Bonjour, my friends, and welcome back to The History of the Anne Samuel! Today’s part number is conveniently the same in both English and French…yes, we’ve made it to part SIX of this (literally) never-ending story about the power of love, laughter, good food, and a dash of make-believe.
If you missed last week’s gangster-style Great Gatsby adventure, make sure to refresh yourself here before you grab your passport and jet off for Valentine’s Day in gay Pareé! (Just a warning…this is a long one!)
Chapter Six — The Anne Samuel Kisses (in French!)
As it so happened, the first Valentine’s Day Elias and I would spend together as a couple fell on a Sunday, the day of the week statistically known as the most unromantic. We didn’t let that stop us. Especially since, in that particular year, February fifteenth happened to be President’s Day. Knowing I had a day free from student teaching awaiting me on the other side of whatever plans arose for Valentine’s Day itself, I approached the holiday with great gusto, as did the proprietress of The Anne Samuel.
Wholeheartedly determined to give me and Elias yet another glorious “first” together, Mom was hard at work planning an evening worthy of the Anne Samuel’s impeccable record. This time, she had grand plans to take the restaurant to France, and the preparations began nearly before we flipped the calendar over to the second month of the year.
When I arrived home from an arduous day of student teaching and orchestra conducting on February fourth, I found, to my delight, a table at The Anne Samuel set for two—a mother-daughter date. Ever the perfectionist, Mom was eager to put her potential dishes through a trial run. Henceforth, that evening I suffered through not only cherry balsamic shrub but also seared shrimp, white chocolate potato pureé, and a perfectly seared filet mignon from the corner butcher.
My mother used to suffers from a near-phobia of improperly cooking her steaks, a paranoia instituted by my father, whose unhealthy obsession for bleeding-rare steaks early in their marriage slowly matured into an insistence upon meat cooked in the same manner that one would cure a piece of shoe leather. However, despite her unusual bovine complex, Mom has always been able to sear steaks with a level of consistency that even the most decorated Michelin chefs would be loath to denounce. (My mother is, in fact, some magical sort of culinary genius, if that hasn’t already been made clear.)
That night, I dined like a queen as I listened to Mom wax poetically about her plans regarding au poivre sauces, homemade baguettes, chèvre croquettes, and cremé brûlée. My mouth watered, not only because of her tantalizing descriptions of the future Valentine’s Day soirée but also because her culinary aspirations had, in part, manifested themselves upon my palate. The moment I tasted that filet, I knew that The Anne Samuel had far more in store for its patrons in the days and weeks to come than I could have ever imagined.
When Sunday the fourteenth—that supposedly most-unromantic of days—finally arrived, I was scarcely able to contain myself for the way my nerves were fizzing with excitement at the thought of all that the evening promised to hold. Over the long weekend, Mom and I had spent evenings cutting hearts out of antique book pages. I had watched in awe as the playroom became a charming French corner bistro in early spring, thanks to an abundance of pink-and-white balloons; oodles of hearts in every shape, size, and color; and a photo backdrop featuring a couple kissing beneath a pink umbrella in front of the Eiffel tower.
Best of all was the miniature flower market—a two-tiered tea tray that had been completely transformed for the evening into a true “marche aux fleurs” complete with buds and blooms in every shape, size, and shade of pink imaginable. Along with the room’s heart-shaped balloons, strings of feathers, and strands of pearls, that cart was a vision of Frenchified romance—the final touch needed to give The Anne Samuel a truly transportative aura.
Although my efforts to assist in the aesthetic overhaul of the room had been paltry at best (as I noted earlier, I have never been particularly artistically inclined) I had still embraced my simple duties. Over the weekend, I had scrawled French phrases on postcards and chalkboards, typed out and printed dinner menus, and written names of cheeses in calligraphy on toothpick tags in preparation for the petit cheese tasting appetizer.
Though none of these details had been particularly integral to the evening, I had accepted my simple roles with great enthusiasm. Not only was I preparing for the most beautiful date of my life, but I was also acting as an assistant to my mother, following in her footsteps as she drew greatness out of everyday knick-knacks and dead-of-winter grocery store floral department purchases.
I could scarcely fathom more fabulous tasks than those which helped Mom accomplish the creation of beauty the likes of which I had never before experienced. And yet, I really had no idea what all I would experience for the first time over the course of that one day and night.
The surprises started early on the day of the fourteenth. I was trotting at Mom’s heels as she prepared her mise en place, probably looking something like my grandmother’s miniature food hound used to in my childhood days gone by. My father kept barging in and out, holding impossibly loud phone conversations with his friend, Monty. He was bugging us—or, at least, me—but that wasn’t anything particularly unusual. Dad had always possessed a habit for being a pest—simply for the fun of it.
When the doorbell rang at just after ten o’clock in the morning, however, I was forced to take note. My father shot me a knowing look and demanded that I be the one to answer the door, a rather exorbitant request considering that I was currently clad in not only a pink heart-sprinkled bathrobe but also a pink clay spa mask made of mud—I always have been rather adept at multitasking.
Not particularly keen on being seen by the general public considering my current state of dress, I opened the door hesitantly at first, then threw it open wide. There was no one outside—no sign of anyone, as a matter of fact. Just twelve red roses, two helium-filled, heart-shaped balloons, and one oversized Valentine’s Day card. I turned back inside, motioning to the surprise on the porch with a speechless sort of delight and a smile that caused the pink mud around my mouth to crackle. Dad shot me a knowing grin, and he proudly admitted that it was not, in fact, Monty to whom he had been speaking on the phone but, rather, Elias. Clearly tickled by his role in the surprise, he stayed on a minute to appreciate the gifts, then, at long-last, disappeared downstairs into his “cave” to watch Sunday-morning television.
Mom and I admired and fussed over the arrangement for a few moments before bringing everything inside and placing it prominently in front of the couch in the playroom—the perfect aesthetic addition to the “Paris room” as we had taken to calling it. Then, I pulled out my phone to thank Elias. His joy at pulling off such a surprise was palpable, even through the impersonal gray bubbles of text messages—he admitted later that day that he had nearly lost the balloons and that one of his brothers had been called into service to clamber halfway up a tree in his church suit to retrieve them—and we both agreed that what he dubbed as “Operation Valentine” was a smashing success.
Little did he know, I had been planning my own secret mission for just as many days or more…and it was nearly time for Operation 2.14 to begin.
Since The Anne Samuel had unofficially thrown open its doors in November, one of its greatest draws (aside from the gourmet cuisine and exclusive atmosphere) was its diminutive dance floor—really just a bare patch of hardwood between the dining table and lounge sofa, in front of the room’s large and moderately imposing stone fireplace. I had never danced before, save for one humiliating preschool-level ballet class during which the parents of my little friends spent the entire hour laughing behind my back as I ineptly toddled and waddled my way through the steps. Elias, on the other hand, had spent his childhood preparing to be Fred Astaire and designing tap routines to perform for his parents and siblings. (Though they might have laughed at him, too.)
The fact of the matter was, neither of us were skilled dancers, and neither of us gave a darn. A classically trained violinist and Broadway aficionado, I had recently discovered the world of vintage love songs. Many tunes had come to be known as “our songs”, but “La Vie en Rose” and “Moon River” were particularly meaningful, as if Édith Piaf and Henry Mancini had immortalized them for us alone. And so, as part of my Valentine’s gift on that first holiday we spent together, I decided to sing “La Vie en Rose” for Elias—a slightly questionable commitment, considering I typically despised the sound of my own voice.
I had also decided that I was going to kiss him. (This, too, I found somewhat questionable.)
Equally nervous about both resolutions, I nevertheless dumped my timidity into the metaphorical Seine in a valiant effort to fully immerse myself in and enjoy the evening events leading up to my two great acts of valor. It wasn’t difficult. From the moment Elias arrived, clad in his finest suit with a carnation peeping from his buttonhole, we were whisked away to Paris, the City of Light…and the City of Love.
Mom started us out with “Pink Parisians”, The Anne Samuel’s zero-proof cocktail twist on a White Russian involving lemon simple syrup, strawberry shrub, and a healthy amount of thick, fresh cream. The frothy pink drinks might have been nonalcoholic, but Elias and I grew giddy nonetheless. We sipped until our glasses were dry, a point at which we were tipsy not on liquor but on the thrill of the evening and the novelty of our night-long Parisian rendezvous. We sat as close to each other as two people could while still being considered separate entities, and our noses brushed for several long, tender moments in what we had dubbed as “French eskimo kisses.” I nearly kissed him then and there, but I determined to hold out until after I’d sung him “our” song.
And, before that, we had dinner to devour and Valentine’s presents to unwrap—not the least of which were the matching packages upon each of our plates, placed there by the proprietress. When we opened them, we found Movado watches, a tradition in my family; my grandfather was famous for giving them to not only his relatives but also anyone he deemed a close enough member of the family circle. Elias was appropriately awestruck at this gesture of acceptance into the fold, and we admired our new timepieces until the first course arrived.
From the moment the appetizer—an overfull tray of fresh fruits, artisanal cheeses, and freshly baked bread—arrived, the watches were forgotten as Elias and I embarked on a mission to create the most delicious cheese pairings and flavor combinations before the next course arrived. We clearly failed, as we declared every morsel we tasted more delectable than the last…a common predicament presented by the food at The Anne Samuel. The rest of the evening flew by in a flurry of old-fashioned romance and epicurean delights, concluding in a dessert of crème brûlée.
Soon, I was standing before Elias, excitedly yet apprehensively warbling the lyrics to the song I had chosen:
…When you kiss me, heaven sighs,
And though I close my eyes,
I see La vie en rose…
Later that night, filled with a thousand memories yet in the making and surrounded by strains of “La Vie en Rose” drifting from a speaker, I raised onto my tiptoes, grateful for the assistance of my heels, and planted a kiss upon Elias’s stubbled cheek. I pulled away and his eyes met mine with startling sobriety, as if in full realization of the significance of the moment. He whispered to me and I whispered back in the candlelight, moments before our lips met in what would be our first kiss…and certainly not our last.