I SPENT THE NEXT DAY preoccupied with thoughts of Serge not being able to sell cheese. Every time I’d try to do some work, I’d get distracted trying to come up with a plan to help. I toyed with the idea of calling Fanny (who, to this day, had never once shown any willingness to help me, despite my multiple attempts to win her over) or maybe getting Clotilde to ask Gaston to write an article for his paper’s food column on Serge’s venture (too awkward to even contemplate further). These were the only two people I knew who might be able to help promote Serge’s cheese, and I didn’t have a good relationship with either of them. Shit, I thought, wishing there was something I could do. The afternoon flew by as I researched the best ways to sell cheese and to establish a brand.
Later that afternoon, Tim called.
“Ella, I’ve got some news,” he said in a tone that immediately made me nervous.
“What’s up?” I asked.
“I have to cut back your hours.”
Tim had never been one to beat around the bush.
“Oh,” I murmured, my heart beating loudly in my ears. “Did something happen?” I couldn’t help but think about how little work I’d done since Serge and I had moved. Was I being fired?
“Not really,” he said. “It’s just that I’ve found someone local who can take up the slack. It’ll be easier with this person in the office. I know it’s perhaps not ideal . . .”
“Right,” I said, desperately trying to figure out a way to convince Tim that I needed this job.
“But I can keep giving you occasional freelance jobs if you’re interested,” he said, as though this would be a good consolation. “And that way you can keep your work visa.”
“OK, yep,” I told him, tears welling in my eyes.
“And soon you’ll have your hands full with the baby anyway,” he added.
“Not for a few months,” I said.
“It’ll come around quicker than you think, or want.”
“I guess,” I said. My mind was spinning, trying to come to terms with what was going on.
“Anyway,” Tim said. “How’s life in the country? Are you guys loving it?”
The sudden switch to small talk threw me. “Serge is warming to it, I guess. What’s the adjustment period from cheese guy to farmer?”
“Probably not that different from you getting used to the country.”
“So, interminable,” I suggested, attempting a laugh despite wanting to cry.
“At least you’re still sleeping through the night,” he said. “Wait until you start questioning all your life decisions when you’re severely sleep-deprived. Enjoy the pregnancy while you can. Babies are much easier in than out.”
Hanging up, I felt numb. Almost as easily as I’d got the job with Tim, I’d lost it. Yes, I realized that things hadn’t been going particularly well, but I would have found my feet eventually. I was devastated that I could be replaced so easily.
On top of wondering what I was going to do with myself now, my biggest concern was worrying about how Serge would take the news. I wasn’t bringing in a lot of cash but it was a dependable income, and with cheese sales being down, it was probably an important contribution.
I decided not to tell him right away, until I’d figured out another way to make money. He had enough going on down on the farm. He didn’t need to worry about me, too.
What else can go wrong at the moment? I wondered.
The following week, my panic at having lost my job and at having zero new work prospects on the horizon had to be put on hold. Clotilde and Chris were both scheduled to visit, and I’d promised to show them a good time.
Clotilde arrived in her father’s convertible, armed with treats from Paris. Spying a bag of pastries from my favorite bakery, Du Pain et des Idées, I said to her, “You do know we have bakeries out here, right?”
“But do they have the sacristain?” she asked.
The sacristain was my favorite pastry. I’d previously firmly been a croissant—regular, almond, or chocolate—for breakfast kind of girl, but the sacristain changed all that. The baton-shaped combination of puff pastry, almond, and vanilla was delicious and the perfect shape and size for dipping into coffee. I was thoroughly converted, and now it took the flakiest of flaky-looking croissants to woo me back. I’d yet to find a better example of the sacristain than the one from this bakery by the Canal Saint-Martin.
“I have more goodies in the trunk, too.” She smiled.
“So, did you finally get a job with Uber Eats?” I asked.
“Very funny,” she said as I took her inside.
I walked her through the house, telling her that we’d decided to hold off on renovating for a while.
“It actually looks much better than I remember,” she said.
I watched her closely, trying to figure out if she was just being generous.
“Seriously,” she said, noticing my look. “Your furniture works surprisingly well in here. And it’s much cleaner now. Sort of has a retro-chic look about it, too.”
I looked at the kitchen and squinted, wondering if Clotilde needed an eye test. Perhaps I’d just started imagining it to be worse than it actually was?
“Are you just saying that because we haven’t started the renovations?” I asked.
“Not at all,” she confirmed. “It’s a good thing; at least you don’t need to rush.”
Even if Clotilde was just being nice, it was good to know the farmhouse wasn’t a complete disaster.
“Coffee or tea?” I asked.
We sat, and Clotilde pulled out a box of meringues from Aux Merveilleux de Fred. The little parcels of whipped-cream-filled meringues were as light as air while still managing to burst with the flavor of coffee, chocolate, or cherry. As I bit into one, it dissolved on my tongue, and I was taken back to the time when Clotilde had first introduced me to them and we’d eaten an entire box while lying in the park near our apartment.
Full of sugar, I suggested we head into town for a spot of shopping, but Clotilde had a better idea. “We’ll go to my favorite castle. Perhaps you could get some inspiration for the remodeling,” she joked. “Besides, you can’t live in the Loire and not know les châteaux.”
We arrived at Château de Villandry after a quick drive. The approach from town was nothing short of spectacular. We walked around the perfectly manicured gardens—which looked more like large-scale artworks—admiring the impeccable lines of hedges and the artistic use of vegetables in the garden beds. Clotilde was right—being surrounded by such beauty was inspiring. I felt a kind of peace as we walked through the castle grounds, imagining a very different kind of life.
Clotilde interrupted my thoughts of joining a royal family somewhere and started grilling me on what had been going on. She must have sensed that there was something on my mind.
“So, how is everything out here, Ella? Are you terribly bored yet? How’s work?”
“I’m actually winding down my hours at Food To Go Go. Tim is going to keep me on the books, but more on an occasional freelance basis.”
“What does that mean?” she asked.
“No confirmed paycheck each month,” I said.
“Damn. So, what’s your plan?”
“Well, I’ve been mulling things over,” I said, feeling things out as I spoke.
“And?” she asked.
“The way I see it is that I have two options. I could look for a job in town—”
“Mmm, something in tourism perhaps,” she suggested, cutting me off.
“Or . . . I was thinking I could help Serge on the farm,” I said.
“On the farm?” she repeated, seemingly as surprised at the idea as I was.
“Sort of,” I confirmed. “But more in a sales and marketing capacity.”
“OK,” she said, clearly trying to keep up.
“I’m hoping to get the cheese-tasting room up and running. You know where we tasted Michel’s cheese that first day we visited the farm,” I said. “Well, the other day I had a vision of me standing behind the bar, wearing a cute little apron and serving cheese, and it got me thinking.”
It felt weird expressing my plans aloud. Even though it wasn’t a particularly wild idea, I would be taking a risk—and committing myself to actually staying on the farm.
“Tell me more,” she said.
“Well, I figured I could help Serge actually sell some cheese, help get his name out there. It’d be sort of like running a fromagerie, so Serge would be able to lend a hand with the set-up. And then I could work there.”
“OK,” she said.
“Well, what do you think? Is it a terrible idea?” I asked.
“No, not terrible. I’m just wondering what kind of market you’d have out here for something like that.”
“I still need to run the whole idea by Serge, anyway. And if he’s not keen, perhaps I could just help him with the goats while I look for something more suitable.”
She chuckled and took my arm in hers. “Ella, I think one day on the farm will be enough for you to realize that you’re not destined to be a farmer.”
Clotilde helped me figure out a way to gently introduce the idea of the cheese-tasting room to Serge. She’d convinced me that a coercive approach would be more effective than a bombardment.
“Especially if he’s got a lot going on at the moment,” she’d said after I’d explained to her that Serge often worked from sunrise to sunset. “Best to go in slowly so he doesn’t just dismiss it as being too much work. Perhaps join him on the farm for a few days and then magically ‘stumble’ on the idea. Make him feel like it’s a joint venture.”
It was a good plan, of course. Clotilde had a knack for being right.
“Don’t you have work to do?” Serge asked when I suggested I could help him feed the goats after Clotilde had gone back to Paris.
“Actually, Tim has asked me to work on specific projects for a while, so it looks like I’ll have some more free time now,” I said, figuring I could explain the financial implications of this when I pitched the cheese-room idea to him.
I thought he’d ask more questions but he just looked relieved.
My intentions to help Serge, however, went out the window when Cecile tried to attack me. Things had been going relatively well all morning. I’d managed to move a few wheelbarrows of feed for the kids and had even attempted a pat. This last move, however, had been a mistake, something I only realized when Cecile—a rather large goat with one lazy eye—decided to intervene, and chased me almost the entire way back to the house.
I rushed inside, looking over my shoulder to make sure she wasn’t about to barge through the door. If ever I needed a sign that I shouldn’t be a farmer, Cecile had just given it to me.
Serge came in shortly after.
“Ella, where did you go?” he asked.
I quickly ushered him in and shut the door. “Serge, thank God you’re back. Cecile is loose. She nearly attacked me. I think she might have rabies or something. I’m pretty sure I saw her foaming at the mouth.”
“Really? When I saw her she looked fine. She’s back behind the fence now. She actually went back in very obligingly. She really is one of my favorites.”
“Well, not mine,” I said.
“Shall we go back together?” he asked.
“Perhaps I should stay here and make us some lunch,” I said, my heart still beating quickly.
Serge only needed to look at me to realize I was traumatized. He nodded his agreement and gave me a reassuring hug.
Perhaps I can find another way to convince Serge that the cheese-tasting room is a good idea, I thought while busying myself in the kitchen.
Cooking turned out to be the ultimate distraction from my other concerns. It was meditative and warm. It kept me both physically and mentally occupied. And neither Serge, nor the bébé, complained about the outcome.
I needed to find recipes and go shopping, all before even starting to prepare and cook. If it wasn’t market day, I’d have to head to the supermarket for supplies, which always felt like a mission. Country supermarkets—or les grandes surfaces—didn’t bear much resemblance to the ones I’d frequented in Paris. They were huge warehouses with equally large parking lots, and felt big and cold. Everyone used trolleys and stocked up on things like long-life milk and six-packs of water. The selection of products was overwhelming, and I missed the careful curating that made the delis and épiceries of Paris so perfect. But still, the collection of cheese was enormous, so I couldn’t really complain.
Cooking filled hours of my day, and I seemed to have the wonderful ability to choose recipes that would take a long time to prepare. Serge had a Paul Bocuse cookbook from the seventies that was wildly decadent and complicated, but provided me with an opportunity to test both my French and my skills in the kitchen. And it served as great fodder for my Instagram feed. While last year had been all about cheese in its natural state, this year would be all about dishes that incorporated cheese.
Building on my reasoning that everyone is happy after eating well, I planned to tell Serge about my plans for the cheese room eventually, over a lavish dinner. But the nights went by and the moment never felt right, and then Chris was due to visit, so I put it off a little longer.
Chris arrived and brought with him a breath of Paris air that I didn’t even realize I’d been desperate for. And he was thrilled to be out of the city, exclaiming that even the journey had been refreshing. Serge and I picked him up at the train, took him back to our house, and gave him the tour. He loved the place.
Later, with Serge back looking after his goats, Chris drove us into town. We headed to my usual café, the only one I’d found with decent Wi-Fi.
“Now, sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but from what I’ve seen, you won’t get a decent flat white out here,” I told him.
Opting for a glass of Chinon wine instead, Chris asked me how I was holding up.
“It’s been an adjustment,” I told him.
“No kidding,” he said. “Even Paris can be hard to get used to. I can only imagine being out here in the backwaters.”
“There are certain things I do like. The local market is amazing. Serge keeps telling me how delicious the wine is. Goat cheese is rife. This town is gorgeous. I guess I’m just missing my creature comforts—my Haussmann apartment, my favorite barista . . .”
“Who wouldn’t miss me?” he asked.
I punched him in the arm. He was only joking but he actually wasn’t wrong. It felt indulgent to admit that I was missing coffee, but it was more than that. I was missing café culture. Hanging out in a friendly space with friendly people. Having a meeting point.
“And how’s work?” he asked, bringing me back from Paris where my mind had wandered off to.
I guessed Tim hadn’t mentioned anything to Chris. I started to explain the situation as I had done with Clotilde.
“So, what are you doing all day?” he asked, interrupting.
“Well, I’ve taken to cooking, which fills in a surprising amount of time.”
“Have you been checking out the area? Visiting other towns?”
“Not really,” I admitted. “A little bit while Clotilde was here.”
“Ella. It sounds like what you need is a break from the farm. Being pregnant doesn’t mean you’re housebound,” he said.
“No, but I’m certainly less fun.”
“You probably have less fun, but that doesn’t make you less fun. What else is there to do around here?”
“There’s plenty of wine,” I joked.
“Yes! Let’s go to a winery and try some wine,” he said quickly.
I pointed at my stomach.
“Ella, you’re mad—a winery is probably the one place in the world where it is acceptable to spit out wine.”
I actually hadn’t considered that. “OK, let’s do it,” I said.
It was that time of year when most of the wineries were either quiet or closed for tastings, but we found a beautiful vineyard just outside of Chinon that was open.
Chris enthusiastically tried every wine on offer, while I was more reserved, trying only a couple and making sure to spit the samples out.
Walking through the spindly vines—Chris jolly from the tasting—I explained my idea for the cheese room to him.
“Like a café?” he asked.
“No, more like somewhere you can go and try—and then buy—the cheese, and perhaps sit down for some simple food. Like a wine-tasting room, but for cheese.”
“I like it,” he said.
“Yeah?” I asked, relieved.
“But why not just throw a coffee machine in the corner, too?” he suggested.
“I guess I could,” I said, thinking it over for a minute. It would certainly manage to kill two birds with one stone. It’d make good coffee available in the country and it’d probably bring in more business. “It’s a good idea,” I admitted.
“You’d need a barista, though,” he added quickly, obviously remembering how bad I was at making coffee.
“You?” I suggested.
“Move here?”
“Yep!”
“No way, Ella. I’ve hardly seen anyone under forty here—there’s certainly not enough action for my liking. But I could help you get things off the ground. Are you serious about it?”
“Well, I’m not sure about the café aspect, but I want to do something to help Serge sell his cheese. And really, I don’t have much else going on.”
“And what about all that?” he said, pointing at my belly.
“You underestimate the power of a pregnant woman,” I told him with a grin. “And a bored one at that.”
“You’ll need a proper plan then,” he said.
We spent the afternoon figuring out a business proposal and a budget for the cheese room. I told Chris we wouldn’t have much disposable money, and he reassured me that he had the contacts to help me do things affordably. “Besides,” he said, “you’ve got amazing second-hand markets in this area. I’m sure you could set up something really fun while sticking to this budget.”
After Chris’s visit, the idea of starting a café/cheese room in the middle of nowhere had officially become my new dream. It even made me cool slightly on the idea of immediately moving back to Paris. I’d begun to realize that I couldn’t fit my old city life into this new country setting, and in order to create a life for myself here, I needed to acclimatize to the surroundings. For perhaps the first time since we’d arrived on the farm, I was excited to see how things might evolve.
Serge must have noticed my change in disposition, too, because even though he was still constantly busy, he seemed happier than he had been in a while.
He’d taken the news of me cutting back my hours at Food To Go Go surprisingly well. When I’d explained that Tim had found someone in Paris to replace me, and that I’d just be doing occasional freelance jobs, he didn’t seem too bothered. Perhaps he felt guilty for making me leave the Paris office in the first place. Or perhaps his money troubles were sorting themselves out, and he didn’t need to rely on my income anymore.
It probably would have been a good time to pitch the café/cheese room to Serge but, following Chris’s advice, I wanted to do a little more research—and investigation into the state of our finances—before doing so.
Serge was a numbers guy. I had to make sure what I’d budgeted wasn’t too far out of reach before sharing it with him. I was already worried he’d think it was mad to take on this project, what with our eventual house renovations and the baby on the way, but as Serge once said, why walk when you can run?