je sais tu

The smells alone transported us to France. Hot cheese, baking bread, a mingling of herbs and fresh produce, it was all just so quintessential France. They didn't have to tell us that they imported all their ingredients from France, their flours and sugars, their salts and herbs, we could smell evidence of their locale immediately as the door opened.

The grouchy woman behind the counter made us a baguette sandwich, and it was truly a baguette. It was only puffy in the middle, with a big oval dent where it resisted rising anymore. The ends were pinched in and pointed, the color of the bread was a dirty grey and the crust was thick and dense. Inside though, it was soft and airy, the dough lightly pounded to leave in pockets of air.

Diane was there to do business with the caterer and she came out to speak to us. She spoke decent English, but it was evident that she was new to our language, for it was twisted and gnarled with pauses, wonderings and many miscalculated words. Whenever she fumbled over a word, she quickly smiled and sometimes laughed. She was absolutely enchanting. She wore clothes that I'd never seen on anyone else, down to her shoes and eyeglasses. Her glasses were name brand (of course) but they were a soft raspberry in clunky frames that suited her face perfectly.

Most of the time when I accompany Diane on her many tasks and errands, no one ever speaks to me. No one includes me. No one talks to me. No one wonders who I am. Diane takes charge of them and they pick up on the subtle clues that I have nothing to do with what is actually going on.

This woman, however, was compelled to figure me out and even included me in the conversation, which ran the menu gamut from appetizers to dessert* and never once treated me like I didn't exist. She even wondered if she had met me before today, perhaps we had seen her there before, or perhaps we had met somewhere else. I admitted that I seem familiar to many people. She asked me my name, but that did not ring a bell. As we were leaving she asked, "Can you remember for me your name?"

I remembered my name for her and asked hers. Neither of us had asked her name. As Americans, a name is something private, almost personal, a way of connecting someone to you. Anonymity is the beginning of indifference.

"Elodie," she said, in a deeply happy way, and she gave us her business card and wished us well, and we left feeling delighted by her countenance.

[* le menu: asparagus mousse in martini glasses, vegetable brochettes (French ka-babs), a cheese plate, brazillian paella with shrimp, chicken and coconut milk in clear plastic cones (like ice cream cones but not edible), crepe brochettes with fresh fruit and mini cakes.)