“A few days. When you feel better, we’ll go out to dinner and then shopping. I’ll be busy preparing the store after that. The upgrades to our flat finished last week. I can’t wait for you to see it.”
My aunt strolled to the baggage carousel and checked the screens for our flight. “The family’s tea company purchased the building in the Saint-Germain des Prés area fifteen months ago. The renovations took about a year. I was quite specific about how I wanted the shop and the apartment to look.”
Aunt Evelyn’s tastes had always been exquisite. Her Victorian in San Francisco was decorated with a sense of period drama, bold colors tempered with textiles and accents evoking the era she wanted to capture. My aunt re-created the aesthetic of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, but without the modern outlandish and garishness associated with Carroll’s books. Her keen eye for pristine antiques matched her need for fresh flowers every week: tea roses, hydrangeas, pink carnations, orchids, and of course, peonies.
“You were always comfortable at my place when you visited,” she said. “It’ll be similar in feel and decor. I had some of my favorite pieces flown in from the old house.”
“It sounds like you’re moving here. Are you?”
“I haven’t sold my Victorian yet.”
She hadn’t answered my question. I wasn’t sure if she didn’t want to respond or didn’t know the answer herself.
We claimed our luggage and made our way outside. It was bright. My bloodshot eyes hurt from the glare inside the taxi. As we drove away from the airport, the driver placed a notepad over the steering wheel and began scribbling notes. The car lurched and swerved. My aunt and I held on, thankful for our seat belts. After the driver almost collided with a road barrier, Aunt Evelyn blasted him in French. I didn’t need to understand to know what she said. Her frostbitten tone conveyed the message.
The driver tucked his notepad away, apologized, and stared straight ahead.
Aunt Evelyn checked her phone for messages. “I’ve spoken to Cynthia. She is working things out with Edwin. For now, they’re staying together and talking. It’s a start.”
I’d been in touch with my cousin. We’d spoken a few times, but the awkwardness from the wedding carried over and ruined the natural ease of our friendship. She told me, “Talking to you is futile when the only thing that comes out of your mouth is guilt.”
“I’ve apologized so many times,” I said, “but it doesn’t make it better.”
My aunt shook her head. “She doesn’t want an apology from you. What are you trying to get from her? Forgiveness?”
“I don’t know. My mouth is a loaded weapon with prophecies that injure and harm. How could I not feel responsible?” The dimness of the cab’s interior hid my blushing cheeks.
“You’ve turned your gift inward and made it a weapon. I’m more worried about you than your cousin.” Aunt Evelyn tucked her phone away. “There is a wonderful bistro I can’t wait to show you. The menu is sublime. I am in love with their risotto.”
In my family, the promise of food was the first step in resolving potential arguments. To quell an existing one, it had to be good food. You could bribe others with money or fame, but a Yu would only accept exclusive reservations or admittance to a chef’s table. Discerning palates were hardwired in our genetics. Stampedes at the family buffet tables still occurred: regardless of age, we sought out the best piece, which remained the ultimate goal.
My stomach groaned. It had been a long flight and I was famished, but the lure of a comfortable bed trumped all else.
I mustered a smile. “Please tell me more about the food scene here.” And with those words, the building tension escaped the cab like a whistling kettle taken off a stovetop.
* * *
* * *
A minute’s walk from the tea shop, Aunt Evelyn’s luxe two-bedroom apartment was bigger than those in San Francisco. Her Victoriana tastes underwent a subtle change with the infusion of French Romanticism. Against muted cerulean walls, giclée reproductions of La Grande Odalisque and La Source by Ingres in gilded frames hung in the living room. A bouquet of white roses with lilacs stuffed in a Lalique crystal vase adorned the small, rectangular cherrywood dining room table. Our bedrooms overlooked rue de Montalembert, a small street off the much larger and busier boulevard Saint-Germain to the south.
My aunt instructed me to emerge whenever I was hungry and ready to move. I collapsed onto the fluffy bed waiting for me.
Later that evening, I awoke famished following a zombified sleep.
The apartment kitchen was small as compared to the one in her spacious Victorian. Dark blue cupboards with glass panes and wrought iron hardware highlighted a mosaic herringbone-tile backsplash. Her impressive tea collection shone like jewels—rows of colorful tins from all over the world containing her favorite blends. If I didn’t view the beverage with such hostility, I’d want a proper introduction from an expert such as my aunt.
A set of gorgeous milky, pastel ceramic jars perched on the gleaming white counter. I recognized them from her home in California; they contained cookies. My aunt’s sweet tooth was as potent as mine.
Aunt Evelyn was seated at the round table in the kitchen, browsing a stack of forms in a manila folder while sipping tea. “How do you feel?” she asked.
“Starving.”
She tucked her forms away and fetched her purse. “Then let’s eat. I made the reservations hoping you’d be up to enjoy them.”
We headed for dinner at a lovely bistro in the fifth arrondissement, near the Panthéon. All the beautiful lights highlighted the historic, stunning architecture. The clouds thinned into wispy columns revealing the dark sky overhead. Above us, the stars twinkled, flashing bright in their vanity. The restaurant was crowded: locals dined outside on the patio, and inside, the booths and tables were full.
“Parisians love to eat late and they tend to take their time. It’s a wonderful trait. As for this place, it’s pricey, but for your first night, this is perfect.” Aunt Evelyn winked, then spoke in immaculate French to the hostess behind the podium.
The handsome hostess led us to our reserved booth.
I opened the leather menu cover and then closed the portfolio with a sigh. Of course it was all in French.
My aunt laughed. “You can get by with English in the city. There’s enough tourists around to keep everyone bilingual. You’ll fit right in.”
“I didn’t even know you spoke French.”
“You should hear my German. It’s getting there.” She blushed and reviewed the menu.
I’d known her for years, yet the woman before me seemed like a stranger. My aunt had so many secrets, which tumbled out like errant breadcrumbs. Where did the trail lead? What lay at the end? I was curious, but nowhere near Auntie Faye’s level.
“Why expand to Europe now?” I asked. “And wouldn’t London have been better?”
“The competition in London is fierce. Here, coffee is king; therefore, we can start small and grow our customer base. It’s why I picked this area. It has enough tourists. Plus, I fell in love with this part of the city. Once you see it during the day, you’ll understand why. There’s a friendly community here.”
My aunt caught the attention of our server and placed our order. I was curious to see what she had in mind.
“Michael mentioned you’re a fan of Audrey Hepburn. We’ll go dress shopping tomorrow. I know a few charming shops that carry her style. Some are vintage. Will you cut your hair to match?”
I’d had long hair all my life. Even with my usual high ponytail, the thick waves fell past my shoulders. I did, however, indulge in auburn highlights during a recent salon visit. “No. I don’t think a pixie cut works with my bone structure.”
Aunt Evelyn laughed. “You’d be lovely if you chose to get one. I think the city will suit you.”
“I don’t know. Paris might be too elegant for me.” I smiled.
The server returned and placed two appetizers on the table.
The first was a sumptuous salad laid out in a lush line on a round plate. Among the green were dots of color: pickled vegetables, golden cassava curls, slices of decadent black truffles. Dabs of cumbawa cream added rich acidity. The fragrance of spring drifted up from the fresh ingredients.
The second was more-familiar fare. On one side, thin slices of smoked salmon layered over each other as if they were a continuous peach-colored ribbon. On the other was a small arrangement of mango chips interrupted by hints of red chilies. An intriguing bumblebee-yellow sauce separated the two.
With food like that before me, I was sure the city and I were destined for a passionate love affair.
* * *
* * *
The following day, Aunt Evelyn fulfilled her promise and showed me the city’s best dress shops in le Marais. I came away with enough clothes to last a month. My aunt took doting to a new level: extreme generosity, without crossing the line to overkill.
We returned to the apartment, hauling armloads of bags. I spent the entire time thanking her as we climbed the stairs from the courtyard.
“Drop everything off in your room,” Aunt Evelyn instructed. “We’re not done yet.”