CHAPTER 4
Magali
The gorgeous Pennsylvania fall had surrendered to a rainstorm. I hurried into The Two Lions and scanned the crowd, surprised that there was one on a Tuesday. I removed my soaking wet trench coat and adjusted the neck of my black turtleneck. Since I’d been a mom and out of circulation, the world had become more sophisticated. Maman would have loved to pull her Jaguar up to a real Belgian tavern right here in Philly. Everything from the yeasty smell of beer to the strains of Brel in an art nouveau décor was skewed authentic. I was glad I was wearing heels.
I snagged two empty barstools when I felt a blast of rain-soaked wind wrap itself around me. A second later, Syd was there, damp blonde hair sticking to her cheek but gorgeous nonetheless. She was dressed in a sweater and jeans like me, but on her it looked fantastic.
“You look like shit!” She hugged me.
“Nice to see you, too. You don’t, never have, never will.” I’d stopped bugging Syd about her terrible vocabulary a while back, though I demanded she be careful around my kids.
“Let’s ply you with alcohol and you can tell me what’s up.” She signaled the barman and he scampered over like a lovesick puppy. Not that Syd noticed.
I ordered a Leffe Blonde and she had a Lindemans Framboise.
“Do you know how much I love that you forgo the ubiquitous appletini and come have beer with me?” I said when our beers were served.
“Yeah, well”—she took a swig—“there’s beer and beer, you know? Hip cocktails come and go—and appletinis are long gone”—she flashed me a sweet smile, the kind you give a child who believed long after an appropriate age that a bunny really did bring chocolate on Easter—“but beer is forever.”
I shrugged and took a sip of my own brew; the Leffe tasted like sun topped with cream.
“Food?” she asked.
“When have I not wanted food?”
She scanned the menu. “I’m in the mood for moules frites.”
Micheline came over. “My friends, I have your table.” Micheline and her husband Piet owned The Two Lions and together they represented Belgium. Piet, a lanky blonde with pink cheeks, hailed from Flanders to the north, and petite Micheline, dark hair and hazel eyes, from Wallonia in the south. A mixed marriage. He was as mild and soft-spoken as she was boisterous and wild.
My eyes traveled to her belly.
“Micheline! You’re—”
“Waiting for a baby, yes!” The way she got her words a bit wrong reminded me so much of my mother, I’d love her even if she secretly murdered people with her chef’s knife in the kitchen.
“Congratulations!” Syd jumped up from the barstool and enfolded the smaller woman in her arms.
“We are happy,” she said with a grin.
She kissed us each on the cheek and led us to a booth by the window beneath a black-and-white photo of the Brussels Hôtel de Ville. Between the sound of the rain, the heady smell of food, and Micheline’s benevolence, I felt better than I had since my father’s phone call. We placed our order.
“Now, back to the subject,” she said.
“I didn’t know there was a subject. Oh yeah, I remember, we were talking about how dreadful I look. You blame me for changing it?”
Syd looked at me with her cornflower blue eyes. It should be illegal for a grown-up to have eyes like that. They should be the exclusive province of babies.
Duncan, our server, came back with our beers. I took a gulp in an attempt to stem the tears that were beginning to fill my eyes. I choked and felt better because now I had an excuse for the tears running down my face.
“What’s wrong? Gali . . . ?”
I wiped my eyes and made a stab at a grin. I could only imagine how grotesque I looked from the way Syd was staring at me.
“Okay, here goes.” I ticked off on my fingers. “One, Daddy wants to have Christmas dinner at the old house with everyone there. Two, convincing my sisters, not to mention my brother—”
“How is Art?”
“Who knows? Last summer he popped up at Colette’s. He was resting up before heading out to another overseas gig. According to Colette, he looked amazing. Get this: he’s tanned, with biceps and a six-pack—and I’m not talking beer.”
“Wow.” She smiled.
“Eloquently put, but sums up my general reaction too.”
“No one’s heard from him since?” She leaned forward.
“Nope. Rien.” I shrugged.
“Always at Colette’s?”
I nodded. “They’re closer, the two babies of the family.”
The mussels came and they were perfect. Served in individual casseroles, they smelled like the North Sea. After depositing the platter of crisp pommes frites on the table between us, accompanied by a small bowl of mayonnaise, Duncan left us to our meal.
Syd knew the drill. You scouted one perfect mussel shell, used a fork to eat the first, then proceeded to extract the rest with the empty shell as a clamp.
“Do you know anything about where he is now?” she asked.
“No. It’s always very cloak and dagger. We only really know where he is when his work pops up in the press and on the net. And by then he’s usually on to the next assignment. He was talking about a change though.”
“A change like settling down?”
I shrugged, picking at my food. I wasn’t hungry anymore. I sipped my beer, but as always with beer, the first is always the best. Funny how that doesn’t hold true for wine.
“And three.” My voice came out so low, only dogs would be able to hear it. “Three, Ana is going to retire.”
She stopped chewing.
“Don’t swallow or you’ll choke. Chew.”
“Yes, Mom. But?”
“She wants to write novels.” I took another sip of my beer.
“That sucks,” she said.
“Yeah. Could we please not talk about it?”
She picked up a frite and bit it in half. “Cold.”
As if she’d read our mind—it seemed, at times, that we shared just one, with Syd controlling the lion’s share of the brainpower—Micheline removed the bowl filled with empty shells and replaced it.
“Let me bring you more frites, hot ones.”
I shook my head. “I need to shed a few pounds before Christ-mas.”
“You choose now, with Halloween, Thanksgiving, and Christmas all coming to make a diet?” asked Micheline.
“That’s what I said,” Syd interjected. “Great timing.”
“Not a diet! You know how I feel about diets!” An exercise in futility and frustration. Sure to make you fatter and sadder. “I just want to cut down a bit and move around more.”
“Alors, I will be back with fresh. Regarde, we have a celebrity.” She cocked her head toward the bar.
I glanced through the mist of my misery and spotted a familiar profile. Syd looked over her shoulder, then snapped back like a mousetrap.
“Aidan Thomas.” I narrowed my eyes at her. “Aren’t you going to go over and say hi.”
“Nope.” She arranged and rearranged the salt and pepper shakers.
“Should I be writing you up a dinner menu?”
She shook her head and I felt . . . relieved, oddly enough. There was something about the guy that I didn’t like. Nothing personal, just not for my best friend. He delivered the news as if he wanted everyone to like him.
But her face had gone pink. You didn’t need to be CIA to figure out she was hiding something.
I whipped out my wallet. “Dinner’s on me.”
On top of everything else, my best friend didn’t trust me.

Moules frites
MUSSELS AND REAL BELGIAN FRIES
 
 
This is one of those dishes that sounds scarier to tackle than it is. It’s so delicious you won’t be sorry you risked it, because here’s the thing: it’s really hard to mess up.
As a side note, true Belgian frites are twice-fried in blanc de boeuf (which is beef tallow or fat). The advantage to frying in fat rather than oil is that the fat does not penetrate the potato as the oil does, so your fries are always lighter, crisper, and less oily. Seems like a paradox. You can reuse it up to ten times. If you decide to take a whack at it, be sure to choose organic, pastured, grass-fed beef. However, nowadays in America and even in Europe, we tend to fry in oil. Choose one with a high smoking point (above 385 degrees F.) Safflower, canola, and grape seed are all good choices. Don’t use olive oil, as wonderful as it is, because it is not intended to be used at high temperatures.
The potatoes: the true Belgian potato for frites is the Bintje, unavailable stateside. Use Yukon Gold instead. Make sure they are not new potatoes or you will never get a fry that is crisp and golden on the outside and meltingly fluffy on the inside. The older the potato, the better.
Serves 4.
Ready? Here’s your shopping list.
 
For the mussels . . .
 
Illustration tablespoons unsalted butter
3 ribs of celery, chopped
3 shallots or one onion, chopped
5 pounds mussels, debearded and cleaned (Count 1¼ to 1½ lbs per person—adjust the quantities.)
Fresh parsley, chopped
Illustration bottle (50 cl.) dry white wine
Freshly ground pepper
 
For the frites . . .
 
2 pounds Yukon Gold potatoes (or Russet or Idaho—as long as it is a starchy potato)
3 to 4 cups oil for frying
Salt
Electric deep fryer or a 4-to-6-quart Dutch oven or deep fryer with a basket attachment and a deep-fat thermometer.
 
First, the potatoes. Peel the potatoes and soak them in cool water for an hour (this brings out the starch and ensures light, fluffy fries). Dry them thoroughly. I mean it. Then cut them into flat disks. Cut the disks lengthwise into even-sized fries. Don’t mix thick and thin, because the frying times will be different. In Belgium we prefer a thicker fry. Dry them again. The potatoes should be as dry as possible.
Pour the oil into the fryer and heat to 325 degrees F. Working in small batches, fry the potatoes for about 7 to 8 minutes. Do not overcrowd them. Cooking too many potatoes at a go will lower the temperature of the oil and your fries will not cook correctly. They should be light yellow (not browned), but tender and cooked through.
Shake the basket to get rid of the excess oil and transfer them to a large bowl or baking sheet lined with paper towels. Make sure you maintain the temperature of your oil at 325 degrees. Then cook the rest of the fries in small batches. Let them rest until they reach room temperature. You can precook all of your fries several hours in advance. It’s important to let them rest and cool down before cooking a second time.
When you are ready, heat your oil to between 375 and 380 degrees. Fry your potatoes in small batches until nicely browned. This can take between 2 to 4 minutes. Keep an eye on them. Drain on fresh paper towels and place in a paper towel–lined, pre-warmed bowl. Season with salt and serve. You might want to cook half at the beginning of the meal and the other half later on to ensure fresh hot frites.
 
For the mussels . . .
 
Melt the butter in a pot large enough to hold all the mussels over medium heat. (If you are making mussels for more than four people, you may have to use two pots.)
Chop the celery and shallots or onion. Throw them in the pan and let them simmer slowly till they begin to soften, about 5 to 7 minutes. Add the mussels, some chopped parsley, the white wine, and freshly ground pepper.
Cover and bring to a boil over high heat, giving the pot a good shake now and then to redistribute the mussels. Cook until all the mussels are opened, about 5 to 6 minutes. Do not overcook, or the mussels will be tough. Remove from heat. Discard any mussels that have not opened.
Ladle mussels and broth into soup plates. Sprinkle with more parsley.
Serve with the fresh hot fries and a chilled white wine. Or a good beer.
Dip the fries in the broth or in homemade mayonnaise if desired.
 
This is paradise, Belgian-style. Great for a long, chatty meal with friends. It’s also a wonderful romantic meal for two, since mussels are an aphrodisiac. Cut the recipe in half, light some tapers, and cue up your favorite music to play softly in the background.