the culture, where pleasure and beauty were revered.

From their very first trip to France, her grandmother informed her that one must never leave France without purchasing a fabulous silk scarf, a handbag and a pair of shoes. “If you have that Chilli,” she had said, “You can wear anything and look stylish.”

She had taken her to the Hermes flagship store on the rue de Faubourg Saint-Honore, a temple to style, where under a glass topped cabinet were the most luxuriously printed, gloriously coloured squares of silk. With the shop assistant’s help, she had lessons on the fine art of wearing a scarf with style. Then it came time to choose. Her first Hermes scarf! The problem was they were all beautiful. How could she pick just one? But Grand-mere Celeste told her she would know it when she saw it. She did. It almost leapt out at her, with a mixture of all her favourite colours in one; tangerine, purple, mint green, gold and bordered in crimson. The shop assistant placed the treasured piece of silk into a small flat orange-coloured box, tied it with brown satin ribbon and then handed it over in the legendary Hermes carrier bag. For the rest of the day, there were admiring glances from other well-dressed mademoiselles, at the recognition of someone so young carrying a Hermes bag. And to this day Chilli remembered her grandmother’s words, “To buy a Hermes scarf Chilli, you don’t need to be a millionaire, you just need to understand that it is a beautiful thing to own. That is the real luxury. Not the price of the item!”

As for her love affair with food, it took on a new meaning when she dined with her grandmother. Mealtime was an occasion. The table was set with real linen napery. Flowers always took centre stage in crystal vases. Hours before they would have visited the green grocer where there were lessons on how to smell the fruit and vegetables to see if they were fragrant, how to weigh them with their hands to see if they were ripe. On returning home, Chilli stood on a little stool in the kitchen, while her grandmother gave her lessons on how to make the simplest of ingredients a feast. Once seated at the table, they savoured every delicious morsel and if it wasn’t the type of food to be savoured, then they didn’t bother to eat it. The older woman told her the secret of having a happy husband and family was not just feeding her family, she must nourish them as well.

Those lessons, Chilli came to live by.

Recalling those wonderful memories made her smile. Again she tried Rob’s number. Again it rang out and went to voicemail. She remembered the incredible sadness when her grandmother had passed away. Chilli had said to her mother that she couldn’t bear a life without her grandmother and she didn’t know how her mother could.

In return Solange had said to her, “Every time I feel sad, my darling, I will look at you. My mother has taught you so many wonderful things, that she goes on living through you. I hope that Sam and your brothers’ girls will have some of her characteristics as well. Your grandmother had a great capacity for love Chilli and I see that in you.”

That moment was the closest Chilli ever recalled having had with her mother. They had put their arms around each other. Solange had pulled away first. However, for Chilli, that memory always bought great comfort. From that moment on, there was a different type of closeness between her and her mother. She had to admit that in the past, her grandmother had a stronger influence on her than her mother had.

Solange was one of those mothers who preferred boys. She preferred their masculinity, their sports, their talk, their humour, their school, their friends. She revelled in it, and was lucky enough to have three sons. Charlie was 20 months older than Chilli, next came Jim who was three years younger, followed by Eddie who was a year younger again. Give Solange something to do for the boys and she excelled. Give her something to do for Chilli and she did it dutifully, but not quite as easily. Truth be told, this never overly bothered Chilli as she knew her mother loved her. Her father was a different story. She was his princess! And he was the one who had chosen her name.

During her pregnancy with Chilli, Solange had suffered dreadfully with heartburn. It had been decided that if they had a girl they would call her Celeste after Solange’s mother. But when a tiny dark haired screaming baby girl arrived in the world, Jack took her in his arms, and said, “There’s the little Chilli who has caused all the problems.” It was said, that the moment Jack spoke, Chilli stopped her wailing and contentedly lay in her father’s arms, watching him. The name stuck. He thought himself amusing when he came up with other names for her. One day it would be ‘chilli pepper’, the next day ‘chilli dog’ and sometimes even ‘chilli sauce’.

The first trip with her grandmother to France was the year after her grandfather had died. The time had come, when the older woman wished to return home to visit her sister. Yes, she still thought of it as home, even after all that time. She had asked Chilli’s parents if she could take the little girl with her.

Very early one morning, they flew over France. Looking out the window of the plane, Chilli was mesmerised. All over, lights were coming on in little farm houses. The excitement she felt on that trip, always returned with every trip afterwards.

Her great Aunt Rose lived in a tiny but beautiful apartment in Paris, close to the Seine in the sixth arrondisment, tucked away off the main street. The apartment was in a very old building, above a bookstore and small café. To get to the apartment they first had to enter through an enormous, heavy iron gate into a stone-paved courtyard with potted scarlet geraniums and an old oak tree in the centre. They then passed through an ancient wooden door that creaked open. Tante Rose’s apartment was up three flights of stairs. It seemed like such an adventure to the young girl, and with each step her anticipation grew.

Rose had been a very beautiful woman in her youth, and even though she was in her sixties now, her beauty was still evident. The apartment was tiny. So was she, with petite features to match her small stature. She was chic and tasteful in her dress, lucidly intelligent, viciously funny and nervously intense. The two sisters cried and cried when they saw each other, hugging and kissing and speaking rapidly in French. When her grandmother introduced Chilli, Tante Rose bent down and looked into her eyes, looked back at her grandmother and shook her head. She then cried some more and clung on to Chilli. It was rather overwhelming for a child of ten.

Tante Rose’s apartment was another world to young Chilli. Persian rugs in henna, temple gold and jade covered the floors, and bookshelves covered the walls from floor to ceiling. There were gigantic dictionaries and fabulous books on art and writers. Every spare space on the walls was taken up with gilt framed mirrors and paintings. The beds were made up with linen sheets and heavy, red, velvet curtains lined with damask, hung from the windows.

Dinnertime was a grand affair, and each place was set with heavy silver cutlery, bone china dinnerware and heavily cut crystal glassware. Chilli took great pains to be very careful not to bump or knock anything. She learnt that dressing the table was part of the whole dining experience, as important as the food to be served.

Breakfast was eaten at the café downstairs. The smoke stained walls and checked red and white tablecloths made for a traditional scene. Lace curtains, bistro chairs and an ornate pressed tin ceiling only added to the picture. Her absolute favourite thing to order was a Croques Monsieur; a ham sandwich, on bread unlike any she had ever eaten, and a milky weak coffee served in a pottery bowl. It was pure heaven. She remembered thinking that the aroma of coffee must be one of the greatest and simplest of pleasures in life. She had never forgotten the first breakfast they had eaten there. It was the most important breakfast of her life. It was the beginning of her lifelong fascination and adoration of food.

Her grandmother had said to her, “Chilli, I will show you the Paris that tourists see and then I will show you the real Paris. The soul of Paris lives not simply in the impressive structures, but in its quiet boulevard and parks filled with birdsong, its patisseries, its boulangeries, its bustling markets and quaint shops tucked away in back alleys.”

Paris was, even now, the most exciting and beautiful city that she had ever visited. She was hopelessly besotted with it. French life was vibrant, colourful; the people, the language, the food, the history and the style. The women were so beautiful, at that time sporting boyish haircuts, wrapped in thick fur coats, more often than not with manicured canines on designer leads. There was so much to see, so much to do, so much to eat.

It didn’t take much time before she learned to love their Michelin Stars, their glamorous chefs, their fois gras, their fromage, their long aproned waiters, their starched linen and their cheese trolleys. Never would she forget the wonderful abundance of food, all of it delicious and served in groaningly generous portions.

They ate onion soup very early in the morning at the Les Halles markets. They snacked on plump rosy peaches and bright red cherries. They sampled wheels of ripe cheeses, some with intense aromas but beneath their rind were oozing creamy textures with sweet and savoury flavours. There were fat succulent sausages and racks of fresh pasta, stalls of iced fish and dark shelled mussels.

They visited Hediards a gourmet food market that had opened in 1854 and dedicated itself to good taste. It was pure excitement, tantalising every sense. There were the lingering aromas of coffee and spices packed in huge timber crates. The colours of the fruit and vegetables were unlike anything she had ever seen.

Hediards did not just have green asparagus; it had purple and white and miniature. It had tiny bananas, and mini apples and pears to serve with cheese. Crates of plump shiny brown dates, fruit pastes and jellies in a rainbow of colours, intensely fruity flavoured jams, caviar, smoked salmon, terrines, pates, oils, cooked chickens, soft white bread that smells of comfort, condiments and their very own Hediards biscuits that came packed in distinctive red and black metallic boxes for freshness.

Together they sampled all of this. They’d purchase tiny servings and make a picnic to share on their favourite park bench in the Jardin de Tuileries. Always to accompany it, a warm, crisp baguette from the local boulangerie; the outside toasty, tight and crackly; the inside creamy, nearly golden, never bone white, and marked with an irregular profusion of glossy bubbles and holes.

Her grandmother explained that you only needed a taste of all of these delicacies; but there was so much to taste. Chilli loved it all, the colours, the tastes, the sounds and the smells.

The food delight that she was never to forget was her first visit to Laduree, a turn of the century tea salon. It was famous for its crispy, flavoured macaroons. They came in delicious flavours of praline, coffee, chocolate, vanilla, pistachio, lemon and raspberry. Her grandmother found a table beside the window. They were to sit and take their time and savour every moment. In between, they would people watch. It was incredibly exciting.

However, the problem was that Chilli did not know which flavoured macaroon to choose. Her grandmother reminded her that they would return many more times, so to pick just one to try now. The pot of steaming hot chocolate came in a little silver teapot and when it was poured it was liquid chocolate, and the scent was pure heaven. Her first macaroon from Laduree counts as one of life’s memorable taste sensations.

*

Chilli pulled the cuff back on her black organza shirt and looked at her watch for the hundredth time. Tutting, she tried Rob’s number yet again. How ridiculous! If his meeting had gone over time, he must have some idea that she’d be getting worried by now, not to mention hungry. She shook her head, thinking that she should have insisted on catching a taxi.

Maybe she should give Sam a call and see if he had heard from his father? No, why bother him? She’d just have to wait. Surely he’d call any minute.

Further down from where she stood was a seat. She’d wait there. She repeatedly fiddled with the lock on her black patent Hermes handbag. Beautiful handbags were a love of hers. Another love inherited from her grandmother.

At her home, with the help of a furniture craftsman, she had designed a walk-in-robe for her extensive collection of beautiful handbags and shoes. Many of which had been purchased with her grandmother on their trips.

The memories were so special, the last thing she wished to do was to lock them away out of sight. And of course there was a special bank of glass fronted, shallow drawers for her scarf collection. All sorted by colour.

The shopping trips in France had been wonderful. Not that they had actually ever purchased much. They were more browsing trips or learning trips, as so much information was passed on to her during the looking.

Her grandmother would buy her a pair of shoes, a handbag and a scarf, even on the very first trip, when she was only a child of ten. These were only purchased near the end of their stay when the two of them together had looked at everything. Or it felt like everything! Her grandmother explained that she could get almost as much fun from just looking at all of the beautiful things. “Spend your time looking at quality and then only buy a few special pieces,” were her words of wisdom.

Printemps and Galleries Lafayette were absolute favourite department stores. As a young girl, it was like being Alice in Wonderland. They roamed around every department and looked at and felt all the beautiful fabrics. They viewed all of the lingerie. They admired every handbag and pair of shoes. They inhaled the fragrances of all of the perfumes. There were lessons in fine napery and quality sheets and towels.

Together they roamed Paris looking at the art galleries and antique shops, in between stopping at markets and cafes to fortify themselves; trying tasty morsels and sipping teas flavoured with rose petals. These trips were pure indulgences for both of them and Chilli just soaked it up. This was another world and she loved it. Her grandmother was a wonderful teacher in appreciating the finer things in life.

Chilli would be forever grateful for this grounding as it gave her the confidence to open her own business when she was just 26. On returning from her trips to France, her friends had been envious of her purchases. Knowing there was a need in the local market for such things, she began importing beautiful handbags, stunning shoes, racks full of scarves, exquisitely bold jewellery and dramatic accessories. After all, the French invented the word luxe, and no one did luxury goods as they did.

She started out with not much more than bold enthusiasm, retail was new to her. However, before long, appreciating texture, colour, dimension, proportion and quality became second nature to her. She was an excellent merchandiser, and with her grandmother as her mentor, she could hardly lose.

She set up ‘Celeste’s’ in Racecourse Road in the 80s and quickly established a stylish clientele. Within the first few weeks, her stock was selling almost faster than she could refill the shelves. She stayed in the tiny shop until her lease ran out and then moved down the road to larger premises and added additional French products to her stock range; at first a small collection of lingerie and then a much larger range when she saw how popular it was. Also adding beautiful fragrant French body products was so well received that they virtually walked out the door. Her merchandise was very different to anything else that was available, and her clientele appreciated her unique vision of luxury.

*

Okay this was really getting ridiculous. Chilli crossed her arms. A bit late was one thing, but this was a whole other story. She sighed loudly. She would get a taxi.

“Where to luv?” the driver asked, looking at her in the rear vision mirror.

“Oxlade Drive, New Farm please,” she said, at the same time pulling her mobile phone out of her handbag. She dialled and then exhaled heavily, waiting for Sam to pick up.

“Listen sweetie, you haven’t heard anything from your dad have you?... He was supposed to pick me up from the airport and he’s running really late... No darling, I’m already in a taxi... No his phone is ringing out and then going to message bank... Yes I’ll keep trying... You know him, always late... Okay I’ll give you a call when I finally hear from him... Bye.”

Sitting further back on the seat, she couldn’t help but wonder what was so important he couldn’t call her. Thank goodness the taxi driver wasn’t a chatterbox, she wasn’t in the mood for small talk.

“This your street lady?”

“Yes, thank you. Turn left into the easement beside the tennis court,” she instructed.

The taxi driver gave a slow whistle. “Well, some people are very lucky?”

“Yes, they are.” That was the second time she’d heard that tonight.