After we get settled in, Mom takes out a map and her Blackberry and does a little research. “It looks like Etienne’s café is right around the corner from here,” she says. “Wanna go have a cup of hot chocolate?”
Neither one of us slept much on the plane, but I don’t feel tired. I’m actually pretty wired. And I’m curious about this friend of hers, Etienne. Is he one of Mom’s old boyfriends?
We go out onto the street and it smells like no place I’ve ever been. There’s tobacco mixed with perfume and sweat and bread. We sniff our way past la parfumerie, past la pâtisserie with its window full of delicate pastries, past the newsstand and le tabac. Finally, Mom stops. “This is it!” she says. We find ourselves at the entrance of a French café. It’s like a scene from the Madeline books, or a movie set. An impossibly thin woman dressed all in black except for the red scarf around her neck, is sitting at an outside table. A black poodle sits at her feet, its leash twined around her chair leg.
Mom and I go inside and grab a table by the window. I’m surprised to see another dog inside—a silky blonde Labrador. A service dog? I check its owner, but he doesn’t seem to be blind or deaf or otherwise disabled. The guy is sitting there reading Le Monde, sipping at a tiny white cup.
A waiter comes over. He winks at me over my mother’s head. He looks like he’s just a couple of years older than me. “Bonjour, les jolies dames.”
Okay, I understand that. He’s saying that we’re pretty. He’s pretty cute himself. He’s got super short brown hair and sideburns that kind of curl around his face. And huge brown eyes with eyelashes like a giraffe.
“French waiters are such big flirts,” Mom whispers to me across the table. She turns to him. “Bonjour. Is this place still owned by Etienne Brouilly?”
He cocks his head as if he’s trying to process the English. After a moment, he nods. “Oui. C’est mon pere.” His father.
Mom hands him her business card, and he disappears behind a door. Moments later, a short man wearing a white apron comes bursting into the room. His arms are open wide.
“Laina!” he exclaims.
Mom hugs him, and they kiss the air beside each other’s cheeks. They rattle off a few phrases in French while I sit there, a fake smile plastered to my face. The waiter stands behind.
“Etienne, I’d like you to meet my daughter,” Mom says, gesturing at me.
I hold out my hand, thinking he’ll shake it, but he kisses it instead. “Enchantée. Vous êtes très jolie.” He puts an arm around the waiter and says, “And may I present my son, Hervé. He’s already sixteen. Can you believe it?”
Hervé shakes my mother’s hand, and then nods to me. I wonder if he can speak English.
“Please sit, and enjoy,” Etienne says. “Hervé will bring you anything you need. And now, I must get back to the kitchen. We’ll catch up later, non? You will come to my house for dinner one night?”
“That would be lovely,” Mom says, settling back in her chair.
Dinner with Hervé, I think, and my face goes tomato red.
Etienne whistles as he goes back into the kitchen. Hervé stands next to our table, awaiting our command.
“Un cafe, s’il vous plait,” Mom says. They both turn to me.
“Umm, cocoa, please.” Mom frowns, no doubt thinking of all the time she spent drilling me with flash cards, and Hervé isn’t moving, so I give it another shot. “Un chocolat chaud, s’il vous plait.”
“Bien.” Hervé nods and slips away.
Mom smiles. “A group of us used to hang out together in cafés like this one, talking about art and love and philosophy. Those were the days.”
“Did you go out with Etienne?” I ask.
“No,” Mom says. “He was involved with my roommate, but they wound up breaking up. He married someone else. So what do you want to do now?” she asks, pulling a guidebook out of her purse. “Where do you want to go?”
I look toward the kitchen, to the swinging door through which Hervé disappeared. I think I’d like to stay right here and admire the staff. But I’m not about to say that to Mom. “The Eiffel Tower?” I suggest. “The Pompidou Center?” Now that we’re here, we might as well hit all the tourist traps.
Mom flips the book open to a metro map and starts to study.
Just then Hervé reappears with two white cups on a tray.
“Here you are, Madam.” He sets one cup down in front of Mom, but with a little too much force. Coffee sloshes over the rim, onto the saucer, and onto the table.
“Je suis desolée!” His face has gone red. He deposits my cup of hot chocolate with a bit more delicacy, then grabs a paper napkin from the dispenser on the table and quickly sops up the spilled coffee.
I look down, trying to hide my smile. I know exactly how he feels.