Part 2 (1/2)
”Voila! Voici!” she said, handing us each a steaming plate. ”Take.”
In spite of the Supreme Irritation Known as Janet and Her Enthusiasm, I was eager to see what we were having. The entire world has heard tales of the magical French cuisine. These would be the first items for my Mental Pool! I could have a sumptuous dining scene in my novel, with realistic descriptions of every course. I looked expectantly at my plate.
It was franks and beans.
”Hey. HEY! What IS this?” I demanded.
”Franks and beans,” said Charlotte.
”That was a RHETORICAL question,” I spluttered. ”Are you going to eat that?”
Charlotte had already taken a bite of her frank, wordlessly answering my question.
”Bonnie, are you?” I asked. And I glanced over at her plate. Then I went white with rage. (Okay, I didn't go white with rage, but it sounds good, doesn't it? One day I plan to go white with rage.) What I actually did was make a little envious, frustrated exclamatory sound. Kind of like ”whahuh?!”
Because Bonnie didn't have franks and beans on her plate. She had what very closely resembled steamed vegetables, sliced hard-boiled egg, soybeans, and rice. She had, in other words, something that looked...good. Not necessarily French, but possibly novelworthy. And definitely tasty.
”But...,” I said.
”I'm a vegetarian, dude, remember?” Bonnie said. ”So they don't serve me the same thing they serve you.”
”There was a box to check on the form that came in the information packet, Lily,” said Charlotte. She had a tiny sliver of baked bean stuck on her lower lip. I was feeling mean, so I didn't tell her.
”Well, I've been giving it a lot of THOUGHT,” I exclaimed, ”and I have decided to become a vegetarian. As of right now.”
”Bud, that's EXCELLENT,” said Bonnie, beaming.
”So I will accept my vegetarian meal now,” I said primly.
”It doesn't work that way,” Charlotte said. ”You have to tell them when you register. You can't change without rendering due notice.”
The piece of bean was still stuck to her lip.
I sighed and picked up my fork.
”I am currently, but perhaps temporarily, once again a meat-atarian,” I said. I took a bite of my dinner. ”But I do think they MIGHT have been a little more...French with the meal.”
”I agree!” exclaimed Janet.
”Oh, come on,” said Charlotte cheerfully. ”When you get right down to it, there's really nothing more French than a frank.”
I wasn't in the mood for Charlotte's sophisticated, cultural wordplay.
But between you and me, Dear Readers, it was the best frank I'd ever tasted.
Three.
Madame Chavotte woke us at seven thirty the next morning, making me feel like one of those army trainees awakening in the barracks at dawn to a barrage of commands from a towering military figure. We had to make our beds, but no one was ordered to do push-ups or clean the toilets with a toothbrush.
Any hopes for a traditional French breakfast were shattered with the arrival of a collection of cereal boxes and pitchers of milk. There was also a stack of sliced bread piled precariously next to an industrial-size toaster. But the light at the end of the tunnel was the discovery of the only valid item of European cuisine to be found within fifty feet of the VEI-a jar of Nutella. Nutella: bliss in a thirteen-ounce spreadable form. Nutella: my current raison d'etre. Quite simply, it's chocolate hazelnut paste. You spread it on bread and eat it. This is essentially like having a piping-hot piece of toast with chocolate frosting smeared on top. And this is not even considered nutritionally warped behavior in Paris; in fact, it is as normal as tucking into a bowl of granola and milk. Chocolate paste on toast. Now there's something to inspire a writer.
I love Paris! J'aime Nutella!
Madame Chavotte wanted to start our first morning in Paris with Something Big, leading us with a purposeful stroll over the Pont Neuf to Notre Dame Cathedral. Bud and Chaz were high-fiving each other and whooping the whole way, because apparently there is a football team called Notre Dame, and they thought we were going to see a game.
When we arrived, we gathered on the square in front of the cathedral, where the ma.s.sive towers loomed over us. Lewis and the Mysterious Tim stood lurking silently in their black T-s.h.i.+rts, looking like a team of junior Secret Service agents. At this point even Bud's and Chaz's teeny brains figured out we were definitely not at a sports arena. Bud (or it might have been Chaz) then had a s.h.i.+ning intellectual moment when, recovering from his disappointment, he pointed a beefy finger at the cathedral and said, ”Hey! It's that church from the Disney movie!”
Charlotte shook her head in disgust.
”This cathedral has been standing for seven hundred years and is considered the crowning Gothic architectural masterpiece of the world,” she said. ”And Bud only knows it from the cartoon version of The Hunchback of Notre Dame.”
”Disgraceful!” I agreed. It was the sort of thing only a Very Simple Tourist would have known: a Disney fact.
”LISTEN, PLIZ!” Madame Chavotte was calling. She might be the only human being in the world who sounded like she was using a megaphone when she wasn't. Really, how could a person NOT listen?
”You 'ave read ze information sheet on ze 'istory of ze ca.s.sedral, which also 'as a map on ze uzzer side. So I sink is good for you to explore ze ca.s.sedral seuls. Okay? Good? Seuls.”
Good soul? Was there some sort of spiritual requirement to get in? Was my soul good? If it wasn't, would I be sent down a hatch like Veruca Salt in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory? I envisioned standing on a platform at the cathedral's entrance, and a sign lighting up, blinking on and off ”BAD SOUL.” Criminy!
”Can they do that?” I whispered anxiously to Charlotte.
”Do what?” she asked.
”Evaluate our souls?”
Charlotte stared at me with her eyebrows all squinched together.
”Lily, what are you talking about?”
I pulled her away from the group and whispered, ”Madame Chavotte said that to go into the cathedral, we needed good soul!”
Charlotte covered her face with her hands. I could hear a m.u.f.fled sigh of frustration.
”Didn't you study any French vocabulary before this trip?” she asked through her hands.
”Uh, some,” I said. ”Oui.”
I had studied my vocabulary words. It's just that my brain retained only words that seemed important to me, personally. Like ecrivain. After all, what could be more important than the French word for ”writer”?
”She said she thought it would be good seuls, Lily. Seuls. Alone. She thinks it would be fun for us to explore the cathedral on our own.”
YAY! My soul was not going to be evaluated!
”Oh, right,” I said casually. ”Seuls. Right. It's the jet lag.”
Charlotte was polite enough not to respond to that lie.