Once a week I while away my afternoons under the old fort of Grenoble, the Bastille. Sitting in the shade of the Café Cymaise, bordered on one side by the river, the part that roils and turns under a pedestrian suspension bridge, I listen. To the other side is the old Italian quarter, always noisy with the bike tires rolling over cobblestones. A single street squeezed on both sides by 5 story residential buildings leads through the shadows of a street that only sees light at midday. Continuing, I would reach the crypte of Saint Laurent, a Romanesque church like any other on the outside, a catacombs on the inside, emptied of pews and open to the bones underneath.
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But I’m not often at the crypte. I am at the café overlooking the river, in the shadow of a mountain, discussing life with my English student protégé Denis. Seventy years old, yet as spry as many forty year olds I’ve seen in the US, Denis talks about his mountain biking trips, the badger in his garden, and paragliding.
We found each other online, on the French version of Craigslist. He was looking for an English teacher, as his former one had left town. In preparations for a summer trip to Wales, he suggested weekly meetings. Since the first meeting, we have gone through several cafés, but no matter the location, our two hours always goes the same way. Denis is prepared for conversation. He opens his notebook, full of questions — or his current favorite, English insults. We spend a few minutes discussing the week, perhaps a David Sedaris book, then turn to his notes. When conversational fodder diminishes, we go to the topic that calls to us both, our preferred interest in life. It’s not our families, though we do often talk about them. No, these favorite conversations always revolve around food.
We are both avid foodies and constantly discuss kitchen terminology and traditionally anglo-saxon meals. Twice now we have taken cooking classes together. The singular moment from the sessions : whilst making a communal bowl of melon soup, with the other 3 students, our instructor told me to add a bit of port to the mixture… Only I failed to understand the French word she was using. I mimicked a movement and threw in a huge glug. Even as the port was flowing, the mouths of those around me opened wider than a split cantaloupe. Needless to say, I was taken off any duties that required adding “to taste” after that incident.
Denis and I talk a lot about macarons. He’ll mention the best macaronier in town, which I will subsequently visit. Our second cooking class together was the art of macarons. Before the class, I had tried to create them myself… an utter failure. In class, the success was resounding. I marcroned perfect circles, even sized evenly placed, I filled them with chocolate chantilly, and I ate the bites of heaven. I haven’t tried on my own, but Denis has… and his latest batch will be ready for a taste test for our meeting next Tuesday.
