thank you. It’s fine. I am waiting for my husband. He’s just running a bit late, as per usual.” She gave a wry smile and raised her eyebrows. “Thank you very much anyway.”
She tapped her foot on the ground a couple of times and then thought about the nice weekend they had planned. Tomorrow they would start the day early with a brisk walk. This was their talking time without any distractions. The area they lived in was entirely surrounded by boardwalks and walking paths along the edge of the Brisbane River; the same river that graced their back door.
Chilli loved spring in Brisbane. Many of the native plants had burst into flower, attracting an assortment of birds, butterflies, bats and possums. The subtropical climate and green leafy suburb had always made Brisbane the perfect lifestyle choice for them.
She hoped they would have time for the Farmers Markets in New Farm Park where the fresh produce was unbelievable. She viewed looking at food the ways some women window shopped for fashion. There was not only green but also white freshly picked asparagus from the man who sold only asparagus, bags of mushrooms with their intoxicating earthy smell from the mushroom man, and all different types of potatoes from the potato lady, with the Dutch Cream being a favourite at the moment for the best potato mash.
There were flavoursome, rich, red baby Roma tomatoes still on their green vine, which she kept on a platter on her kitchen bench, so she could pluck off fresh tomatoes at any time and bite into the small, juicy, mouth-watering fruit. The apple people not only had apples, some still with their leaves attached, but divine apple juice that was not squeezed but pressed. Piled high next door were sweet and colourful small capsicums; green, red, yellow and orange. Not only delicious but ornamental, the peppers had a regular place on the kitchen bench as well, before sadly they disappeared into that night’s dinner, leaving a blank spot where so much vibrancy had been. The organic free range eggs had beautiful, rich, yellow yolks, and the leaves man had every possible green leaf or herb you could want in a salad.
After eating the organic garlic from the markets, it was hard to eat anything else. It was so moist and almost oily and it crushed so easily that it had become addictive. Of course there was the fabulous aroma of dozens of breads to die for. The red onion and olive had become a favourite. Thickly sliced with fresh real butter wrapped in paper and sold in a stick, was heaven. There was a huge range of marinated and stuffed olives and dips and antipasto to choose from, and the pungent aroma of ripe cheeses made it quite difficult to not buy too many at a time. But the piece de resistance was the chocolate brownie that she always had to have as her treat. To die for! After all of this shopping, they’d probably grab a coffee at Montgomery’s, and see what was happening.
Then, late afternoon they were meeting up with five other couples at Montrachet for an early dinner before going to watch a Rugby match at the Suncorp Stadium. The dinner was in honour of one of Rob’s friends turning 50. The 50th birthdays had started and it was Rob’s turn in November. The Montgomerys caught up with this group two or three times a year, usually during Rugby season, as the guys had all played football together 30 years earlier. They were a great bunch and Chilli was excited at the thought of going to Montrachet. She was in love with its divine food.
Their Pissaladiere, which was a sort of pizza with caramelised onions, aromatic rosemary, olives and anchovies, was a wonderful taste of sweetness and salt at the same time. Rob always started with it and gave Chilli a taste. Generosity was definitely one of his best traits. If he ordered a seafood dish with only one large prawn, he always offered it to her, insisting that she loved it more than him so she should have it.
Briefly she reminded herself of that just now, trying not to be too annoyed with his worst trait of constantly being tardy.
Anyway, already she knew what she would order at Montrachet; the double baked soufflé with sand crab and gruyere cheese. For her, good eating was a requisite of life. But now, simply thinking about tomorrow night torturously made her stomach growl in hunger and her mouth water with anticipation.
Where was Rob? Letting out an annoyed breath, her eyes scanned the oncoming traffic. She wondered if she should hail a taxi.
But her next thought went back to Montrachet. She hoped that the restaurant still had the strawberry tarte tatin on the menu.
Thinking of this, reminded her of her French grandmother, Grand-mere Celeste. The older woman had been a strong mentor, and as such, an incredible influence on Chilli. The woman had an amazing sense of style. She loved theatre and she loved music. She always used to say that all the money in the world could not buy happiness or style. Happiness was inside. “You must look within yourself for it. You can’t buy style, but you learn to appreciate it. It’s not about everything new and it’s not about everything antique; you need to bring it together elegantly. Grace and elegance will see you through. Remember that Chilli.”
After meeting an Aussie boy in France, Celeste had come to Australia as a young bride. It was a huge surprise to the rest of his family.
And surprise it was, her grandmother had told her, in her still heavily accented English, despite all of the years she had spent in Australia. “In those days, Australia was not as multi-cultural. Your grandfather’s family treated me as if I was going to serve them frog’s legs or escargot for dinner.” Her hands danced around as she spoke. “You could not buy frog’s legs much less escargot ’ere, so where did they think I was going to get them from?”
Chilli was a clone of her grandmother. Both tiny and slim, with feet the size of dolls, they were typical of a certain type of French women. Chilli had inherited her grandmother’s huge chocolate brown eyes, framed with long, dark lashes and thick straight dark hair. Both were quite unlike Chilli’s own mother, Solange, who was a tall leggy, blue eyed blonde.
Chilli attributed her love of food and her love of France to her grandmother. Somewhere tucked away at the back of a drawer, smelling faintly of lavender, were the diaries Chilli had scribbled as a little girl. In a childish scrawl, they recorded the magical holidays she had shared with Grand-mere Celeste in France. And the one theme laced heavily throughout the diaries was food. For her, food and France are one and the same, and that’s how it had always been. She had spent huge chunks of her childhood exploring her grandmother’s kitchen, where a fervent passion for cooking and all foods French flourished.
Back then, she was properly teased about her enthusiasm for all things edible – it was a family joke – but it was hardly surprising that French cuisine had such an impact on her; after all, it was in her blood. The family even used to joke that one day she would marry the French baker’s son Phillipe. But of course she didn’t, she married the Aussie butcher’s son Rob.
During the course of her love affair with that country, she had come to know Paris well; the brassy picture postcard Paris and the more demure private Paris. French life was vibrant. It was colourful as much as for the people as for the surroundings; whether in the city or the country. Over the years she was consistently drawn to the culture, where pleasure and beauty were revered.
From their very first trip to France, her grandmother informed her that one must never leave France without purchasing a fabulous silk scarf, a handbag and a pair of shoes. “If you have that Chilli,” she had said, “You can wear anything and look stylish.”
She had taken her to the Hermes flagship store on the rue de Faubourg Saint-Honore, a temple to style, where under a glass topped cabinet were the most luxuriously printed, gloriously coloured squares of silk. With the shop assistant’s help, she had lessons on the fine art of wearing a scarf with style. Then it came time to choose. Her first Hermes scarf! The problem was they were all beautiful. How could she pick just one? But Grand-mere Celeste told her she would know it when she saw it. She did. It almost leapt out at her, with a mixture of all her favourite colours in one; tangerine,
