The Secret French Recipes of Sophie Valroux - Samantha Verant Page 0,81

facing an enormous brick and limestone neoclassical building adorned with impressive sculptures.

“This is Place du Capitole,” said Rémi, pointing. “The big buildings over there house the hôtel de ville, the mayor’s office, and the opera. Do you know why they call Toulouse ‘La Ville Rose’?” he asked.

“No,” I said.

“Because of all the pink brick buildings,” he said. “Tu as faim?”

I wasn’t hungry just yet. “Not really,” I said.

“Good, because we are not eating here. I have a special place I want to take you. But first we will visit the Basilica of Saint-Sernin, one of the largest Romanesque structures in the world.”

“You make an excellent tour guide,” I said.

“What can I say?” he replied. “I’m a very good friend.”

With that, he turned on his heel and began to walk away. He looked over his shoulder as I stood in the center of the Occitan cross, one of the symbols of the region, not moving. “Are you coming, Sophie?”

* * *

Our morning ended at Marché Victor Hugo, at one of the restaurants over the market. We sat across from one another in silence, me looking at the menu.

“What do you want?” asked Rémi.

Well, that was a loaded question. I couldn’t focus on the menu because I was looking at his beautiful lips and wondering how they’d feel pressed onto mine. I knew what I didn’t want. I didn’t want to be “just friends” with Rémi, and the lustful feelings I was fighting were confusing me beyond belief.

“Sophie,” said Rémi. “I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.”

After a very awkward lunch with me staring at Rémi and vice versa, we meandered through the market at Victor Hugo, filled with butchers, cheese, fish, and vegetable vendors, along with quite a few bakers. He bought a few things—a roast beef and some vegetables. We stopped in front of a pâtisserie and Rémi pointed to some cakes.

“Have you ever had a galette des rois?”

“No,” I said. “What is it?”

“It’s a tradition in France,” he said. “On January sixth, which is today, we celebrate the Epiphany, when the baby Jesus was presented to the Three Wise Men. In the past, the cake was cut into portions, plus one. This extra slice was known as the part du pauvre, the slice given to the needy. After that, under the reign of Louis XIV, une fève, a small porcelain figurine depicting Mary or another nativity figurine, is hidden inside the cake. Whoever finds the fève is crowned queen or king for the day, the paper crown supplied by the local pâtisserie. We have two choices—the brioche flavored with fleur d’oranger or stuffed with frangipane. Which one would you like to try?”

“Frangipane,” I said, loving this tradition and wondering why my mother had never told me about it.

“But you can’t eat it now,” he said.

“Why? We didn’t have dessert and that looks delicious.”

“I was hoping you’d join us for dinner,” he said, casting his eyes downward. “Lola keeps talking about her tatie Sophie. I’m cooking.” He pointed to his shopping bags. “Do you like rôti de bœuf?”

“What about Grand-mère?” I asked.

“I’ve already cleared my plan with her.”

Of course he had. I was being set up again. And this was fine by me. I was feeling back to my old self, and I didn’t want this day to end.

24

too much, too soon, too fast

Rémi’s house was quaint and charming, and I remembered visiting it as a kid. An old stone farmhouse with wooden beams, it held none of the glitz or glamour of the château, and I immediately felt at ease. He’d obviously done some renovations since I’d last been here, opening up the downstairs completely—American style. Rustic. Charming. Simple.

We stepped over dolls and toys, and after a quick tour of Rémi’s five-bedroom home, he ushered me into the large kitchen, complete with a beautiful red Lacanche stove. The dogs, D’Artagnan and Aramis, slept on the floor in rather luxurious burgundy velvet dog beds with a brocade fleur-de-lis print. The dogs rolled on their backs, tongues lolling, wanting belly scratches. Happily, I obliged.

Rémi lit a fire, put on classical music, and opened a bottle of wine. As he handed me a glass, I realized there was something missing. “Where’s Lola?” I asked.

“She’s at her music class.” He eyed his wrist. “Laetitia will be bringing her home any minute. It’s only a bit past five. I hope you don’t mind eating so early. We usually eat at six.”

“It’s fine,” I said, taking his arm and eyeing the mark on his