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And when Le Monde gave its glowing review, she bought the shop next door again, and that has become the Bouchon Noir as it is today.
So much history here, so many memories of my late mother, of happy times we spent here when my brother Sebastien was a toddler.
Even now, the walls vibrate with the laughter and conversation that filled the air just hours earlier. Laughter breaks out again,. It’s Natalie. She laughs with Camille before catching me watching her. Her smile fades and she offers a demure nod before rushing into the staff room.
I’m not accustomed to women catching my eye. With the way the tabloids splash my face at least once a season, it’s hard enough to avoid the women coming after me for all the wrong reasons.
But that’s not Natalie.
She marches away as though her life depends on it. She doesn’t get far, though, before raindrops fall in quick succession. Now she’s running, her white pantsuit flowing around her legs. A white outfit in the rain was not her best decision of the day.
It makes me chuckle. Natalie McBride is something of an alien at the Bouchon Noir. Even though she was clearly off-balance—probably in large part due to my antics yesterday with the coffee—she smiled and laughed as easily as breathing. Never have I heard of such enthusiasm, such delight, bounding its way through these four walls. Not since Grandmama was working in the kitchen.
Those were the good old days. Natalie has that same feistiness, and yet she’s refreshing, authentic, determined. And so fiery.
The whole lunch service, I tried to throw her off guard. Not enough to make her to slip up, just enough to keep her attention. She didn’t reproach me, not overtly anyway. But I felt her assessing me with every glance, evaluating my every demand.
She wasn’t letting me get away with anything, even though she didn’t say a word. That’s the kind of woman who makes me wonder. And I’m nothing if not a man in pursuit of the world’s most wondrous things.
The restaurant feels particularly empty without her here.
Ghosts of my past fill the space instead. I used to run through the legs of these chairs, hiding under tablecloths and sneaking cutlery for my fort in the garden back home. Papa reprimanded me for it, but not with any degree of seriousness. He took such pleasure in my brother and I enjoying the place. It was always his dream we would take the business over one day.
His dream, not mine.
Those were the days before our restaurants became an international sensation. There weren’t even restaurants. There was only restaurant, a single one. This one. It was from these tiles that our family legacy was built.
And now that legacy is under fire.
So many hours of the day are consumed in trying to find a way out of our present circumstances.
I suspect our little American Natalie will help with some of the optics, but she won’t be enough. Competition is high. I know our potential is great, but how do I tap into it?
What I’d do for a vacation, the one I keep planning and never take. Or even just to be at our country home, breathing in the fresh air, maintaining the vines, swimming in the pool under the stars. Life is so fleeting. I’ve seen firsthand the fragility of life, first with Grandfather, then with Mother. The tabloids splash my seeming life of luxury over their pages— wouldn’t that be nice.
If only my life were half as carefree as the magazines make it sound. But I can’t let go now; Grandmama dedicated her whole life to these restaurants. Never has the world seen such a force as she. Every moment she’s lived has been for us. I must find a way—for her and for us all.
The air is humid and fresh from the spring showers, a breeze brushing against my face. Images of Natalie sneak in— the way she ran down the street, desperate for the metro, getting drenched once again. It’s easy to imagine her running up and down the streets of Paris, a wild Texan deer who has taken the city by storm.
Not at all a drowned rat, though how I loved seeing the fire light in her eyes when I called her that. Natalie is wild and free, not beholden to the standards and rules that so many French women in my circle feel rule their lives.
As I gather my things and lock up the restaurant, the night air whisks by my cheek. Paris under the streetlights remains magical, even if I remain partial to the country air.
The walk to the Metro will do me good, for my mind is rushing with thoughts of the day gone by and the girl who has captured my imagination. I can picture Natalie as if she were in front of me, a free spirit prancing about with her hair stuck to her cheeks and her dress clinging to her every curve.
It seems the new American girl made quite an impression on me. I only wish I didn't have to wait until Tuesday to see her.
Here comes the rain again, though I knew enough to bring my umbrella. Imagine she were under it with me now, us strolling together through the wet Paris evening.
It’s a harmless dream of a harmless girl. One who cannot make coffee to save her life.
CHAPTER 7
Natalie
Unbelievable.
It’s like a single cloud followed me all the way home. Places on the pavement were dry until I got there. It seems my luck with divine intervention finally ran out.
