Ava Fodor is a slightly plump, frizzy-haired nineteen-year-old American au pair in Paris who struggles with being less than perfect. Jean-Michel is Ava's fussy, exacting first French boyfriend whose provincialism drives her up the wall yet who educa...
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Huitres à volonté, or as many oysters as you can eat, washed down with Sancerre, a dry white wine made from the Sauvignon Blanc grape from France's Loire Valley, was one of my favorite summertime meals in Paris. It was all protein and booze – two of my favorite food groups. I'd changed over the past ten years. Smoked salmon, pâté, deviled eggs, and other savory delicacies had taken the place of pastries in my heart. My new food choices didn't lead me down the road of overindulgence. I was learning to eat like a French person – well, but in small quantities.
A breeze rustled our hair as Arnaud and I stood on the sidewalk outside Café de la Bastille. Sunday evening had arrived, seemingly a split second after we'd parted early Saturday morning.
"Do you like oysters?" Arnaud asked, kissing me carefully once on each cheek. He stared at my mouth as if reminding me not to forget where else we'd recently kissed.
"I like all seafood. My family's from Maine," I told him. Oysters didn't come from Maine, but eating all types of shellfish was practically a requirement for living there. You weren't a true Down Easter if you didn't.
"From Maine? Is that where your Mayflower ancestors ended up?'
I nodded. I'd told him a bit about my mother's side of the family over dinner two nights earlier. He seemed to know a lot about American culture. I'd bet he'd spent time there, but I wasn't going to ask. It interested me more to let Arnaud set the pace for revealing himself to me. "What do you eat them with?" I asked.
"Lemon juice. That's it."
"Sounds delicious." Nothing could resemble a classic WASP summer dish more – something simple that required minimal fuss, other than shucking the oysters out of their shells, which someone else would do.
"I want to watch you eat oysters," he said, setting off butterflies in my stomach.
"Then Allons-y. Let's go," I replied, making a note to eat oysters like Catherine Deneuve would, not like a girl from New England.
We made our way to the seafood restaurant and sat outside. Arnaud ordered a bottle of Gerard Boulay Sancerre Chavignol, commanding the waiter's instant respect. His deference gave me pause. It occurred to me Arnaud was bien-élevé, well raised. With a last name that included a "de," was he well born or as the French put it, de bonne famille? While I ruminated I watched the small, dark man shucking oysters at a station tucked under the restaurant terrace's dark green and white canopy.
In a minute, our dishes arrived. I sampled my first oyster, followed by a sip of light, crisp Sancerre. Heaven. For the first time, I really understood what the French obsession with correct food and drink combinations was all about.
"I'd like to ask you something," Arnaud said, his expression serious.
"What?" My spine tingled.
"I'm going to my country house next weekend. Would you join me?"
I felt my eyes widen, his gaze dissolving my will to say anything but yes. Yes, yes, and yes. I just couldn't bring myself to say it aloud. Finally, I spoke.
