Cooking for Picasso Read Online Free PDF Page B

Ondine—especially while serving such an important person—simply did not speak unless spoken to; so she should never have had the audacity to write to him.
    “Why did I do it?” she fretted as she reached the café. She’d even inadvertently invited him to criticize her mother’s cooking if he wanted to! Her father would be furious if he found out.
    But there was no time to brood. A large group of out-of-town businessmen had arrived unexpectedly and were now seated on the terrace awaiting a late lunch, and the waiters were frantically hopping to serve them all. As soon as Ondine stepped into the hot kitchen, her mother, who was reheating the soups, quickly put her to work slicing, buttering and filling fresh baguettes with cold meats, cheeses, pâté and olive
tapenade
to make the delicious variety of open-faced sandwiches called
tartines
.
    Madame Belange moved with the confidence of a cook who knows that her cuisine is well prized. Only when there was a brief lull did she turn to ask briskly, “Did everything go all right at the villa?” She was satisfied with a simple nod from Ondine.
    Later, when her father strode into the kitchen, he glanced at his pocket-watch and said firmly, “Ondine! Go back to collect the
Patron
’s dishes, now.”
    “Yes, Papa!” Ondine washed her hands, put on her jacket and hurried outside. Hopping back on her bicycle she pedaled steadily, keeping an even pace, this time arriving without being breathless.
    When she entered the
Patron
’s silent kitchen everything was as she’d left it. She didn’t hear any clink of silverware coming from the dining room. Cautiously she peered in.
    There were only a few crumbs where the bread plate had been; and empty shells from the devoured shrimp and other shellfish. The salad and cheese were gone, too.
    “He ate everything!” Ondine exclaimed softly in relief. Picasso’s cloth napkin was now folded politely beside the plate, and she found this gesture somehow touching.
    How lonely it was to be an artist, eating all by himself, she thought, as she carried his single plate and set of flatware back to the kitchen. Lonesome, and yet, how strangely liberating to be able to come and go as you pleased without having to explain yourself to anybody, nor listen to their reproachful opinions. Ondine could barely imagine that sort of freedom.
    Lifting the lid of the cooking pot which she’d left on a trivet at the table, she exclaimed, “Ah!” for she saw that Picasso had gone back for more helpings of
bouillabaisse
. “
Maman
will be pleased.”
    She began packing up the dishes. The villa was even more quiet than it had been before, and Ondine sensed that the house was truly empty this time. She returned to the dining room to tidy up.
    The bowl of fruit and nuts had been ploughed into. And there she discovered her note to Picasso, still propped against the fruit bowl. Not only had he read it, but beneath her scribble, right on the same page he’d written something of his own:
S’il vous plait, je voudrais plus de piment
    followed by a whimsical drawing of a long, bright red pepper, after which was written:
dans votre excellente bouillabaisse.
    “He’d like more peppers in our ‘excellent
bouillabaisse
’,” Ondine giggled with delight.
    She must remember to write down his preference in the notebook when she returned to the café. She put his letter in her pocket, smiling. But just as Ondine snapped the metal hamper shut and loaded it onto the bicycle, she realized that something was missing.
    “Why—where’s
Maman
’s striped pitcher?”
    In this unpredictable place, it had apparently vanished into thin air.

Ondine in the Minotaur’s Labyrinth
    O NDINE COULD NOT DECIDE WHICH would be worse—getting caught snooping on the
Patron,
or facing the wrath of her mother if she returned without the pink-and-blue pitcher. She decided to take a chance on this artist, and look around.
    A quick tour of the kitchen cupboards made it clear she’d