Cooking for Picasso by Camille Aubray Page B

face.
    When later she returned to collect the lunch dishes, she sometimes found him smoking thoughtfully in the back garden, and he would nod politely without a word, looking absorbed. He seemed to feel no compunction to thank her or to offer any other critique of the meals at all, good or bad.
    The only way Ondine could get any inkling of his tastes was by studying each plate he left behind; and soon she was able to read those crumbs for very subtle distinctions, just like a soothsayer interpreting tea leaves. If Picasso had enjoyed his meal, all the dishes would be wiped clean. But if his work was going especially well, although he would eat, he’d leave behind signs of his preoccupation—his napkin fallen to the floor unnoticed, a plate of cheese and a half-eaten apple in an odd place like the small table at the foot of the stairs—indicating that he’d been impatient to return to his vision. And on a rare day when a meal was not quite to his liking, or perhaps his mood was gloomy, he politely covered the leftovers with another plate, as if to save them for someone else.
    Ondine always recorded her impressions in the notebook. So now, when her mother asked about Picasso’s tastes, Ondine said thoughtfully, “He liked the beef
miroton
when we made a sauce of butter, onions and vinegar; and the deep-fried
rissole
pastry filled with ground lamb and cumin; and the veal braised with carrots and turnips. He prefers more rustic, country meals instead of fancy ones with creamy sauces. He especially liked our spiced stew,” she reported, shutting the notebook.
    “But there’s no time or supplies to make a stew!” her mother exclaimed.
    “Let’s see what we’ve got,” Ondine replied, undauntedly peering into the icebox. “Well, there are some
langoustines
for an appetizer. For the main course…here’s some garlic sausage, and a little duck
confit,
a bit of slow-cooked lamb shoulder and some roasted pork. Some beef that hasn’t been cooked yet, and marrow bones, fine. I’ll use the goose fat to make the crust…”
    “That beef is for Monsieur Renard’s lunch,” her mother objected. “And there isn’t enough of anything else that I can spare for your artist
and
his guests!”
    Undeterred by the appetites of the Three Wise Men, Ondine made more discoveries. “White beans already cooked with pork rind! Here’s tomatoes, carrots and onions, good…and a
bouquet garni.
I can make a splendid
cassoulet,
” she enthused, feeling inspired. “Then, I’ll bake a special cake for dessert.”
    Madame Belange insisted, “But a
cassoulet
has to simmer for hours! You can’t do that with beans that are already cooked.”
    Ondine determinedly pinned back her hair and tied on her apron. “Don’t worry,
Maman
. The beans and
confit
are nearly perfect already. I’ve got enough time to make the beef with the aromatic vegetables before blending it with everything else. It will be more delicate for the Parisian guests; they usually prefer a lighter version of what they call ‘peasant’ food anyway. Remember when Isadora Duncan and her friends ate here?”
    “Yes, like nervous birds pecking at their food,” her mother replied, finally conceding, “All right. It’s the best solution we’ve got. I’ll find something else for Monsieur Renard to eat today. Go ahead, do it. Get as much cooked here as possible.”
    “Where is the
cassole
?” Ondine asked. Madame Belange handed her the special earthenware pot that was never washed but simply wiped clean after every use, because each new
cassoulet
contributed good flavors to the pot, thus “seasoning” it for the next stew.
    Ondine set to work, seized with a frenzy of inspiration that was fueled by something deep inside her which had apparently lain in wait for just such a chance. This strange hidden vitality now propelled her through the risks and pinpoint timing that
gastronomie
required; she was, after all, literally playing with fire, like a high priestess making