Page 20 of The Wandering Season
“Do we really have to leave the village today? We’ve barely seen it.”
I stared at the red compact car with low-grade contempt. I sounded like a whiny teenager, but the previous day’s travels from Ireland had been exhausting enough that I would have been happy just to stay in Beynac and wander the little maze of streets for a few hours and relax in the cottage with the rest of the bakery haul and a book.
“This is a one-day-only opportunity. If we miss it, we won’t have another chance this trip. Trust me, you won’t be sorry.”
I took my spot in the passenger seat with an overly dramatic sigh, and Niall slid behind the wheel, giving me a comforting pat on the knee before he started the engine. “Less than an hour, and you’ll be glad we did it. I promise.”
He’d not given me reason to doubt before now, so I tried to let go of the angst I’d been carrying all morning. The muted colors of January did nothing to dull the beauty of the Aquitaine morning, and the conversation flowed freely as Niall confidently maneuvered the car along the winding two-lane highways.
We arrived at the outskirts of a larger town and left the car behind. Niall grabbed the market basket from the back seat, which I hadn’t even seen him stow, and he offered me his hand as we walked toward the center of town. His fingers interlocked with mine, like two halves of a whole.
He led us to the town square that was lined with market stalls filled to brimming with all manner of produce, meat, fish, and artisanal foods. The booths were teeming with customers keenly assessing the ripeness of the produce and the freshness of the meat. The chilly January air didn’t deter the loyal crowds in search of the best ingredients for their meals. “Welcome to Périgueux, Mademoiselle Stratton . . . home of one of the finest gourmet markets in France and, consequently, the world. I thought you’d like the opportunity to do some, well, market research. All puns intended. I didn’t figure you’d mind mixing business and pleasure.”
I squeezed his hand. “Absolutely not, especially when my business is pleasure. Food should never be just about fuel. It should delight all the senses when it can.”
“I can agree with that. So show me the market through the eyes of a food matchmaker. What are you looking for?”
I found the muscles that had knotted in my neck start to loosen as I got out of my own head and into business mode. “The best plan is not to have a plan at all. Go and see who’s growing what. What’s growing well. Who’s come up with a creative new bottled sauce or spice blend. It may dictate where I source my tomatoes for that season or whether I steer my clients away from a bad year for snow peas.”
“So what if your clients have their hearts set on, let’s say, raspberries for a recipe they’re famous for and you can’t find any worth having?”
“I try to encourage restaurateurs to have constantly evolving menus so that precise thing doesn’t happen. I have a client who makes a strawberry mousse charlotte russe, and I won’t eat it nine months out of the year because they use frozen berries in the offseason.”
He grimaced, as if the idea were a blasphemy in the face of the bountiful produce that surrounded us. “And they won’t listen.”
“No. It’s always best in June when they can get berries from Colorado farms too. If it were my restaurant, I’d literally only ever serve it when the berries were local and in their prime. I’ve tried to get them to experiment using different fruits so it can be an all-year dish with seasonal variations, but they’re worried their loyal patrons will be disappointed not to see “Strawberry Charlotte”
front and center on the dessert menu. I’ve said those same patrons will come weekly when it is on book so they can get their fill. And there will be a subset of their patrons who think the strawberry is fine but have always wished they’d offer cherry in the late summer or apple cinnamon in the fall. And all the most decadent flavors, like chocolate mocha, for winter.”
“It’s a shame they don’t listen.”
“Yep. And their Yelp reviews on the Strawberry Charlotte dip in the winter and spike in the summer. Plenty of ‘it’s just not as good as the last time I went in, but not bad’ sort of reviews. They think people can’t taste the difference between fresh and frozen, but they can—even if they don’t know why it’s different. I can’t tell you the amount of data I’ve shown them to back it up.”
I stopped by a booth with locally scavenged truffles, the famed Périgord black, in small cloth-lined wicker baskets. The prices were high enough to make my eyes pop from their sockets yet more reasonable than those we imported to the States. Despite the constraints of my budget, their earthy aroma of rich leather, cocoa, and autumn leaves beckoned, and I found myself at the booth with the other patrons who were agonizing over buying a few ounces of truffles to add to their evening pasta.
Niall peered over my shoulder. “This is one of the few weeks when the truffle vendors show up, and it was one of the reasons I wanted to come. Curious things, truffles. Good flavor, but I never quite understood the obsession.”
“I’ve been truffle hunting in Oregon. One of the weirdest experiences of my life. It’s a cult. But it’s a flavor like no other, if you know what you’re doing.”
I longed to pick up one of the samples, to smell it and feel it in my fingers, but I feared such behavior from someone who didn’t intend to purchase would probably get me thrown out of the Périgueux market in perpetuity.
“And I imagine you do. Given an unlimited budget, which truffle would you choose and what would you use it for?”
The question was asked with the same note of dreaminess that one imbued the question, what would you do if you won the lottery? Though given the prices, it was just a variation on the same question.
I stared at the array of baskets and felt my culinary muse flex her interwoven fingers as she readied herself for the creative exercise. I discreetly gestured to a particularly fine specimen of black winter truffle. It wasn’t overly large, but it had the rich black-purple color and the characteristic coating of bumps. A cross-section would reveal a vast network of white veins creating intricate pathways that nourished the truffle in life and were conduits of flavor in harvest.
“That lovely one, just there. I’d find the best marbled filet mignon in the region, aged and tender, broiled to medium rare in cast iron. I’d top the steak with fresh butter infused with black truffle oil. And that beautiful fresh truffle there? I’d just barely warm it in a skillet to release the flavors before arranging it on top of the whole thing. I’d pair it with duchesse potatoes and sautéed Brussels sprouts. To drink, I’d go for a low-acid red to avoid undermining the truffle. Maybe a Chateauneuf-du-Pape or a C?tes du Rh?ne if the vintage is right.”
Niall’s eyes locked with mine and I realized I’d been prattling. “Um, sorry. I got carried away.”
“I swear by all I hold dear, I’ve never heard anything more incredible in my whole life. We have a decent kitchen at our disposal at the cottage, so let’s make the most of it. I promise to be a worthy and obedient sous-chef.”
I snickered. “The idea of you following orders with a ‘Yes, Chef”
or ‘No, Chef’ sounds fun at least.”
He set a hand on my shoulder. “I’m perfectly serious. We are surrounded by some of the most incredible ingredients in all of France in this very square. Let’s see what you can do with them.”
It was a challenge, and one I wouldn’t shrink from. “Very well then, are you willing to mortgage Blackthorn for a few ounces of truffle?”
“If I must, but I don’t think we’ll need to.”
He gestured to the vendor, who approached us with a warm smile. To my surprise Niall spoke to him in better-than-respectable accented French, far better than my own. Apparently Irish schools took foreign language learning more seriously than my American one had done. And I had to think living within a reasonable distance of France had been a boon as well.
The vendor gestured for me to pick up any truffles I was interested in so I might sample their aroma. They were organized by the area in the region where they’d been scavenged, separated into small clusters that had been harvested on the same excursion. I held to my nose a few samples, all wonderfully aromatic and excavated at the perfect moment of maturity, then went for the particular truffle that had caught my eye earlier. The scent was deeper, somehow, conveying notes of toasted chestnut and browned butter with a slight hint of garlic.
“Yep, this one,”
I said to Niall.
The vendor gave an approving nod. “Excellent choice. One of my better finds this year.”
He took one of the smaller morsels from the same basket and cut off two-paper thin slices. Niall and I each placed a slice on our tongue and took in the flavors as it dissolved. Sheer bliss as the chestnut and browned butter morphed into an earthy cocoa as they faded away.
Niall reached for his wallet. “We’ll have the one the lady wants, then. And don’t tempt me further or I’ll buy the whole blasted basketful and have to rely on my mother’s invitations for supper for the next six months if I want to eat again.”
At this, the vendor cracked a genuine smile. He weighed the truffle, wrapped it in cloth, and accepted Niall’s payment in bright-colored euros. A hefty sum but less than a quarter of what I’d seen restaurateurs in Denver pay for lesser specimens.
“I’ll get the filet,”
I promised as we thanked the truffle vendor and continued on to the rest of the market. “That was very generous of you.”
He waved his hand. “Only if you insist. My pay might not be princely, but I’ve no rent to pay and few bills to chip away at it. It’ll be a treat to see you really let your hair down in the kitchen. The ravioli you made still haunts my dreams, but I’m eager to see what you can do with more time and the culinary world at your fingertips.”
I felt a tingling sensation on my scalp, the sort that always accompanied inspiration. “It’s been a long time since I really let loose in the kitchen. I’m usually haunting everyone else’s, so I don’t bother so much with my own.”
He took my hand in his. “A capital shame that, but we’ll put it to rights soon. You’ve the heart of a chef, Veronica.”
“A cook at any rate. And that’s good enough.”
Niall looked like he wanted to protest but seemingly thought better of it.
We wandered from stall to stall, buying what we’d need for the meal, especially lingering over the butcher’s stall to select the best filets the vendor had to offer. We found Brussels sprouts still on the stalk, artisanal truffle oil, sumptuous potatoes that met with Niall’s stringent standards, and even a booth selling plump vanilla pods I could use to infuse the cream for dessert. I spoke to several of the stall keepers about unique products my clients might like and collected some business cards.
As we walked along, if Niall’s hand wasn’t in mine, it would find its way to the small of my back or my shoulder. It was something Jonathan had never done, being averse to even minimal public displays of affection. The only time he made an exception was when we were at a work event, and he offered me his arm like I was a trophy wife. Or a casual arm drape around the shoulders if I ran into a male client who was under the age of sixty when we were out together.
Whether the purpose was making himself look good at work or giving other men a subtle hint to keep away, the message was clear: She’s mine.
It wasn’t the same with Niall. The gesture meant I’m here, and I’m glad you are too.
For the briefest of moments, my chest was a band of fire as regret crushed down on me. Niall had shown me how I wanted a relationship to feel. He’d given me a glimpse into the easy rapport and the small joys of complementary interests.
But his life was rooted in Blackthorn.
Mine in Denver with my family and my bourgeoning business.
The more I considered the impossibility of it, the more I wanted to dash back to the car in tears. But I wouldn’t give in to the impulse and ruin what little time we had together. I pushed against the band of ice constricting around my chest and forced myself to breathe.