Free Tender at the Bone by Ruth Reichl Page B

introduced us. “ Je voudrais vous presenter ma copine Root,” she said formally. In all the time I knew her, I never once heard her address either of her parents as tu .
    Béatrice might inhabit the same house as her parents, but they hardly seemed to breathe the same air. They lived in a separate and grown-up world two floors below the children’s quarters. The only time the two worlds intersected was at the table.
    “Vôtre père est au travail,” said Madame du Croix at breakfast. She bent her head and said grace. Then a maid in a black dress, white apron, and frilly cap brought out pitchers of coffee and hot milk. While Madame poured café au lait the maid buttered baguettes and offered fresh tartines. Then she walked around thetable with sparkling bowls of homemade jam. Meanwhile Madame interrogated Béatrice about her week at school. I ached for the meal to be over.
    We spent the morning in the yard, forgetting that we were too dignified to play tag and dig in the dirt. It was only when Béatrice said we had to change for lunch that I started to worry about what was coming. I watched her wash her face and hands, clean her fingernails, fuss with her hair. Then she put on a plain white blouse and a pleated blue skirt that looked a lot like our school uniforms. I put on my red corduroy dress and swatted ferociously at the frizz on top of my head. It was hopeless.
    Monsieur du Croix sat at the head of the long table. “Papa!” said Béatrice happily. He got up to kiss her and I saw how short he was. Still, with his snowy white hair and sapphire blue eyes he was an imposing figure.
    “Asseyez-vous,” he commanded, picking up a ladle by his plate and dipping it into a terrine of soup. A butler stood before him holding out a bowl, and he slowly splashed it full of a thick orange liquid. Then the butler walked solemnly around the table, distributing bowls by age and rank. The soup was fragrant and steamed invitingly. I sat, tantalized, waiting for Madame du Croix to lift her spoon.
    Finally she did. I dipped my own into the thick liquid and brought it to my mouth. With the first sip I knew that I had never really eaten before. The initial taste was pure carrot, followed by cream, butter, a bit of nutmeg. Then I swallowed and my whole mouth and throat filled with the echo of a rich chicken stock. I took another bite and it began all over again. I ate as if in a dream.
    The butler set a roast before Béatrice’s father, while the maid removed our empty bowls. Slowly the roast was carved and then the butler moved majestically around the table serving the meat.
    It was just a filet of beef. But I had never tasted anything like this sauce, a mixture of red wine, marrow, butter, herbs, andmushrooms. It was like autumn distilled in a spoon. A shiver went down my back. “This sauce!” I exclaimed involuntarily. The sound echoed through the polite conversation at the table and I put my hand to my mouth. Monsieur du Croix laughed.
    “Your friend likes to eat,” he said to Béatrice. He seemed pleased. He held up one of the pommes soufflés that the butler had set on his plate and said, “You will like these, I think.” He told the butler to serve me immediately, out of order.
    “Taste!” he commanded. I put the puff of potato in my mouth; it was a magic potato chip, a crisp mouthful of hot air, salt, and flavor. My face must have betrayed me, because Monsieur smiled again. “Incredible, no?” he asked.
    “Incredible, yes!” I said.
    Monsieur du Croix turned to his wife. “This child likes to eat!” he said for the second time. She gave him a thin, mirthless smile. He winked at me. “You will like dessert, I think,” he said. “A whole wheel of Brie has just arrived from the Île de France. Have you ever tasted a real French Brie?”
    I had not. He cut me a large wedge that drooped appealingly across the knife and set it on a plate. He surrounded it with a few grapes (“From Sicily,” he murmured, almost to