Lucky Me: My Life With--and Without--My Mom, Shirley MacLaine by Parker Sachi

Author:Parker, Sachi [Parker, Sachi]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 9781101616567
Publisher: Gotham
Published: 2013-02-07T08:00:00+00:00

Chapter 9

La Vie Bohème

After four years at Qantas, it was time for a change. I can cite no particular deciding factor in this—not the apparition of Luke, nor the pile of poop nor the general rootlessness of the stewardess life. In fact, I was having a great time. There was no reason at all to leave.

So I did—and moved to France.

I’m not sure why. My affair with the malodorous Pierre had long since ended, so there was no romance drawing me there. Yet I didn’t want to stay in Sydney, I didn’t want to go back to Tokyo or Honolulu, and I loved Paris. I loved the French people, the French culture, and I especially loved French food.

I’d saved just enough money from Qantas to afford a small studio on the Left Bank—and when I say “small,” I mean tiny: there was a twin bed, a closet-size bathroom, and that was it. Crammed inside the bathroom was a toilet, a corner sink, and a cheap plastic stall shower. There was no kitchen to speak of, just a hot plate and an electric coffeepot. I couldn’t really cook there, which was ironic, because I think the main reason I’d moved to Paris was so that I could learn to cook.

I didn’t take any cooking lessons per se—too expensive—but I did take a job as a waitress in any restaurant that would have me. I figured, if I can be close enough to where they make this marvelous food, I’ll be able to absorb their culinary knowledge without paying a dime.

These were not gourmet restaurants, but little mom-and-pop storefront bistros and cafés. Simple and unpretentious, they turned out classic French fare—onion soups, ratatouille, roast chicken (ah, my favorite!)—for everyday diners who had no idea how lucky they were. I watched the chefs at work in the kitchen and picked up many a savory tip just by keeping my eyes open. I also picked up a rich vocabulary of French colloquialisms and swear words.

During the year I spent in Paris, I was never at any one bistro for more than a couple of months. Perhaps owing to the restlessness bred into me as a stewardess, I liked to bounce from one place to another, looking for new friends and adventures. There were a lot of Japanese tourists in Paris in those days, so my felicity with the language put me always in demand, and I never had a problem finding a job.

Wherever I went, though, I found myself immersed in the world of food. I would get to work early in the morning to help the chef prepare, and go shopping with him at the open markets to pick out the best fruits, the best fish, the best overall ingredients. Then I’d spend the entire day at the café, watching the cooks put together their simple masterpieces as I flitted in and out of the kitchen. I’d be there fifteen hours a day, and the staff would become my new family.

Then, after a few months, I’d be done, and I’d look for another bistro.

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