The moment I step off the plane in the South of France, my lungs fill with the salty coastal air. A soft breeze weaves through the loose strands of my hair and the sun kisses my face. It’s a familiar place tied to many memories of happy family vacations as a child. The soothing effect is almost instant.
I take a taxi to Villefranche-sur-Mer, the seaside village where my French grandmother, Mamie, lives. As the car zips through the Basse Corniche from Nice to the Ville, I take in the familiar sight of the French Riviera. People associate this place with glamour and glitz, but for me it’s the home of the salade Niçoise, the fleur de courgette, and the socca. My mouth waters just thinking about the deep-fried stuffed zucchini flower or the addictive chickpea crêpe, the type you can only find in the market square.
But knowing Mamie, she will probably want to go to some chichi restaurant where the portions are small and the waiters never smile.
In the realm of grandmothers, Mamie and Lala are like sugar and salt. The white crystals may be indistinguishable at first glance, but they deliver two very different experiences.
Mamie’s house sits on a hill overlooking the ocean. No farms here. Pretty much every house in Villefranche-sur-Mer overlooks the ocean.
It’s a picture-perfect hillside of soft-orange buildings and a harbor colored in pastels. A steady traffic of sailboats and luxury yachts glisten in the bay. This is the land of Chagall, Matisse, and Picasso, with the splendor of the Belle Époque era.
I take in the beach below us, dotted with big blue umbrellas and topless sunbathers, and am flooded with memories of playing on the sand as a child with both my parents; a long time ago, before everything changed.
“My pretty girl!” Mamie greets me in French when my cab pulls up. She kisses both my cheeks and then holds me by the shoulders with both hands. I can tell she’s inspecting me. “Darling, we need to do something about your skin,” she says, taking my face in her hands. “Have you been wearing the sunscreen I sent you?”
“I’ve been busy,” I mutter, pulling away, painfully aware that here I’m no one’s morenita.
With her red lips, shoulder-dusting crop, and highlighted cheeks, Mamie is the epitome of the French woman: perfectly imperfect, without ever trying too hard. I didn’t inherit this gene. I have to try. Hard.
Mom interrupts with a hug and two kisses. “I’ve missed you so much,” she says. I linger in her arms, drinking in the fragrance of Chanel No. 5.
“Darling, go get changed.” Mamie drapes her arms over my shoulders and ushers me inside.
“We have lunch reservations,” Mom injects with a quick nod. Translation: chichi restaurant.
“I got you a lovely dress you can wear.” Mamie gives me an up and down look. “We’re going shopping this afternoon. And to the salon. You need a haircut.”
There’s no use arguing with Mamie, so I sigh and nod. I can tell her I don’t need new clothes, that I gave away the last set she got me; or that I don’t need a haircut because I’m always in the kitchen with my hair under a hat. But to her, it won’t matter. She’s hell-bent on turning me into a proper French girl. If only her efforts came with proper French culinary skills. Now that would be worth the pain.
I slip on the outfit she bought me, a short white summer dress that shows off my shoulders. I don’t own anything like this. My wardrobe is what you’d call practical. No lace, no bows, and definitely no dry-clean only fabrics.
Mamie also got me a hat with a wide, floopy brim. Subtle.
I know she loves me, but her obsession with keeping my skin from getting “too dark” is downright colorism. Why can’t she just let me be?
I catch my reflection in the mirror and wonder how long this dress would last in the kitchen—a whole three seconds before it would be covered in sauce spatter. I loosen my bun and my soft dark curls fall around my face, but it doesn’t look quite right. My hair has no volume and no sexy, mussed-up quality to it. It’s just . . . there. I pull it back into a bun, the way I’m used to seeing it.
I don’t even bother with the emergency kit of creams, quick-fixes, and makeup Mamie left on the vanity for me. Not that I even know where to start. For one, no matter how many creams I apply, I won’t get Mamie’s desired effect: to make me more French.
Whether she likes it or not, my face is a hodgepodge of Latina, Midwestern, and French genes. In middle school, I used to think I got the reject genes—like the leftover soup at the end of the week. I didn’t get Papi’s towering height. Or Mom’s slightly pouty lips. But later I realized that you can make a heavenly sancocho from the leftovers. In fact, the best chefs can create something spectacular out of scraps.
That’s what I told myself, anyway.
Once I entered high school, the pretty girls were so predictable, daubing on lip gloss in the bathroom mirror or styling their hair with a curling iron until it had the “messy-after-sex” look. I never knew what they meant.
And what’s so special about using lip gloss and curling irons?
Ask any of them to make the perfect lemon zest whipped cream and they would probably go to the store and get a tub of Cool Whip, an artificial imitation. There’s nothing more ordinary than Cool Whip.
I take one last look in the mirror and see myself dressed in pure white. You are fresh whipped cream with lemon zest, and most definitely not Cool Whip.
Mamie orders for the three of us. She doesn’t let me try the pork belly with lavender appetizer.
“It’s not good for your complexion,” she says in her thick French accent. “I ordered consommé.”
“But that’s just broth,” I respond in plain English. Every time I try speaking French around her, she interrupts me midsentence with a correction.
Mamie doesn’t budge on the lunch order. She closes the menu and waves off the waiter. Meanwhile, Mom is on her second glass of wine. She practically chugged the first one.
“Well, this is nice,” Mamie says with a pleased smile. “Just us girls.”
I nod, uneasy at the “friendly” tone in her voice. I don’t like it one bit.
Mamie turns to me and asks, “So, how are James and his new”—she clears her throat—“wife? Did they marry?”
I glance at Mom, who’s taking a long sip of wine.
“They’re fine.” I adjust the silverware in front of me. For such a fine establishment, they should do a better job at getting the soup spoon placement right.
“Those Américains and their antiquated conventions around marriage,” Mamie adds. “Would be lovely if they had such conventions around being faithful.” And it becomes clear to the entire universe she’s not gonna drop it.
I search for our waiter. I should’ve ordered something to go with the broth. And where is the bread basket?
“Will you have a new sister or a brother?” Mamie asks.
“They want it to be a surprise,” I say.
“It was, indeed, a surprise,” Mamie adds.
“Where’s our waiter? I want a salad. The one with the pear slices. That sounds nice, doesn’t it?” I ask her. “Mom, do you want a salad?”
“I already spoke to the serveur about the appetizer,” Mamie responds curtly. “Have they selected names?”
I’m waiting for Mom to interject, but she doesn’t. She sits there stoically as if this conversation doesn’t bother her at all. As if we were talking about someone else’s family. Someone else’s husband.
“I don’t know,” I say.
“I still find it absurd that James moved to France.” Mamie brings her wine glass to her lips and sips.
Other than walking out and taking Mom with me, I’m out of ideas on how to stop the train wreck I know is coming. I feel the tracks rumble under our table.
“All those times he assured us he’d never be able to leave the cosmopolitan pleasures of Chicago . . .” Mamie scoffs.
The train approaches at full speed. Horn blasting. Wheels screeching.
“I suppose that, in the end, such cosmopolitan pleasures simply don’t compare to the pleasure of an extramarital affair.”
CRASH. There are no survivors.
The waiter finally comes. Talk about timing. He places a few small plates on the table and leaves. I want to grab his sleeve and beg him not to go. Please sit down, let’s talk about your family instead.
We sip on our tasteless broth in silence.
“I didn’t want to leave either,” Mom finally says. She glances at me and half smiles. I search for her hand under the table and squeeze. She squeezes it back.
“Don’t be silly, darling. Who would prefer Chicago over this?” Mamie says. “You were confused, that’s all. But it’s over now. No need to rehash the unpleasantness of the past.”
I almost drop my spoon. I press my lips hard to prevent any kind of snarky response.
“Let’s move on to something else,” Mamie says, suddenly cheerful. As if she didn’t create the train wreckage surrounding our table. “Isabelle, how’s culinary school?” She turns to me, pronouncing my name in French.
“Excellent,” I lie, eyes on my plate.
“I told Adeline I was delighted to know you’ll have the proper French classical training. Heaven forbid you end up flipping burgers at some—what do you call those? Diners?” She chuckles to herself.
I decide to order the biggest dessert they have—make that two desserts.
“Or worse yet, end up like James’s mother, feeding prostitutes and drug addicts.”
My eyes cut to Mom. They’re about to bulge out of my skull. She glances back at me and gives a slight shake of the head, the one that says Let it go. But I don’t want to let it go.
“Bubba, Milly, and Mary,” I say quietly, as if reciting some mantra I memorized long ago.
Mom and Mamie stare at me like I’m speaking some foreign language.
“Bubba, Milly, and Mary,” I repeat a little louder. “Those are their names. The drug addicts and prostitutes have names.”
A long, uncomfortable silence takes over the table.
“Adeline, darling,” Mamie says, shifting in her seat. “I saw the loveliest blue dress in the window display of that boutique by the house.”
Unable to sit in this catastrophe of a lunch for another second, I excuse myself. I place my napkin on the table and stand. “I have to go to the ladies’ room.”
But I walk toward the kitchen instead. I grab our waiter and ask for the dessert menu. “One of each,” I tell him in French. His eyebrows tick upward. That’s the most expression I’ve seen on his face since we got here.
To hell with my complexion. And to hell with Mamie’s no sugar rule. Bring on the dessert cart.