‘Yes, you could make the salad and lay the table.’
‘You don’t want to eat at the breakfast bar?’
‘Non! In France we sit and eat, to enjoy our food.’ He turned. ‘How can you relax properly, perched like a bird?’
She giggled at his mock-horrified expression.
‘There are tablecloths and napkins in the dresser. The silver is in the drawers.’ He pointed with the corkscrew. She had a feeling that suggesting forgoing the tablecloth and using kitchen roll instead of napkins would not go down well, even though it was only the two of them.
The heavy linen tablecloth and matching hemstitched napkins were of the finest quality and it really was silver in the drawers, the knives and forks nestled in a velvet-lined wooden canteen. Hattie spread the cloth over the table, taking pleasure in the crisp, pressed fabric. Deciding that she might as well go the whole hog, even though it was only the two of them, and do things properly, she found a couple of raffia placemats and some pretty coloured wooden napkin rings along with a couple of votive glasses with tea lights.
In the meantime, Luc had poured their wine into two beautiful crystal glasses. ‘Wow, these are gorgeous.’ She said pinging the glass with a finger and listening to the chime.
‘They were a wedding present to Marthe’s grandmother.’
Hattie’s eyes widened and she put the glass down gingerly. ‘God, I’d hate to break one.’ She felt slightly nervous.
Luc shrugged and took a healthy sip of his wine. ‘What is the point of drinking good wine in inferior glasses? It is part of the enjoyment, to appreciate good things. ‘Mmm, taste this. Full-bodied, buttery and honeyed.’
It seemed quite decadent to Hattie to drink from something so fine, although she had to admit, picking the glass up, her fingers grazing the long stem, that the glass was one of the most beautiful she’d ever seen. And the wine wasn’t bad either. She took another sip, her lips touching the delicate glass rim of the glass, feeling the weight of the crystal in her hand. Something settled within her, a gentle nudge of happiness in using something lovely and tasting the rather wonderful wine. Maybe there was something to his view.
‘What do you think?’
‘It’s really nice,’ said Hattie. ‘Although I don’t know anything about wine.’
Luc began frying lardons in a cast-iron skillet, cracking eggs and weighing flour, like a one-man tornado. Despite his speed, he seemed supremely organised, moving quickly and methodically as he pointed to a white patterned bowl. ‘If you could put the salad leaves in there.’
Again it struck her just how self-sufficient he was.
She selected the three different salad leaves he’d bought, romaine lettuce, some lambs lettuce and curly endive, put them on a chopping board and reached to grab a knife from the block.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Chopping the lettuce.’
He took the knife from her hand. ‘Never use a knife on lettuce.’
‘There are rules?’
He grinned. ‘In France, there are always rules when it comes to food. You must do it properly. With lettuce, always tear it, into bite-size pieces. You can make a vinaigrette?’ he asked with a teasing smile.
‘I’ve always thought so,’ said Hattie a little unnerved by this attention to mere lettuce leaves. ‘Mustard, vinegar and oil.’
‘Two teaspoons Dijon, six large spoons of oil and two of red wine vinegar.’
‘Yes boss,’ she said in response to the very precise ratios. She normally just chucked it all in a cup and gave it a good stir, which she realised as he handed her a tiny whisk and a little porcelain bowl was obviously not right either.
While she was making the salad and dressing she kept half an eye on Luc, who seemed to be making something that was a cross between a Yorkshire pudding and a pancake. He poured the thick batter into another skillet and left it to fry for a few minutes, lifting the edge periodically to make sure it wasn’t sticking. At some point he’d dashed out to collect some herbs from the garden and chopped the bright green chives into small pieces, which he sprinkled over the batter along with the pre-cooked lardons and several grinds of dark black pepper and a twist of salt before he put the pan into the oven to finish it off.
When they sat down at the table, the candles glowing, her wrists grazing the crisp linen and her nose filled with the delicious smell of bacon, egg and herbs, she had to admit it felt good. Very good indeed. Although she couldn’t describe it as pressure – that would do the relaxed atmosphere a disservice – there was obvious anticipation around the food. When she took a bite of the simplematafan, she closed her eyes and groaned. The salty bite of the lardons contrasted perfectly with the simplicity of the light fluffy batter.
‘That is so good. I’ve never heard of it before.’
‘Good, hearty peasant food. Perfect after a hard day in the vines. In some places it’s served with apples and cinnamon but I prefer a savoury version like this.’
‘And so simple. It took you no time at all to make. I thought French food was always very fancy.’
He shook his head. ‘I like food, and if you’re going to eat, it should be the best quality, but I don’t necessarily like to cook or spend a long time in the kitchen unless it is at the table. I think that is the way with most French people unless you are a chef, then you do fancy.’
