Oil and Vinegar

Oil and Vinegar

Spotting Monsieur Deschamps waiting on the platform as we pull into the Limoges station, I’m tempted to slip back into the crowd and pretend I missed the train. Too late. I’m shoved onto the platform by excited passengers. Monsieur Deschamps raises a hand halfway when he spies me, like a kid who doesn’t want to be seen by the professor, and takes a drag from his cigarette in the other.

“Bienvenue,” he says in a flat voice, surveying me before reaching for my bag. I’ve been his kids’ au pair for two months, but he still treats me like a stranger. He turns around swiftly and hustles through the tiny station.

“’Ave you been to Limoges before?” he shouts over his shoulder.

“No,” I huff, scrambling to keep up. He chuckles.

“Ah. Well, ‘ave you ever seen the film ‘Deliverance’?”

“Um, yes, a long time ago,” I say wondering where this is going.

We reach his butter-colored Citroen, where he chucks my bag in the trunk and moves to his door.

“Well, it’s like that here.” He grins and ducks into the car.

“Dueling Banjos” plays in my head and my heart pounds as I fasten my seatbelt. Hopefully, he meant the inhabitants looked like young Burt Reynolds, but I fear I’m heading into very alien territory. I’ve come to what sounds like the backwaters of France to rejoin the kids I’m au pairing for while the family is on winter break. They’d come ahead of me while I finished up my courses at The American School of Paris. We wind along a wooded road lined with leafless trees, their branches resembling witches’ hands, long, gnarly fingers clawing to scratch a hole in the colorless sky. It seems like hours, but it’s probably only 20 minutes before we pull into a clearing and park next to a large, transparent plastic tent.

“The men went hunting for sanglier,” explains Monsieur Deschamps, making a squealing noise. “We meet here to eat zee pig.”

Steam rises from a nearby bog. It starts to drizzle. The tent windows are fogged. Peeling back the entry flap, I choke on the thick mix of smoke from cigarettes and wood chips. It feels like entering the ThunderDomeㄧ in Kentucky. People near the door stop talking and stare. Camouflage is the attire du jour. I pull my black trench coat closed to conceal my – perfect for Paris but ludicrous here – red turtleneck and charcoal herringbone slacks and cower behind Monsieur Deschamps until he spies a friend and bolts. A group of onlookers chuckles.

I throw my shoulders back and puff up my chest, strutting like a peacock but feeling chicken, and step between long tables covered with checkered oilcloth. Potato chips, rillettes and salami spill over bowls into puddles of Beaujolais Nouveau, 1994. Plastic cups lay akimbo, emptied of their mid-morning aperitif.

“C’est magnifique çe boar, non?” A hefty man elbows me, his wine sloshing as he points proudly to a boar splayed on a table. He sucks in his Galouises and exhales as he explains in French, “It took us an hour to corner him before we could finally kill him.” He licks his lips. He smells acrid, like he’s been out in the wild for longer than the boar hunt.

“Vin!" I lunge toward the nearest wine bottle, though I don’t really like wine. I grab a plastic goblet and gulp, hoping it will calm my nerves. I can feel my Asian flush warming my cheeks.

“I thought les Americans people only drink Coke,” the man snorts and walks away. How does he know I’m American? Don’t I look Parisian? I shouldn’t have smiled. Dead giveaway. The villagers stamp their feet to keep warm, like bulls, ready to charge. I adjust my red top.

Fiona Deschamps, my employer, spies me and waves me to the back of the tent. She appears to be making a salad.

“Can I help?” I ask.

“Oh yes, that would be lovely,” Fiona says. “Perhaps you could make the vinaigrette.” She smiles and clears a place next to her. A woman looks at me and nudges her friend. Are they watching to see how I’m going to make vinaigrette for God’s sake? Hmm come to think of it, I’ve never made salad dressing before. We usually bought bottled. But this is about more than salad dressing. This is a detail of French life. Food is joy, food is personal. Do you understand how we do things here? Can you blend in? This is an aptitude test.

I’m working, going to school, I’m inching my way back to being my own person after being lost in my boyfriend’s shadow. Fitting in with these people, or the French rather, is my next frontier. I will not be cowed by salad dressing.

The women next to her lean our direction, eyes wide open. If I were a New Yorker, I’d glare. But as a Californian, I say, “Hey,” trying to be friendly.

Determined to conquer through condiments, I grab a bowl, splash red wine vinegar into it, and look around for olive oil. Spying a bottle, I stumble in French, “Could you pass l’olivier?” The woman closest to it clucks and shakes her head “non.” I’m still not used to it, but I’ve experienced the “non” enough to know it isn’t a definitive no. I need to push back. Debate.

Sighing, I walk to the bottle. The woman clamps her hand around it. Does she want me to arm wrestle her for it? A hush falls over the hall. Merrymakers slither toward our salad standoff. The woman releases her grasp and I swipe the bottle.

“Is that how you make vinaigrette in America?” scowls a bear-sized Frenchman in fatigues.

“Er…” my face feels hot. A woman across from me scrunches her forehead and bites her lip. I look into the bowl and see my reflection swirling in the shiny liquid. Don’t let them see you sweat.

“Ce n’est pas possible,” the woman whispers, disgusted. The vinegar is vexing her.

Restarting, I empty the bowl, add the oil first, and then fresh vinegar. Fifty shoulders relax. Next, I raise a pepper grinder in slow motion. The crowd tenses. One grind. Heads nod. Another grind. On my third grind, a boy slides two fingers across his throat – ‘cut’ the peppering he seems to indicate. Finished, I turn to leave.

“Tut,” someone utters.

“Quoi d’autre?” I squeak. What else could I be missing?

The group stands steadfast, silent. A baby cries. Your salad days are supposed to be your best days, not your darkest hours. Desperate for clues, I finally spot a jar of Dijon. I grab it and raise it like the Statue of Liberty with her torch.

“Oui…oui!!!” cigarettes bob in unison. Scooping a heaping spoonful, I double-tap it, like the missing puzzle piece, into the mix. The mustard emulsifies the oil and vinegar. One last thing. Rotating my shoulders like a weightlifter preparing to clean and jerk a barbell, I pause before adding the final ingredient. New cigarettes are lit in anticipation. With a twirl of my fingers, I swoop up the salt and shake three times. Applause.

Deliverance.