The Gown(47)
Few people made her nervous, but Mam’selle was one of them. Revered and feared in equal measure by the seamstresses whose work she governed, she was renowned for her impeccable taste, adored by her clients, and even, on occasion, deferred to by Monsieur Hartnell himself.
She waited until Mam’selle had finished speaking with Miss Duley and was about to climb the stairs that led out of the workroom. Her palms damp with nerves, her heartbeat hammering in her ears, Miriam rose from her seat and approached in as diffident a manner as she could conjure. Never would she have dared to directly approach such a personage as Mam’selle when she had been a lowly petite main at Maison Rébé, but she had dared many things in recent years, had she not? And this was not the sort of thing for which she might be dismissed. Of that she was almost certain.
“I beg your pardon, Mademoiselle Davide, but may I ask your advice on a small matter?”
Her hand already on the banister, Mam’selle turned to face Miriam, her bearing as imperious as an aristocrat of the ancien régime. And then her expression softened. “You are the girl from Maison Rébé,” she stated, her accent as thick as crème fra?che. “I have heard about you.”
“Yes,” Miriam admitted, wincing inwardly at the reminder of her effrontery in approaching Monsieur Hartnell. “My name is Miriam Dassin.”
The merest smile, and then Mam’selle switched into French. “Comment pourrais-je vous aider?”
Miriam explained her dilemma, also in French. It was such a relief to let her mouth relax into the familiar words and cadence of her mother tongue. “I thought that you might know of a grocer, perhaps, where I might find what I need,” she concluded.
Mam’selle rolled her eyes dramatically. “I love this country, but the food . . . let us speak no more of it. It is possible to find such things in South Kensington. Around the French embassy there are several provisioners, and there are one or two good shops in Soho, of course. But the prices are criminally high. Simply criminal.”
“Oh. I see. I was hoping—”
“That is why you must go to my friend Marcel Normand in Shoreditch. To the east of here, not far from the market at Spitalfields. He has an épicerie on Brushfield Street. I cannot recall the number but the awning is striped green and white. Impossible to miss. Tell him I sent you.”
Miriam had stammered out her thanks, the great lady had taken her leave, and later, after supper that evening, she had confessed all to Ann. How she wished to make a favorite family dish for supper on Saturday evening, but needed to go to Shoreditch to fetch the ingredients.
“I do not wish to neglect my share of the chores. Would you mind if I do them on Sunday instead?”
Ann hadn’t minded at all. “It won’t hurt to let things slide for a week or so. How about I fetch the chicken on Saturday morning, and you head into London? If I go early enough the butcher will probably still have something.”
Miriam decided to keep her opinion of the butcher to herself. To voice her conviction that he was a wretch who sold meat that was fit only for dogs, and who ought to be prosecuted for his black-market dealings, would only depress them both. Instead she cautioned Ann that she ought to keep her expectations low as far as supper was concerned.
“I have never made it myself, you see, and I have no recipe. Only the memories of watching my grandmother make it many times, and of course its taste. I fear I will disappoint you.”
“Oh, I doubt that. And you know already that I’m a poor cook. Who am I to criticize?”
On Saturday morning she took the train into London, but rather than continuing into the West End she alighted at Liverpool Station. From there it was only a short walk east to the neighborhood of Shoreditch and the ancient market of Spitalfields.
She didn’t venture into the market building itself, but instead went straight to the French grocer. It was, as Mam’selle had said, impossible to miss. There was the green-and-white-striped awning, to begin with, and the name above the door.
MARCEL NORMAND GROCER & PROVISIONER
FINE FRENCH FOODS OUR SPECIALITY
She hurried inside, thinking only of finding what she needed as quickly as possible, but halted in the doorway, her senses awhirl. Garlic and herbes de Provence scented the air, and the labels on the packets and cans were all in French, and there was Marcel Normand himself, standing behind the counter, his red face and prodigious mustache instantly familiar, never mind she’d never set eyes on the man before. All of it was so comforting. She smiled at the grocer, raising a hand in greeting, and let herself wander about, her greedy eyes making a feast of everything they saw. If she’d had the money she’d have emptied the shop.
“Good afternoon,” Monsieur Normand said as she finished her tour and approached his counter. “Bonjour, mademoiselle.”
“Bonjour,” she answered. Seeing how his smile widened, she continued on in French, explaining that Mademoiselle Davide had sent her, that she was in need of one hundred grams of green olives, the same amount of prunes, about twenty-five grams of fennel seed, and—although she knew it was a rarity indeed—something that might impart the flavor of fresh orange peel. With his every nod her heart lightened. He even found some dried orange zest for her, apologizing in advance for its elderly state.
“I do not think it will taste much of anything,” he said after taking a sniff, “but it is better than nothing.” He refused to take anything for the pinch of orange zest he’d given her, and only asked one shilling and sixpence for the other items.