thought.
"Why?" I asked.
"Do you remember the young man who came into the kitchen with me this afternoon?"
Remember him? If I am fortunate, I will think of nothing but him all night long, I thought.
"Yes," I said.
"He is looking for a cook for this Sunday.
"I am the cook he is looking for, I thought.
"Oh," I said, without blinking an eye.
Miss Toklas explained to me that you were a young bachelor who would allow me free rein with planning the menu. An American, but one who could still afford to pay a premium, she assured me, for the inconvenience created by such short notice. She handed me your calling card and told me to meet you the following day at a quarter past two.
"Did I mention that he complimented you on those lovely, actually, I think he said sublime,' cakes that you served this afternoon?" Miss Toklas added, knowing that I am vain and that my vanity would understand the honey in her voice, even if I had to flick aside her hollow words like ants.
I had no hope, so I had no suspicion. I looked at the name on the card and saw nothing there but a fine pair of boots for the winter. My shirt cuffs are worn. Frayed edges are the telltale filigree
of secondhand garments. My gloves bare the tips of my fingers to cold, observant eyes, but my shoes, my shoes belong to a man who does not think twice about strolling through life on the heels of luxury. Supple leather, hand-stitched details, eloquent in form and function and, yes, they gleam. I shine them each day with the sweat of my labor. I shine them each night until I can see my reflection, muddied and unpolished. I had arrived fifteen minutes early, and there was no one home.
I sat in the doorway of 12 rue de l'Odéon and lost myself in the passing street life. In this way, I am afraid, I am very French. I am entertained best by the continuous flow of people whom I do not know. I am amused by the faces that fade in and fade out as they pass me by. What these Parisians will declare out loud under their blue-tented sky, I will never fully understand, but I do not need their conversations. There are always the stock characters with their classic poses, which even I can comprehend: lovers, best when configured in threes, two locked in a visual embrace, the third trailing, losing self-respect but not hope with each frantic step; students, traveling in a band of fours and fives, eyes bloodshot from endless nights of too many books or too many drinks but rarely both; poets, always alone even when they are accompanied by their muse, casting long shadows in long coats with too many holes and patches, carefully cultivated emblems of creativity that disqualify them from pity.
From the other side of the street you approached holding two books in one hand and in the other, dangling from one finger, a white paper box tied with some red string. Sweets, I thought. My eyes fell into the rumpled folds of your coat, the waves of your hair. I want to be at sea again, I thought. I want to be at sea again.
Your hair looks clean and freshly washed, I thought. An important indicator of anyone's overall cleanliness. You wear it parted on the left-hand side. A personal preference of mine as well. Your tie is tucked into the V of your sweater. I too prefer a sweater's soft drape to the buttons and bulk of a vest. Your coat looks warm. I would look good in it. Your hands ... your
hands? But where are your gloves? Ah, hands like yours will not stay cold for very long. Your eyes, coffee and cinnamon. An infusion to wake me from sleep.
"Well, are you coming in with me, or shall we conduct our interview here in the doorway?"
Your French was flawless but with a slowness to its delivery, unctuous and ripe. I wanted to open my mouth and taste each word. "Interview," though, slapped me in the face. The word was a sharp reminder that I was a servant who thought himself a man, that I was a fool who thought himself a king of hearts. I got up and walked with you into a stairwell paneled with
"Why?" I asked.
"Do you remember the young man who came into the kitchen with me this afternoon?"
Remember him? If I am fortunate, I will think of nothing but him all night long, I thought.
"Yes," I said.
"He is looking for a cook for this Sunday.
"I am the cook he is looking for, I thought.
"Oh," I said, without blinking an eye.
Miss Toklas explained to me that you were a young bachelor who would allow me free rein with planning the menu. An American, but one who could still afford to pay a premium, she assured me, for the inconvenience created by such short notice. She handed me your calling card and told me to meet you the following day at a quarter past two.
"Did I mention that he complimented you on those lovely, actually, I think he said sublime,' cakes that you served this afternoon?" Miss Toklas added, knowing that I am vain and that my vanity would understand the honey in her voice, even if I had to flick aside her hollow words like ants.
I had no hope, so I had no suspicion. I looked at the name on the card and saw nothing there but a fine pair of boots for the winter. My shirt cuffs are worn. Frayed edges are the telltale filigree
of secondhand garments. My gloves bare the tips of my fingers to cold, observant eyes, but my shoes, my shoes belong to a man who does not think twice about strolling through life on the heels of luxury. Supple leather, hand-stitched details, eloquent in form and function and, yes, they gleam. I shine them each day with the sweat of my labor. I shine them each night until I can see my reflection, muddied and unpolished. I had arrived fifteen minutes early, and there was no one home.
I sat in the doorway of 12 rue de l'Odéon and lost myself in the passing street life. In this way, I am afraid, I am very French. I am entertained best by the continuous flow of people whom I do not know. I am amused by the faces that fade in and fade out as they pass me by. What these Parisians will declare out loud under their blue-tented sky, I will never fully understand, but I do not need their conversations. There are always the stock characters with their classic poses, which even I can comprehend: lovers, best when configured in threes, two locked in a visual embrace, the third trailing, losing self-respect but not hope with each frantic step; students, traveling in a band of fours and fives, eyes bloodshot from endless nights of too many books or too many drinks but rarely both; poets, always alone even when they are accompanied by their muse, casting long shadows in long coats with too many holes and patches, carefully cultivated emblems of creativity that disqualify them from pity.
From the other side of the street you approached holding two books in one hand and in the other, dangling from one finger, a white paper box tied with some red string. Sweets, I thought. My eyes fell into the rumpled folds of your coat, the waves of your hair. I want to be at sea again, I thought. I want to be at sea again.
Your hair looks clean and freshly washed, I thought. An important indicator of anyone's overall cleanliness. You wear it parted on the left-hand side. A personal preference of mine as well. Your tie is tucked into the V of your sweater. I too prefer a sweater's soft drape to the buttons and bulk of a vest. Your coat looks warm. I would look good in it. Your hands ... your
hands? But where are your gloves? Ah, hands like yours will not stay cold for very long. Your eyes, coffee and cinnamon. An infusion to wake me from sleep.
"Well, are you coming in with me, or shall we conduct our interview here in the doorway?"
Your French was flawless but with a slowness to its delivery, unctuous and ripe. I wanted to open my mouth and taste each word. "Interview," though, slapped me in the face. The word was a sharp reminder that I was a servant who thought himself a man, that I was a fool who thought himself a king of hearts. I got up and walked with you into a stairwell paneled with
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