We push open the glass door and enter the bouchon. Inside, we’re greeted by a full house. A soundtrack of French conversations, accordion music, and laughter fills what little space is unoccupied.
“Do you see any open tables?” Lucia asks.
I scan the small restaurant. It is everything I expected—checkered tablecloths, a collection of ceramic pigs congregated by the bar, clusters of framed pictures, walls covered with old newspaper clippings and ancient posters.
“We may have to share a table,” Pippa says. “They do that here.”
“Bienvenue!” A blonde woman welcomes us with open arms. “Table for four, oui?” she asks, smiling.
We nod and follow her to a booth in the back of the restaurant. I walk slowly past the other tables, trying to get a sense of the menu. I recognize the braised calf head in vinegar and the blood sausages with apples. There is little to no thought for presentation. The plates are mostly utilitarian, a mere means to gather and serve the food.
Pippa slides into the booth first, while Diego, Lucia, and I awkwardly linger in the aisle. I want to sit next to him without it looking obvious.
Diego slides in first, sitting across from Pippa. But it’s Lucia who sweeps in and grabs the seat next to him. There’s nothing subtle about the way her arm presses against his, or the lack of space between their bodies. She’s not worried about being obvious at all.
A glance passes between Diego and me across the table. He shrugs as if to say, It’s not my fault. My head shakes slightly to say It is.
Lucia makes some joke in Spanish and Diego laughs. So funny!
Why did I think this could work? Why did I go against my own instinct? I should’ve never asked him to come.
“Care to share?” I say, forcing a smile.
“It’s not funny in English,” Lucia says.
Suddenly, the tension inside the booth feels like cold grease, so dense you could cut through it.
“I love the napkins,” Pippa says too enthusiastically. The cloth napkins are hastily folded on our plates. A custom checkered print features a pig suspended over the name of the restaurant, Café des Fédérations.
When the waitress arrives it’s a welcome relief. She rattles off a list of what are considered classic bouchon dishes: pike fish dumplings, pork sausage in red wine sauce, fried tripe, and cake of chicken liver.
I read on a travel blog that these dishes date back to the sixteenth century, when bouchons mostly existed as stops to feed the postmen traveling across the country. Later, in the seventeenth century, the sizable food portions nourished the masses of new industrial-era workers. This café is more than a restaurant—it’s a taste of history.
“We should try a few things,” Pippa says. “Maybe we start with the house appetizer?”
The waitress nods. “Will you be having wine?” she tentatively asks.
We decide to order one bottle of the house wine. I mean, the wine is part of the French experience.
“Diego, what have you been up to?” Pippa asks.
“Not much really.” He shrugs. “I’ve been helping James—Isa’s dad—do some work on their cherry farm.”
“I love cherries. I love farms,” Lucia interjects. “My grandfather was an olive farmer.”
“Where, exactly?” Diego asks.
“Andalucía. I grew up on his farm. On the days I didn’t have school I would help pick olives. He taught me how to make the best olive oil. I even know how to infuse it with citrus and herbs.” Lucia has turned toward Diego so that she’s basically talking only to him. It’s strange to see this side of her. It makes me want to pull her hair out by the roots. I don’t care how good she is in the kitchen—she’s being a real shrew tonight.
I turn to Pippa and say, “I grew up on a farm too. In Kansas. My grandma had an apple orchard and chickens. She taught me how to make pies.”
“I grew up in London,” Pippa deadpans. “My Jamaican granma hated cooking . . . and baking. She’s more of an eater.” She chuckles to herself, then tosses her head to the side and asks, “I thought you grew up in Chicago?”
“I spent the summers in Kansas.” I bite my lip, hating this competitive vibe when we’re supposed to be enjoying ourselves. “Shouldn’t we be looking at the menu?”
“Oh, we lived on the farm year-round.” Lucia clearly feels the need to clarify the extent of her farm experience. “My parents have a few acres where they grow all sorts of stuff.”
“In Barcelona?” I ask curiously; I’d thought she was a city girl like me and Pippa.
“Isa, we have farms in Barcelona. Well, technically, in the outskirts,” she explains as if this should be obvious. “I’m a farm girl at heart.” She giggles.
What is she doing?
If she’s trying to impress Diego, she’ll have to try harder. He’s been a farmhand for only a week. It’s not like he grew up toiling the fields with a horse-drawn plow.
Our wine and appetizers arrive. The spread of dishes takes over the table.
“All right, ladies, please explain,” Diego says, reaching for the bread basket first.
Pippa points at each item. “Black sausage, beet salad, lentils with cerverlas sausage in mayonnaise dressing—it’s an acquired taste—board terrine, and Lyonnaise charcuterie. Bon appétit!” She raises her wine glass and we join in by clinking our glasses.
I take one sip of my wine but it’s too bitter, so I set it down.
“You have to try this,” Diego tells me, dropping a piece of black sausage onto my plate. “Have it with the bread.”
“I’ll have one also,” Lucia says, lifting her plate so Diego can place a piece of sausage on it. “Gracias,” she says. “This feels like home.” Then she launches into some story in Spanish that I guess is meant only for Diego. I’m having trouble translating some words I’ve never heard, so I decide to completely ignore whatever is happening on the other side of the table and just focus on my food.
“This is bloody great, no pun intended,” Pippa says, biting into the black sausage.
I follow her lead. The meat is light and creamy, almost like a mousse.
“Seriously, this is the best sausage I’ve ever had,” I tell Pippa. “What do they put in this thing?”
“Spinach, I think,” she says.
“Really?” I quickly finish my entire portion.
I ask our waitress for water and push aside my glass of wine.
“Are you going to drink that?” Lucia asks. Her own wine glass is already empty.
“Nope, help yourself,” I say, giving her the glass and instantly regretting it. Her eyes are taking on a glassy sheen and the space between her and Diego seems to have narrowed to nonexistent. Diego is squeezed between the wall and Lucia, who is all but sitting on his lap.
The scene is beyond annoying. I scan the room, counting the sausages dangling from the ceiling and reading the vintage posters on the walls.
“Are we sharing?” Pippa asks. “I want to try a few things.”
“I’ll share with you,” I tell her.
“Looks like those two will be sharing,” Pippa says with a snort. But I don’t think it’s funny. In fact, none of this is funny.
Lucia has downed her second glass of wine in what must be record time. The result is her arms have transformed into tentacles.
What. Is. She. Doing?
My eyes cut to Diego, and I can see he looks as uncomfortable as I feel.
“Maybe we should order some food,” he tells me. “And no more wine for her.”
“I’ve never seen anyone get pissed so fast,” Pippa says.
Now, Lucia is only speaking Spanish. She slurs some version of “don’t be a party pooper” and reaches for what is left of the wine bottle, which thankfully is empty.
The waitress returns and we place our orders. Lucia can’t make up her mind, so we ask the waitress to bring her a soup.
“Stew of pork cheeks?” the waitress asks.
“Perfect,” I say, glaring at Lucia, whose own cheek is leaning against Diego’s shoulder.
The waitress leaves, and for a while we sit in an uncomfortable silence.
“So . . . Pippa, how do you like the culinary school?” Diego leans forward, trying to extricate himself from Lucia.
“I guess it’s harder than I thought it would be,” she says.
“Oh, please.” Lucia waves her off. “Piece of cake,” she says, snapping her fingers in midair.
At least now we know what kind of drunk Lucia is—an obnoxious one.
“Lucia is currently at the top of the class,” Pippa explains to Diego. “Her cooking skills far exceed her drinking skills.”
“I am the best cook.” Lucia drapes her arms over Diego. “Maybe sometime I cook for you, eh?”
“We already have a resident chef, but thanks,” he tells her. He glances at me with a half smile.
“I can make you a paella. Or a gazpacho. Or estofat de pop i patata. Whatever you want, I can make it,” she says into his ear.
“I think I need to get some air,” Diego says. “Excuse me.” He gently moves her out of the booth, then steps outside.
“Maybe you should have some coffee,” Pippa tells Lucia.
“I’m fine,” she says.
“You’re being stupid,” Pippa says curtly.
Lucia considers us for a second. “You’re just jealous,” she says.
“Now I really know you’re pissed.” Pippa laughs to herself.
I wave to our waitress and order the strongest coffee they have.
“This is why I don’t have girlfriends. They’re always jealous of me,” Lucia says to no one. “I thought coming here would be different.”
“We’re not jealous of you,” I respond.
She looks at me intently. “You know what your problem is?”
“I didn’t know I had a problem.” I awkwardly chuckle, trying to keep things light. But being an expert on conversation train wrecks, I know this one is already off the tracks.
“Your spoon is at the bottom, that is a problem,” she explains, grabbing a spoon from the table. “And you cook like you’re trying too hard to be French. You’re not.”
“My mom is French,” I remind her.
“You’re as French as me or Pippa here.” She points at Pippa with the back of her spoon.
“Leave me out of this,” Pippa says, stacking empty plates on the table.
“I have dual citizenship. I could be a MOF someday,” I say. “Besides, all the top chefs are classically trained. Everyone knows that.”
“Exactly. This is your problem.” She redirects the spoon toward me. “You want to be like everyone.”
I stare at her in disbelief. Is this what she’s thought of me all along? Then why even pretend to be my friend?
Troissant was right. This is not a team sport.
I edge forward, open my mouth to say something . . . anything, but then Diego returns.
“What did I miss?” he asks, sliding into the booth across from me.
Our food arrives and the moment for a comeback passes. I lean my head against the leather upholstery in defeat.
“Try this first.” Lucia lifts a piece of fried tripe between her fingers. “It’s tripa frita.” She brings the tripe to Diego’s mouth and feeds it to him.
Would it be rude to leave halfway through dinner? Let’s face it, I’m not the kind of girl who can make eating a cow’s stomach look sexy.
“Oh! I have an idea. We should go dancing,” Lucia squeaks, wrapping her arm around Diego and forcing him to sway.
“Let’s eat first,” he says. “I’m starving and you need something to soak up that wine.”
Lucia pouts. “You don’t want to go dancing with me?”
“I’m up for whatever you ladies want to do.” He unfolds a napkin over his lap and scans the dishes on the table.
“This looks amazing.” Pippa reaches for a fork and digs in first.
I load up my plate with the flathead quenelle and drizzle crayfish sauce over the puff pastry. Then add some chitterling sausage on the side.
“Are you okay?” Diego asks. His hand reaches across the table and touches mine. The sides of our palms press lightly against each other until my insides feel as mushy as the quenelle swimming on my plate. Our eyes meet briefly, and my stomach flips—the same as that night by the pool with the ukulele.
“You need to have another one,” Lucia interrupts, holding a tripa frita in front of Diego’s face again.
“I’m fine,” I say, pulling my hand away.
Diego grabs the tripa frita from Lucia’s hand before she can put it into his mouth.
“You have that look on your face,” he tells me. “I know it well by now.”
“I’m fine,” I repeat forcefully.
Last-place spoons don’t get the apprenticeships or the cute guys. Clearly, both are reserved for the winner. And clearly this is not a date.
We get home shortly after midnight.
“Thanks for the invite,” Diego says, putting the car in park. “It was interesting . . .”
After the disaster dinner, we went to Le Lavoir Public, where a guest DJ from Berlin packed the club. Our night of dancing crashed to an epic end when Lucia accidentally spilled her drink on another drunk girl. They almost got into a fight, so security kicked us out.
“Maybe next time you and I can—” Diego stops midsentence when my phone dings with a string of incoming texts.
I pull it out and read the messages off the screen.
“Looks like Lucia crashed at Pippa’s apartment,” I say, tapping on a photo of Lucia passed out on Pippa’s couch. I show the phone screen to Diego, who snickers.
“Let’s never do that again,” he says.
“No kidding.”
“So,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “What are your plans after the summer? You know, if you don’t get the apprenticeship. What are you gonna do?”
“What do you mean?”
“Your dad said you still have to finish high school. Right? Are you going back to America?”
“The apprenticeship will count toward my graduating credits,” I explain, knowing full well that’s not what he’s asking. “It’s my senior year. Like a year abroad.”
“Yeah, but you know . . .” he says hesitantly. “I know you’re working your butt off, but only one person is getting this. And sometimes these things have nothing to do with talent.”
My eyes narrow, as if to say, Get to the point.
He stammers. “I’m not saying you’re gonna loose. All I’m saying is, what else would you like to do?”
“Huh?” Nothing about his question registers an answer. Did I not prepare for this outcome? What’s my plan B? Oh right, I don’t have one.
I blink a few times, trying hard to think through the mental fog. What does my future look like outside of that kitchen?
A deep, dark abyss stares back at me. There’s nothing. I can’t see myself doing anything else. This is it. This is all I have.
“If you could do anything else, what would it be?” he presses. “What would make you happy?”
I shrug. I don’t have an answer.