In Search of Dessert

A few months ago, something amazing happened. The mother of our landlady invited us to dinner. This was sort of a badge of honor, to have been acknowledged, singled out, and then invited; this was was downright neighborly of her. I was a little nervous, because behind Gigi’s wrinkle-flecked smiling invitation, there was an alternative motive. She also wanted to pin Jon and I down in her presence so that she could sufficiently probe us for gossip-worthy stories and appraise our odd quirks. I know this, because I once gardened with her and I heard juicy gossip about every single one of ours neighbors, except for the  two of us. She found out I was American, and that I don’t eat meat or potatoes, and a week later she’s knocking on our door. Note to self for solidifying neighborly relations: If normal socializing takes a bit longer than back home, speed up the process by just being myself  – "that bizarre American" – more entertainment for their curiosity than dinner-guest.

Last Friday night -because yes, she asked us a few months ago for this Friday night – Jon and I locked our door, slipped the keys into our pockets and then walked down the flight of stairs. Gigi, all four and a half feet of her, met us at the door and ushered us quickly into the kitchen. She paused, just in the hallway before it, and left us standing while she went to press her nose against the living room window. Satisfied that nothing untoward was going on in the streets, she pushed us on into the kitchen, which was full of overlapping knick-knacks, and overlapping smells of smoke, dog, and garlic. The kitchen is a tiny thing, with a table, two chairs, and a bench against the wall. Once I’d scrunched in behind the table, there really was no going anywhere for the night.

Gigi and her daughter, who is probably near fifty now, bustled around in front of us, finishing dinner. Both women live on the same floor below us but in separate apartments. Both of their husbands have died in the last five years and now they live next door to one another. Gigi rarely leaves the premises. In a year, I’ve seen her in the garden plenty of times, but I’ve never her seen her walk through the gate, though she’s perfectly able. Martine ventures slightly further out, but she’s vocal about her dislike of the "big" city. Like a cat who has a natural territory, and a line it won’t cross while wandering, Martine goes between the bar on the first floor for all of her socializing, the kiosk at the end of the street for her cigarettes, and the grocery store that’s just slightly out of eye-view. Martine is at her mother’s everyday, until she needs a nap at 4pm, and then Martine is free to go down to the bar for the rest of the evening. This is how they get on with life. In front of us in the kitchen, neither of them spoke to each other, but their rhythm was so well-defined, so engraved through years of quotidinial actions that I imagine they carry on many conversations without saying much. More like an old married couple than mother and daughter.

Martine never speaks about her husband; she’s rather on the quiet side. Gigi is the exact opposite. Without prompting, mid-way through the vat of spaghetti in pesto, she decided to tell us the entire story of her husband’s death. Jon and I kept chewing, wide-eyed, as she went on about how he had told her the same morning that he knew he was going to die, hitched up his overalls, and went out to the yard. That afternoon they found him. She then let out a string of expletives about the local police force, and thus set the tone for the rest of the meal. Gigi had something to say about everyone. In fact, it quickly became apparent that she knew everyone. Over the second course, which was a pork curry number, we figured out that she even knew Jonathan’s grand-mother.  I was suddenly really glad that I’m not from this town, and I wondered if Jonathan was squirming beside me. I should have known. Most of the time I see her in the garden, she’s surrounded by the local "equipe" of worker-men. They can’t get enough of her. She has a fiery, wise-cracking, 100% direct character, and on top of that, she’s funny as hell. She’s funny like she should be a stand up comedian at 86 funny. I’d buy first row tickets to that show, which is basically what these men have every-time they stop by to see her.

Sometime after the cooked peas and broccoli, the windows were shut and the chain smoking commenced.  It was perfectly nice outside, but the dog, who’d been at Gigi’s side the entire meal, taking all the morsels she fed him, apparently didn’t want the breeze. I don’t smoke anymore, but I was smoking that night – whether I wanted to or not. Fodder for future gossiping, Gigi discovered that I’ve never skied, that I don’t drink wine and that my favorite hobby is boxing. Real boxing. Honestly, she was more shocked that I don’t drink wine, than that I hit people for fun.

Eventually the night wound down. Martine had to walk the dog, brush the dog, and feed the dog (the curry pork, chocolate cookies and vial of cream weren’t enough?). We schooched ourselves out of the bench and into the hallway, where Gigi had to stop again to peer through the curtains. Then she ushered us out the door, but now without first extending me the invitation to come into her garden of my own accord – to use it like my own to read a book or lay-out. Now I was really shocked. I’m like, officially accepted or something? Or, did she figure that if she lured into the garden she could probably put my boxing arms to work? Gigi’s a smart one. I’m thinking it’s a little bit of both.

Honestly, the two of them are quite the pair. It was such a wonderful evening, despite the weird food combination and the smoke poisoning. They are very real, simple, and uncluttered people. They are fantastic, and I felt really honored – for both of us- that we’d been invited. Now we just have to invite them back. I’m thinking if I ask her next week, we’ll probably be able to pin down a date for August.