Just Like His Father - by Big Beautiful Dreamer (~BHM, ~BBW, Romance)

[Big Beautiful Dreamer]

~BHM, ~BBW, Romance - A grand tour of France with college buddies is so luscious, David is convinced to bring a souvenir home.

Just Like His Father

by Big Beautiful Dreamer
​

The vacation had been anticipated, planned for, saved for, and sketched out a hundred times over four years.

A chance conversation during freshman orientation, spurred by one of those lame getting-to-know-you questions. Where would your dream vacation be? In our small group, shepherded by a pair of juniors, Fred and I had been the only ones to say, “France.”

Afterward he followed up over rubbery hot dogs and damply stale chips.

“I’d love to see the country by region,” I’d said wistfully.

His eyes had lit up. “Chartres,” he’d said, “Lascaux … Verdun … the sewers of Paris … Versailles…” He’d stopped, then, with an embarrassed laugh, at the look on my face. He stuck out his hand, cool and smooth. “Fred Haesel. I’m a history geek.”

I’d extended my hand, rough with scars, healing cuts, and burns after four summers in restaurant kitchens. “David Harris,” I’d replied. “Food geek.”

“So when you say France…”

“Truffles a l’oiselle,” I’d said. “Brie and Camembert, Burgundy, Champagne. Chocolate.”

Fred rolled his eyes appreciatively. Then he cocked his head on one side. “Well, someday.”

In such innocence are plans hatched. By the time we graduated, we’d become tight with Philip Penuel, whose love was for music. And now, jetlagged and unshaven, we were amid the din and sharply nasal French in Charles de Gaulle Airport. Our lovingly laid schedule would start after a nap. We were young and hostels were cheap … and we were quickly ensconced and snoring.

The next day found us winding by train through the Bourgogne region, also known as Burgundy. Fred and Philip (never, ever Phil) had headed off to see about Bernard of Clairvaux and some monastic music while I lingered over bread, coffee, hard-boiled eggs, ham, cheeses.

We reunited for lunch – the highlight of my day, at least – a meal that took us over two hours and demanded a nap afterward. In the late afternoon we visited one of the hundreds of vineyards in the region.

We spent ten days in Burgundy – oh, dear heavens – Snails cooked to perfection; Dijon mustard from the source, coq au vin – before winding our way to Champagne-Ardennes. This had been a vacation four years in the making, and four years of living on downright nasty food like Ramen noodles to save beaucoup dollars. We were savoring every minute of it. Region by region, we traveled through the glorious and sun-dappled country. I snoozed in cathedrals while Philip visited organists and Fred exclaimed over rose windows; they politely tried unpronounceable dishes while I swooned over the cuisine of Haute Normandie and Bretagne.

Inevitably, I put on weight. I’d been 5’11” and 190 when I graduated, but that second number was, I suspected, steadily inching up. My jeans were growing tighter by the region. It was in Bretagne (Brittany) that they first popped after a dinner (what we would call lunch). Apples, Camembert, and a staggering number of crepes. Mussels and oysters with cous-cous. A decadent apple-chocolate confection that was eye-rollingly sweet. I had to stop … I was stuffed … but I had to have just one more bite.

Snick. The button, already straining, popped. My achingly full belly expanded in relief. I was mortified. I hiccuped and belched at the same time. My gut felt like a separate appendage, distended and taut, my sides wonderfully heavy, aching, warm. I was already falling asleep, logy and sodden with food and drink, including glassful after glassful of cider with a kick.

“You all right, Dave?” Fred asked. “You’re looking a little flushed.”

I stifled a monstrous belch. “Nap,” I grunted. We made a slow march back to the hostel. A disgracefully long snooze followed by a cup of strong coffee brought me back from the dead. And, amazingly, I was hungry again.

Brittany was only the start of my implacably growing waistline. Well – travel is said to be broadening. We wended our way toward Aquitaine, where Fred went gaga over Eleanor and Philip tagged along. The emphasis in the southwest of France is on rich foods: the regional specialties there are duck, foie gras, oysters, mushrooms and truffles, all accompanied by a rich Bordeaux. I ate confit de canard so many times I was starting to quack. Of course, the French who are lucky enough to actually live in France have access to this good stuff all the time, but I had only a few months and didn’t want to miss anything.

I didn’t, either. I was subliminally aware of my jeans shrinking and my belly swelling like a soufflé in the oven, but truthfully, I couldn’t have cared less. The richness of the meals did something to Philip, though, who found himself in gastrointestinal distress. We rearranged our plans and ended up spending nearly thee weeks in southwest France. Did I mind? Are you kidding? I told myself I could pace myself … but I didn’t. In fact, I found myself eating more, as if to make up for Philip. I didn’t even miss the spectacular cheeses, which tend to be found more in the eastern half of the country. I had already swooned over Boursin, Brie, Munster, Liverot; and there would be more to come.

I patiently listened to Fred explain to me about Eleanor of Aquitaine while I savored a dish of pruneaux d’agen, one of the local specialties. I paused for a swallow of coffee. God, was I full! I really didn’t think I could finish. But there wasn’t much more left. Slowly, slowly, I emptied the dish and stifled a huge belch. My belly was bloated and sore, the shirt buttons stretched tight. I could hardly wait to get back to the hostel and undo my jeans. Puffing, I glanced down at the midriff I was cradling. By now, even before a meal, if protruded enough so that it was right in my field of vision. I had dropped the soap in the shower the night before and it had taken a few tries to bend over and pick it up. (Of course, we had just finished off some achingly rich chocolate cake.)

“You okay, there, pal?” Fred asked.

“Fine,” I said unconvincingly. “Stuffed. Hic!” I pressed a hand to my chest.

Fred could take or leave food (blasphemy!), but he respected my love for it. He smiled indulgently.

“What does the next region offer?”

“Languedoc,” I replied. “Probably a break for the old ticker. Olive oil, herbs, tomato sauces, much less dairy – this is not grazing country. The milder stuff might help get Philip back on his feet too.”

As if conjured up, Philip shuffled in and sat down next to me.

“Hey, you’re looking better,” I said, stifling a belch. “Are you hungry?”

“Soup,” Philip said wistfully. “Bread.” Easily done. He ate slowly, but with an appetite, and I filled him in about Languedoc. His eyes lit up.

“Hey, that’s where the bodega comes from.”

I frowned. “The Mexican corner store?”

He actually laughed. “No, a kind of bagpipe. They clean out the innards and leave the skin whole.”

“Just don’t take up playing it,” Fred put in. “Me for the cave paintings.”

“Oh, and wine,” I added. “Gres de Montpelier, Pic St. Loup, some really good small regional stuff.” I hiccuped. “Scuse me.”

“Speaking of wine,” Philip joked.

Languedoc was a good place to stop after the richness of the duck region, but I managed to persuade myself that since the fare was so much lighter, I could eat much more of it. The fare in Provence, next on our list, was similar, with herbes de Provence as big a star as any dish. I soon found myself happily, blissfully swimming in bouillabaisse and ratatouille and savoring Chateauneuf-du-Pape.

Ah, Provence! The weather was glorious and Philip had fully recovered. He buried himself, oddly enough, in Puccini, whose telling of the story of Manon Lescaut had become a well-known and beloved opera.

Provence was the one locale in which we were not staying in a hostel. One of Fred’s professors knew someone who knew someone who rented us a tiny house. Some of the time I gloried in shopping for fresh local ingredients and cooking; other times we haunted the restaurants. We lingered, growing suntanned and lazy, knowing that the vacation was half gone.

I also hit up the local shops and purchased a couple of pairs of trousers in a more forgiving size. My belly had grown as round and solid as a wheel of cheese, and it sometimes looked as though I was smuggling one under my shirt. I had begun to habitually undo my jeans before the meal, and since it was just the three of us, spent the post-luncheon recovery period slopping around in shorts that had once been baggy.

Provence was where I met Gisele.

She tended a small bakery on a sunny side street where I found myself going every day. It was purely a coincidence that my intake of croissants, farmer’s bread, olive-rosemary bread, baguettes, and other carbo-rific foods went way up in Provence. It was a corollary that my already ballooning waist continued to protrude farther and farther past my thickening pecs.

My French had by then improved to the point where I wooed her in clumsy Gallic, making her giggle and blush. We had long earnest conversations, at first about food and then about more serious matters.

“All serious chefs,” she said thoughtfully one afternoon, “are men of … grandeur.” She stroked my belly, as she had been doing almost absently. The word refers to both size and greatness, making it a bilingual compliment.

“Have you ever thought,” I said slowly, “of living in America?”

Her eyes widened and she sat up straight. I slid an arm around her gently padded waist and squeezed.

“But no,” she said. “It is very difficult to live there legally, no?”

“Not if …” I trailed off. “Not if you’re married to an American.”

“Davide,” she murmured. The way she pronounced may name made my heart skip a beat every time.

“Northern California,” I murmured. “I have a friend who could get me a job in the kitchen at Viniferra. You could open a bakery. The Napa Valley is full of people who are very serious about food and wine. And it looks … kinda … like Provence.”

“Davide,” she said again. “This is a very serious question you are saying. I will think.” She sat up and gave me a little push. “You go with your friends. Enjoy the rest of your holiday. Then come back to my little shop and I say what I answer.”

The best I could hope for. Technically, we took the train from Provence. I, personally, flew. It’s as well I didn’t notice the journey, because honestly, the train seats were getting a bit snug. During our sojourn in Provence, with those heavenly herbs, bouillabaisse, and all of Gisele’s breads – of course enjoyed with impossibly rich butter or homemade jam – had pushed my belly farther and farther forward. My midsection now included good-sized love handles and, when I sat, a thick spare tire like a wheel of cheese. A big wheel of cheese. My chest was noticeably softer and my arms and bottom had thickened and spread. My face was fuller: I had apple cheeks and a soft, plump chin that wobbled when I talked. I hadn’t been on a scale since May, but if I’d had to guess I might have guessed at a 30- or so –pound gain.

Eastern France, for me, was all about the cheeses. Fred and Philip took a four-day sojourn in Paris to revel in various composer birthplaces, Notre Dame, the sewers … I stayed behind and spent half a day watching Beaufort cheese being made, creamy and with hints of honey. Reblochon, smoother even than Brie with that nutty aftertaste and just a hint of a kick. The chewy and salty St. Marcellin.

I wrote to Gisele every day, telling her how much I missed her, how the breads weren’t the same, extolling Northern California. I ate apples and cheese, salmon and cheese, bread and cheese, chocolate and cheese (don’t knock it). I even made a day trip to the Jura to watch Comte being made.

At last, somewhat reluctantly, I made my way to Paris to meet up with Fred and Philip. I was missing Gisele fiercely and had almost forgotten that Paris is rather famous for its restaurants. Being reunited with the other two musketeers goosed my excitement, though, and we tackled the dog-eared list with a will. Oysters at Drouant, braised hare at Gerard Bresson. Roast lamb at La Bellecour. At Relais Louis XIII, the crème caramel in fromage blanc was so good I ordered a second helping, stuffed though I was, and slowly, in a trance, swallowed every bite. Philip and Fred almost had to roll me to the Metro.

As a surprise – “since you’re the one who got the girl” – Fred and Philip had made reservations at Tour D’Argent, one of the many supremely elegant French restaurants.

When we got there, I almost forgot I was hungry.

There was Gisele, smiling demurely. Her long chestnut hair floated on her shoulders. Her dark eyes shone like stars above radiant round cheeks studded with dimples. A sheer black top plunged in a vee that stopped just short of magnificently holstered breasts whose creamy tops peeped. The blouse skimmed her wood-dove plumply luscious figure and fringed round a skirt that stopped short enough to show off her gorgeously upholstered calves in gold high heels. Disconcertingly, she was holding a folder of papers.

“Davide,” she exclaimed, and flung herself at me. Luckily, I was big and solid enough now to take the impact.

“If you wish,” she murmured coyly, “we go tomorrow to the mairie.”

My French was inadequate. She waved the folder at me. “To be married, no?”

To be married, yes.

The French are hopeless romantics. Once they learned that a betrothal had just taken place, the meal went from extraordinary to sublime. I chose duck for the main course and Gisele, scallop salad with truffles and lobster. The wine list (a jaw-dropping half-million bottles) was, ahem, extensive enough to let us choose good wines without breaking the bank.

Only after a breathtaking fruit and cheese tray and Armagnac did Gisele even glance at the folder.

I teared up. Gisele, Fred, and Philip, among them, with phone calls to my parents, had successfully obtained and filled out the myriad of forms required for me to obtain the visa that is needed to marry a French citizen – bank statements and all. I was comfortably replete (okay, maybe I would be more comfortable after undoing my trousers), my favorite people had just stormed the French bureaucracy on my behalf, and I was about to marry the woman of my dreams.

I hardly remember waddling from the restaurant, the comfort of the surprisingly cool night air, the giggling spontaneous trip to the Eiffel Tower (it is reported that at the top, I had leaned out into the night and bellowed, “Ciel mon marie!” a French colloquialism that means, “I praise my wife to the skies.”

The next day, Gisele and I, Fred and Philip, presented ourselves to the beaming mayor and after ten minutes of rapid-fire French, I heard a phrase I did understand. “Embrasser les mariee.”

So I did.

*~*~*~

“Davide! Davide!” Gisele opened the back door and called down to the herb garden, where I was considering some rosemary. “L’eau c’est brulant.”

I heaved myself back up and strolled into the kitchen, where I poured the boiling water over the tea and then nuzzled Gisele’s neck.

“Stop,” she scolded. I tickled my fingers along her prodigiously swollen waistline where the baby – nicknamed Goliath – awaited birth some seven days hence.

“Don’t you have to go to Viniferra?”

I sighed. “Correct as usual, ma Cherie.”

I collected my jacket and another kiss and ambled the four blocks to Viniferra, where, after a year on the job, I had been promoted to sous-chef. Viniferra also now was the sole restaurant outlet offering handmade, local, and authentically French breads, courtesy of the Boulangerie Gisele, which just happened to be next door.

“Hey, big guy,” Ricky, the swing chef, greeted me as I came in. “Tell me what you think of this batch of oysters.”

“Big guy” was my kitchen name. It was used so routinely that I suspect half the staff didn’t know my actual name. It was an appropriate appellation. The wedding had been followed by another month of touring France. By the time my wife and I flew home, I was up to 230 pounds. The gain slowed … somewhat … once I began sharing my kitchen with a French baker, but now, with our one-year anniversary only a week away, I carried close to 260 pounds.

I carried it well, if I may say so. Much of it was in front, but it was solid and backed with muscle from regular workouts. “Chef” is an unglamorous job that frequently calls for heavy lifting. What wasn’t displayed in my chest and belly – which Gisele labeled magnifique – showed in full apple cheeks, a second chin, solid hands and forearms, and a backside wide enough to make me grateful for the cut of chef’s pants.

“Hey, big guy,” one of the prep chefs said. “When’s Gisele – you know –” he pantomimed a pregnant tummy.

“A week … or so,” I said.

The night went uneventfully and I returned home long enough to spend a blissful four hours with Gisele before she got up to go to the boulangerie and start baking.

It was my night off and I had made a bouillabaisse. Forewarned, she’d brought home a marvelous crusty farmer’s loaf, from which we tore large hunks and dipped in the soup. We followed with Gruyere, pear slices, and coffee that could be used to patch holes. Replete, I leaned back and let my belt out a notch.

“Good bread,” I said, a family joke.

“Good soup,” she replied, likewise. “Oh! Oh … Davide.” She clutched her hugely swollen belly and her eyes grew enormous. “Goliath … it is going to come now.”

Eleven hours and seventeen minutes later, Frederic Philippe made his entrance into the world. He was large and healthy, 9 pounds 3 ounces and 21 and a quarter inches long. He was born with a thick thatch of chestnut hair like his mother and her wide, beautiful mouth. He started to cry with no prompting and like a pro, Gisele latched him onto her breast. He began to suckle immediately. Gisele turned to me, sweat-soaked and radiant, and looked up at me over our son.

“Comme son papa.” Just like his father.

Credit to the book "Death by the Glass" for the restaurant name Viniferra.

Note: I consulted a number of Web sites to look up information for this story. I fudged the time requirements for getting married in France, which call for a minimum of four weeks and the actual presence of the participants as well as ten days for posting the banns, required even with the civil town hall ceremony that is a matter of law. There are, easily available by computer search, ways to divide France into gastronomic, oenological, and even cheese regions

 

[Ssaylleb]

 

[fat hiker]