"Bienvenue à ma maison!"
Those were the first words my father-in-law said to me the moment I stepped out of his car after an hour and a half of soaking in the sights along the French autoroute starting from Lyon-Saint Exupéry airport. The air was fresh and cool, you would agree too had your feet felt the terracotta tiles on the ground. Not that I was barefoot. A pair of house slippers were waiting for me in the bedroom. Still, I could feel the coldness of the ground wearing them.
That was June six years ago, when I couldn't understand 95% of what I heard around me. Most of what I learned back then I did with my eyes. I remembered faces and places, really, short of sounding like the Beatles' song: JL's immediate family, close family friends who are family too, his best friend, wife and children, one of whom JL is godfather to.
I watched the simplicity of having family and friends around, spending the day talking about everything under the sun, even taking naps at the corner if one wishes so. I followed everywhere JL went as he followed everywhere his father went: the bakery, the deli, the florist, the tabac shop for newspapers. Everywhere. The French really kiss a lot, I thought to myself. Even men greeted each other with a touching of cheeks and pats on their backs with varying strengths, as if a sum of how long since you last saw each other and how much you love the other person. But all done naturally, quietly, and absolutely without exaggeration.
Those were the first words my father-in-law said to me the moment I stepped out of his car after an hour and a half of soaking in the sights along the French autoroute starting from Lyon-Saint Exupéry airport. The air was fresh and cool, you would agree too had your feet felt the terracotta tiles on the ground. Not that I was barefoot. A pair of house slippers were waiting for me in the bedroom. Still, I could feel the coldness of the ground wearing them.
That was June six years ago, when I couldn't understand 95% of what I heard around me. Most of what I learned back then I did with my eyes. I remembered faces and places, really, short of sounding like the Beatles' song: JL's immediate family, close family friends who are family too, his best friend, wife and children, one of whom JL is godfather to.
I watched the simplicity of having family and friends around, spending the day talking about everything under the sun, even taking naps at the corner if one wishes so. I followed everywhere JL went as he followed everywhere his father went: the bakery, the deli, the florist, the tabac shop for newspapers. Everywhere. The French really kiss a lot, I thought to myself. Even men greeted each other with a touching of cheeks and pats on their backs with varying strengths, as if a sum of how long since you last saw each other and how much you love the other person. But all done naturally, quietly, and absolutely without exaggeration.
After a day out at the boulangerie to pick up a couple of baguette, and the deli where we spent much time chatting while waiting for a sizeable order which my mother-in-law had placed a day earlier, we arrived back at the house only to see an old lady who lived a few doors away walking past our gate. She spoke briefly to JL and the then-boyfriend introduced his not-so-regular-looking girlfriend to her. I greeted her the French style. A few lines later she continued her way home.
"Why did you kiss her?" JL asked.
"Well isn't that how you guys do it? I mean, man, you guys even kiss the butcher!"
"That's because the butcher is our relative!"
Errrr. Okay.
Observation aside, I also learned much by tasting. Like the evening the lovely Monique and Maurice came over for dinner, also invited for great company was JL's godfather Jojo. That was the first time I met all of them. We had dinner out at the terrace overlooking the garden. It was getting late and I had difficulty staying alert. Until the mother-in-law brought out dessert. Or shall I say, desserts.
"Why did you kiss her?" JL asked.
"Well isn't that how you guys do it? I mean, man, you guys even kiss the butcher!"
"That's because the butcher is our relative!"
Errrr. Okay.
Observation aside, I also learned much by tasting. Like the evening the lovely Monique and Maurice came over for dinner, also invited for great company was JL's godfather Jojo. That was the first time I met all of them. We had dinner out at the terrace overlooking the garden. It was getting late and I had difficulty staying alert. Until the mother-in-law brought out dessert. Or shall I say, desserts.
Did your eyes go straight to that large bowl on the table? Mine certainly did. This was 9:30pm late spring. I enjoyed every course that JL's parents brought out (the kitchen is on the right) and still couldn't believe it was a "simple meal at home". But the one that really blew me away was the mousse au chocolat. While they continued their four simultaneous conversations, I happily swept raspberries from the garden with every spoonful of chocolate mousse on my plate. The ice-cream cake (brought by Monique) and lemon meringue tart (made by JL's mum as well)? I saved those for the next day's lunch.
At home, I make individual servings of the mousse for several reasons: it's just the two of us and we can never finish the entire bowl at one go; smaller fixed portions keep us under control; prevents contamination; and for easy storage especially when the fridge is really full. Besides, doing so allows instant variations to it: to top with whipped cream, strawberries, raspberries, mint, or a combination of these? But this is no child's play. Chocolate mousse is serious business because nobody likes to be force-fed a screwed up version of it. Spike it with whiskey, Cointreau or Grand Marnier and a little more for good measure and this will help loosen one's inhibitions to talk about almost anything.
The chocolate. How can one talk about chocolate mousse without a paragraph on chocolate alone? Anthony Bourdain writes that his "pastry chef at Les Halles always insists - and I mean insists - on expensive Valrhona chocolate". It is very true what he says: use second-rate chocolate, get second-rate mousse. While one doesn't always have easy access to Valrhona, there will always be a "best" chocolate one can find around town. For my in-laws, there is only one such shop a 15-minute drive away -- THE Valrhona factory in Tain-l'Hermitage, where all the Valrhona products come from. How convenient, eh?
Before you label me a snob, allow me to explain that Valrhona is only as expensive as the airmiles it has clocked. It is undoubtedly expensive in America and the Far East. That's because someone else has taken a cut somewhere between you and the factory. It is also human tendency to yearn for what is unattainable. Like when you're in Boston and wishing for even a bowl of mediocre Katong laksa; or in Valence and yet fantasizing about tonkotsu ramen. The problem with most of us is we don't appreciate what is immediately around us let alone make the best of it. Isn't it true?
For example, if I had shared my adaptation of Bourdain's recipe here, you would just scroll through it. But by not doing so, you are more likely to Google it now. In any case, let me know if you really want it and the internet fails you. I'd be happy to share.
Before you label me a snob, allow me to explain that Valrhona is only as expensive as the airmiles it has clocked. It is undoubtedly expensive in America and the Far East. That's because someone else has taken a cut somewhere between you and the factory. It is also human tendency to yearn for what is unattainable. Like when you're in Boston and wishing for even a bowl of mediocre Katong laksa; or in Valence and yet fantasizing about tonkotsu ramen. The problem with most of us is we don't appreciate what is immediately around us let alone make the best of it. Isn't it true?
For example, if I had shared my adaptation of Bourdain's recipe here, you would just scroll through it. But by not doing so, you are more likely to Google it now. In any case, let me know if you really want it and the internet fails you. I'd be happy to share.
