When the countess greeted us, she apologized for the luggage strewn in mid-pack in the halls. She had been preparing for departure to their château, but she hardly looked flustered. A woman in her sixties, with hair restored to a jet-black hue, she looked ready for Hello magazine in a red sundress and matching pumps, with a cigarette trailing smoke in her wake.
She led us into the sunroom, followed by Lulu, the terrier. A small but princely creature, he gave me a cursory sniff before curling up at the Countess’s feet. Then the Count marched in, a stocky, white-haired man clad in his favorite olive silk suit, singing a Breton folk tune. “Chant, Lulu, chant,” he called. Lulu scrambled to his haunches and began to howl along with his master.
The concert completed, Lulu settled back in and the Count got down to business. He listened attentively as our mutual friend Judy aggrandized my CV. Then his round blue eyes lit up and his face broke into a wide grin. He almost shouted, “Does she know how to make an omelette baveuse?”
I mustered a shy “Oui,” and the Count shook my hand. I was hired. “Elle est très jolie, oui, ça marche très bien.”
I was 22, a month out of college, with a degree in American history. Beyond omelette and oui, I spoke no French. Though I was interviewing for the post of summer cook, I’d cooked professionally for only six months, if I rounded up generously: one month flipping flapjacks at a sleepaway camp, three making Shabbat dinners for a family in New York, and two as a commis in a London restaurant. But I’d fallen in love with the métier and I was determined to learn cooking at the source. A few days after graduation, I’d flown to France with the secret wish that I might find an apprenticeship.
Grace à Dieu, I had been given the phone number of a woman who might be able to help. The afternoon I arrived at Judy Boullet’s apartment, she prepared a sumptuous lunch and teased out of me the extent of my hope. By coffee she’d mapped out my cooking career, starting with a summer as a private chef. Her friends Monsieur le Comte and Madame la Comtesse were kind and good-humored, and had reassured her that they did not need someone with much experience. They had just hosted a wedding for their son, with 900 guests, and were looking forward to a modest summer.
At their Paris apartment, the Count and Countess had a guest room where I stayed for the two weeks until we departed for Brittany. I divided my time between cooking classes in the morning, French classes in the afternoon, and evenings watching the Coupe du Monde with the housekeeper, Najiyah.
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