Bon Appetit Read Free Page B

Orangina—though I really wanted a Coke with lots of ice cubes—and trying to look like I fit in. I doodled or read so I didn’t look alone. I loved France. I loved the French. Why didn’t they like me? Everyone was polite enough—except for Odious—but not friendly.
    “Bonjour,”
I said to the same waiter every day.
“Une salade niçoise
, please”.
    “Yes, certainly, right away,” he said with French efficiency and a brief smile. But there was no small talk.
    Maman said very little to me, but one of the bakers let it slip that they all had to do the elbow-busting work of the
commis
before theywent to baking school. I held on. School started in September, and I knew that after schooling, pastry chefs made much more in France than in Seattle. So I cut the bread, bagged it, and swept up the crumbs. I kept the front pastry case looking fresh. I wrote the specials of the day on the chalkboard with French-style printing. I kept my uniform clean and my hair neatly tied back.
    For all this, I earned a quick, smile-free nod of acknowledgment from Maman and more dirty dishes.
    My heart was empty. I never thought it would happen to me, but it did.
    I was homesick.
    “Tomorrow is your day off,” Maman said to me one Thursday afternoon. “What will you do?”
    “I’m taking the train to Paris,” I said, encouraged by her slight thaw. “I want a new dress and some shoes”.
    “Bon!”
Maman said. “That will be a wonderful day. What girl wouldn’t want to go to Paris?”
    I couldn’t imagine any girl who wouldn’t want to go to Paris. This girl had dreamed of it her whole life.
    I hopped on the train to Paris and immediately felt more cheerful. Unfortunately, I wouldn’t have time to do much sightseeing, due to the train schedule, but I’d still be in Paris. When the train arrived, I got off, had a
café crème
, and walked to one of the secondhand designer shops I’d looked up online.
    “God,” I prayed under my breath, “Some people might think it’ssilly to ask You for help finding a dress, but I want the perfect one, and I’m on a budget”. I had some birthday money my parents had sent me a week ago, but that was all.
    I pushed open the door to a small boutique in the Eighth Arrondissement, one of the more exclusive neighborhoods.
    “Bonjour!”
the saleswoman called out to me.
    “Bonjour,”
I replied.
    She smoothly came alongside me. “How can I help you?”
    I put myself firmly in her chic, fashionable hands. “I’m looking for a dress to wear to a wedding in a few weeks. And shoes to match. I want to make a nice, understated appearance. The wedding will be in Provence”.
    “Bon
, I can help you”. She bid me sit in the upholstered armchair next to the dressing room while she whisked about the store, gathering items here and there. A few minutes later, she stood in front of me with her choices.
    First she showed me a sea green silk dress that hit midcalf and midchest.
    “Too low cut for me,” I said.
    She didn’t blink and offered the second dress, peach and classically cut. It would definitely show off my warm skin tone.
    “Let’s try it”. I stood and reached for the dress.
    “Attendez!”
she said, motioning me back with her hand. “Wait one minute. I will offer you one other”. She held up a navy blue summer dress made of linen.
    It was chic. It was young. It had polka dots, a white, wide-brimmed hat, and a set of large, long, white beads. I had never dared to wear anything so bold.
    “Do you think?” I asked, holding my breath.
    “I know,” she said with a certain nod. She handed me her choices, opened the dressing room, and closed it firmly behind me.
    First I wriggled into the peach. It looked great, but it also looked like something I could have bought and worn at home. I took it off. Next I slipped into the navy. I zipped it up and straightened to my full height before looking in the mirror.
    I, Alexandra Stuart, looked French chic. I grinned at myself in the mirror,