The Pairing(28)

Behind the counter, a strong-nosed brunette in coveralls heaves fish onto the bar, wrapping and weighing and taking orders in a crisp, friendly voice. A man lobs a question at her; she punctuates her answer with the crunchy thump of her cleaver on the chopping block.

“That’s her,” Kit says unnecessarily.

When the crowd clears, the fishmonger cleans her hands and turns to us, addressing Kit in French. I understand just enough of Kit’s response to know he’s telling her I don’t speak the language.

“Ah.” The fishmonger switches effortlessly to English, confident but with a light, unplaceable accent. “Sorry, I didn’t think you were American!”

“Thank you,” I say, meaning it. “You’re very good at your job.”

“I’ve had this job since I was twelve. I very much hope I’m good at it by now.” She grins, flashing a gap between her front teeth. “He says you’re on a food and wine tour? What will you eat in Saint-Jean-de-Luz?”

“Lunch is at a restaurant in a hotel on the Grande Plage,” I say. “Do you know it? It has a Michelin star.”

“Ah, Le Brouillarta.” She does a begrudging frown of approval, and I get the sense that nothing short of a fresh-caught fish roasted by a local grandmother would have satisfied her. “And where will you go after you leave here?”

We take her through the destinations ahead. Along the coast and over the Spanish border to San Sebastián, across Spain to Barcelona, back up to the southern coast of France and east until we hit Nice and Monaco. After that, it’s Italy the rest of the way: Cinque Terre and Pisa on the northwest coast, inland to Florence, south through Tuscany to a villa in Chianti and on to Rome, further south to Naples, and a ferry to Palermo for the final stop. By the time we’re done, she releases a French swear so colorful it surprises a laugh out of Kit.

“Lucky bastards!” she says, patting her stomach through her coveralls. “My mother was born in Barcelona. I’ll tell you where to go.” She goes on to describe in detail, with total confidence, the precise and mandatory experience we are to have in Barcelona. The only bar for vermouth, the only tapería for patatas bravas. “And then, if you like pastry—do you like pastry?”

“I do,” Kit says.

“He’s a pastry chef in Paris,” I add.

Kit casts me a look, his eyes bright and curious. “And Theo is a sommelier.”

Finally, we’ve impressed her. She leans over a bin of pearly anchovies, examining us with renewed interest, before concluding, “I like you.”

I’m not easily thrown off my game, but something about her keen gray stare makes my face warm. Kit’s elbow nudges mine.

“So few travelers respect food and drink the way they should!” she goes on. “Oh, you must see the port, where we buy our fish. I can show you after the market closes, if you want? My name is Paloma, by the way.”

Which is how we leave Les Halles with two pounds of cherries, a hunk of fromage, and directions to meet a sexy fishmonger named Paloma at sunset.


“I’m gonna be honest,” I say. “I love a menu that’s just a list of nouns.”

Kit and I are sitting together in Le Brouillarta, soaking in the ocean breeze through the open window as I study the menu. Lobster cake. Bergamot, mint, cucumber, and citrus. Foie gras. Smoked eel, chanterelles.

“You could be ordering anything. Look at the tuna—leek, fir, marigold! Is it a dish? Is it a community garden? Is it a candle? Do words mean things? Can’t wait to find out.”

The smile tugging at Kit’s mouth makes something flare in me.

“You said the wine yesterday smelled like worn saddle, right?” he says.

“Honestly, it was more like assless chaps. I was being polite. Why?”

“Illuminating, is all.” He doesn’t begrudge me for it. We’re the same way about food.

Kit and I have always shared a need to know what we’re getting into. Kit takes leaps, once he’s confident he can control how he’ll land. I generally prefer the ground. But what’s on the plate—what’s in the glass, what melts into the palate, what plays nicely together in the pan—that’s where we both like to be surprised.

It started with Del Taco.

We were ten, and I was sure an American fast food cultural education would help Kit fit in. That was the fall my sisters got their first gig together, so I was having all my dinners with Kit. One afternoon when his mom asked what we wanted, I said, “Miss Violette, can we get burritos?”

Frankly, Del Taco isn’t even good. But I watched Kit across the back seat as he took that first bite and slipped into another dimension. One mediocre mouthful of refried beans and he was hooked on discovery. He had to know what other wild and astonishing shit was out there. We worked our way through every shape of french fry at every major fast-food chain, until Kit’s mom told us we were frying our taste buds with American sodium and plonked a pot of coq au vin in front of us. Then it was my turn to be astonished.

While my sisters were making a divorce drama with Willem Dafoe, I was at Kit’s house, discovering French cuisine. Kit’s mom was a garden fairy, a kitchen witch, and everything she cooked was some great-great-grandmother’s jealously guarded recipe. She introduced me to the five mother sauces, let me caramelize onions at her stove, and made what I still think of as the platonic ideal of b?uf bourguignon.