I called a girl I knew who was now working for the American embassy, and we made plans to meet when her workday was done. I was tremulous as I went up to the guards, who instead nodded me in with no concern. My friend was waiting for me and took me down to a dining room with softly padded furniture, muted lighting, and a bar. We settled in a sitting area of our own to catch up on our lives.
Within a few minutes, two glasses of champagne showed up on the waiter’s tray, and with a flourish he said, “The gentlemen over there were concerned that you were only drinking Coke, and sent these to you.” Of course, then, as now, Coke is infinitely more expensive in France than wine. One of the men came over to my friend and spoke to her. He worked in the embassy, too, and they knew each other by sight. With that introduction, we became an ever-expanding party of Americans in Paris. A six-foot-tall American was particularly charming, slightly older than I, perhaps in his mid-thirties to my late twenties. He was trim but not skinny, fair-haired, blue-eyed, well dressed, and articulate. Neil Kirkpatrick frequently did business in Paris.
I can only wish for every young woman that she meet a lover with a huge expense account her first day in Paris and be taken to a three-star restaurant for lunch. My first lunch in Paris, the next day, was with Neil, at Laurent off the Champs-Élysées. It was bright and sunny inside and Neil spoke French well enough to be treated with deference by the maître d’. Of course it might have helped that price was no object those days with Neil, who was a vice president of Max Factor and had a generous expense account.
For dessert we had a soufflé omelet. Since I had just had my first omelet a week before, I hardly knew what to expect. I certainly had no idea what wild strawberries were. This omelet soufflé was a creation of beaten eggs and their whites, nestling red berries smaller than raspberries inside. The soufflé was a puff of delight. It was the first time I had met wild strawberries, whose fleeting season cannot be forced or extended. Ripened in the sun, tenderly picked, worshipfully prepared, they were as akin to the strawberries of my life as sugar is to rock salt. They were these God-given packages of taste, delicate to swallow, exquisite to savor.
Soufflé Omelet with Fraises des Bois
Serves 2
Roughly translated into berries of the forest, these grow wild in many European places. I first met them in the book Heidi when I was a young girl. Heidi went strawberry picking with some other young people. Grandfather sat home waiting and dreaming about these incredible berries, with their deep red and full flavor, both sweet and rich. They are unlike any modern strawberry in the US. When the young people had filled their containers with the wild berries, they sold them rather than bring them home. Grandfather, furious, made Heidi taste a coin and bemoaned the berries it replaced. Which was better, he demanded? When I met those berries again at Laurent, I knew they were better than any berry I had ever met. I remember them still. Cosseted in a soufflé as light as air this dish is my favorite way of serving them.
3 large eggs, separated
1–3 tablespoons granulated sugar
⅓ teaspoon vanilla extract
2–3 tablespoons butter
Confectioners’ sugar as needed
Crème fraîche (optional)
1½ cup fraises des bois
Beat the egg yolks with a tablespoon of the granulated sugar and the vanilla extract in a medium bowl until well combined and slightly thickened.
Using an electric mixer, beat the egg whites until they form soft peaks.
Fold the egg whites into the egg yolk mixture, using a rubber spatula until most of the egg white can’t be seen.
Heat a heavy nonstick or omelet pan with the butter until it is foaming.
Meanwhile taste the strawberries and add any of the extra granulated sugar if needed.
Quickly add the egg mixture to the heavy pan and spread out evenly in the pan. Cover pan and reduce the heat to low. Cook 3 to 4 minutes or until the egg is lightly set on top and the bottom is golden brown. If necessary run the spatula around the pan to release the eggs.
Slide the omelet onto a serving dish. Spread the strawberries down the center of the omelet. Fold the omelet in half over the filling. Dust the top with confectioners’ sugar.
Divide into two plates if desired. Serve with crème fraîche or other heavy cream, sweetened.
It was not long before I found myself sharing Neil’s hotel room, with the approval of the French hotel staff who had been concerned about such a handsome man being alone for so long. When Neil invited me to stay with him at his hotel, I was concerned about what the hotel staff would think about my having a key, coming and going. I imagined that like American motels and hotels, the management were disapproving. He laughed. “They have been worried that I have been here several weeks, alone, and will be delighted. They are French, after all.”
It was the first time I saw terry-cloth robes made available to each guest and understood the French love of lovers, cosseting and encouraging them. My time in Paris was glorious, and I left reluctantly. It was a good time for Neil and me to meet. I was already planning to move to New York as soon as I returned from my trip. My annulment was final, my settlement was the money I was traveling on, but I was still wounded from all that had gone before. Neil’s divorce was pending and had been equally acrimonious. We were both ready for someone that liked us, if not love. Maybe we didn’t even want love from each other. What
