Hello there! I'm glad you came by to read my #flashfiction based on the movie prompt - Chocolat. Those who have read my novel, Paris Dreams, will recognise the restaurant where I set the two main characters' first break up. My follow up book, still in the works, is also set in Paris, and is based on a traditional French cookery school. I've incorporated some ideas from that as well. And even the service overseas is in my new book, so I had several ideas to play with for this story.
Please enjoy reading as much as I enjoyed writing this.
Tastes of Love
The restaurant, with its
silky red walls and black chandeliers, wrapped its dark arms around me,
welcomed me home to Paris after a long absence. As a war correspondent in the
Middle East, food, any food was a bonus eaten on the run, but I can’t recall
the taste, but I recall much else I’d rather forget.
“Concentrate on the joys you’ve
experienced, not the tragedies,” my therapist, Celeste, advised during our session today.
“What do you know of tragedy?”
I couldn’t help saying, raw from my latest loss.
“Pardon. You’re right of
course.” She smoothed her perfect chignon, freshened her bright red lipstick
then cooed to her pet birds in the covered courtyard of her luxurious
apartment. “But try.”
I’m trying.
Immersing myself
in what has always brought me joy – traditional French food. Traditional French
food never changes and tonight I relished that. I’ve had enough change for now.
The meals at Le Chocolat (pronounced show-ko-lah, don’t you love it!) are typically French – plain, tasty,
inexpensive peasant's food which is what I love best. It’s never fussy with modern twists and miniscule servings which don’t
work for me. I rarely choose my restaurants by Michelin stars – I choose those
with hearty, old-fashioned meals like Maman and Grand’Mere used to cook.
Waiters here are as traditional
as the food. My favorite, Maurice, caught my eye, hurried to my table, pulled
out my chair, flicked a crisp white napkin and placed it on my lap. “Shall I bring
the mussels, Cara?” He scanned the room. “But where is your friend?”
Oh my heart. “He couldn’t make it, désolé.
Mais oui to the mussels, s’il te plait, Maurice.”
I dealt with those rattly
little mouthfuls of joy quickly, relishing the white wine and cream sauce, nectar
of the gods. I struggled to stay in the moment, sorry Celeste; I shake my head
and instead anticipate the rich onion soup, Le Chocolat's signature dish.
Maurice was already whipping
away my plate and placing a huge white bowl before me. Ooh la la. What could
beat the shot of sweet onion fragrance on a bitter winter's night? Hmm. Concentrate, Cara. That soaked
garlicky bread and long, stringy toasted cheese always sticks to my chin. Let’s
face it; there is no elegant way to eat this dense soup, but tonight no one dabs
my messy face with a napkin. But the soup; I wanted to live in the bowl, be
revived by the nourishing juices, build myself up for my next assignment,
Ukraine. Where will I find food over there?
Maurice offered me a free cocktail. I held the tiny, jeweled glass against
the light, mesmerized by the play of diamonds and rich red liquid. I held it close to
my nose, hesitated, sipped. It tasted of rose perfume, a sweet flavor that
clashed with my morbid thoughts. Guilt crept over me; I try to push it
away, but it refuses to leave. Why should I survive to live another day, eat
another joyous meal, while my fellow correspondent, Benoit, ate his last meal
then stepped onto an IB outside the restaurant?
I will visit his parents in
Montmartre after dinner which is why my stomach is taut and I’m forcing myself
to enjoy every mouthful. For Benoit. Benoit. We shared so many meals at Le
Chocolat and Maurice always gave us that tiny cocktail. He was performing an
act of kindness, but memories turned my taste to dust.
I pushed it aside and ordered a rich red to accompany the Beef Bourguignon which Maurice has delivered to my table. The sharp aromas of tiny roasted onions, carrot, and rich, red, melt-in-your-mouth beef...my stomach danced, relaxed a little. How Benoit loved this dish and always reached across the table to finish mine!
I lifted my fork, speared a cube of tender
meat. The flavor of red wine mixed with onion and herbs revealed to me, if
the mussels and onion soup hadn't already convinced me, that I was back in Paris.
It was pleasant beyond words to be drinking good wine and eating excellent
food - a bottle of wine and a plate of comforting food is always good company,
tonight, my only company.
Maurice saw I was immersed in my food and drink and left me to my joys and
sorrows, only coming by to top up my wine at regular intervals. I saw in
his doleful eyes that he’d realized Benoit wasn’t coming back, and he offered
succor in the way he knew best.
He raised his eyebrows.
I nodded. Yes, please.
Chocolat.
We always finished our meal
with a platter of perfectly-created chocolat in all shapes, sizes and colors.
I reached for a dark star-shaped
chocolate with golden hearts and placed it on my tongue.
“Au revoir, Benoit,” I
whispered. “I hope you’re somewhere enjoying plentiful food, my love.”
TAGLINE: Food is a memory trigger extraordinaire!
~*~
WORDS: 817
FCA
BIG NEWS! A FLASH FICTION ANTHOLOGY!
If you enjoy writing flash fiction, please go HERE to read about WEP's upcoming Anthology. If you've ever written to a WEP challenge, or do so before December '23, you are invited to submit.
If you like the idea of writing to prompts, October is our next, run by our very own thriller queen, Yolanda Renee. Please think about what you could do with the Phantom of the Opera prompt. Go HERE for ideas to get your creative juices flowing.
Denise
