JANUARY 2020 87
margin of his unfinished crossword. We
met for dinner four days later.
FRENCHMAN WAS MY KIND OF PERSON.
He listened to classical music, jazz, and
NPR. Frenchman loved words and obses-
sively studied the etymology of dictionary
entries. I made my living on storytelling,
yet when we played Scrabble, he’d beat me
by 75 points. Frenchman said he loved me
for my intelligence, my social and cultural
awareness.
I fell in love with him immediately. I was
charmed by the way he talked, in a bari-
tone brogue, using formal English. And
then there was the way he pro-
nounced my name: zha-MEE-lah.
Still, I was most captivated by his
insatiable appetite.
I’d spent many years as an
editor, managing restaurant
critics, observing dining habits.
Frenchman could eat. On one of our dates
he asked to finish my pasta dish which
was cold, gummy, and swimming in greige
sauce with dollar-store parsley flakes. Jeez,
he’s really hungry, I assumed.
“You always leave a little bit,” he said of
my untouched leftovers.
When I’m full I stop eating. Frenchman
was never full. He’d finish what he was
eating and whatever plate I’d started.
Frenchman inhaled foods that made me
look sideways. Cold oatmeal. Questionable
leftover chicken. Ice cream a season past its
expiration date.
As we continued to see each other, I kept
track of fresh things Frenchman liked to
eat. Coffee. Honey. Chocolate.
Cooking is the only way I know how to
seduce a man. I’d managed to reel in other
boyfriends with a roast chicken here and
handmade pasta there. I rarely dated. I’ve
been called “complicated”—and not in a
good way. Food is my way to bypass the
friend zone. I’d usually start with a gate-
way recipe, something easy like a pot de
crème or a quiche.
The first time Frenchman invited me
over, I asked if I could bring dessert. I
baked molten chocolate cakes using the
four-ingredient method taught to me by
Jean-Georges Vongerichten years earlier,
using the best French chocolate fèves and
Tahitian vanilla beans. As we talked about
our days and played a round of Scrabble,
Frenchman devoured these pastries with
his hands. “Ouf, these are so good,” he
said, eyes closed, shaking his head.
Frenchman kept inviting me over, so I
kept bringing him desserts.
I’d use the best local honey to infuse
panna cotta, which I would unmold onto
a pool of caramel then garnish with lemon
thyme leaves. I would present him with
tartes aux citron using the same lemon
curd recipe my grandmother taught me
when I was 6, long before I could use the
stove unsupervised.
“Anything you make for me is special
because I always eat the same thing,”
Frenchman said whenever I offered to
cook. Frenchman didn’t cook much. He
kept a tub of protein shake mix on his
kitchen counter and a Keurig
coffee machine. Sometimes
fruit. His stove went largely
untouched.
I cooked new dishes for him
every chance I could as a delib-
erate act of love. I loved watching
him scarf down food I’d prepared, tickled
by the way he’d twist pappardelle around
his fork. I blushed when he’d sop sauce
with le quignon—the rounded end of a
baguette. For Frenchman, nothing I cooked
ever needed more salt or garlic. He didn’t
care if a dish was bland or the pasta was
too al dente because, as he’d tell me with a
shrug, “After I finish my meal I’m going to
make love to you.”
The deeper I fell for Frenchman, the
more elaborate my dishes became. I’d make
braised lamb stew and lemon tarts—on a
weeknight. He’d tell me I was beautiful and
ask me to come closer. When I’d present
him with buttery scallops over pea puree
and orzo with tomatoes from my garden,
Frenchman would lean over my chair and
put his face against my cheek. If I made
carrot cake with lemony cream cheese
frosting, we’d make love on the floor.LOVE WILL MAKE YOU COOK COMPLICATED
things. For Frenchman, I mastered a three-
day technique to confit duck legs. He loved
this dish. I stocked tubs of duck fat in the
freezer so I could easily cure the legs or fry
potatoes. Frenchman would separate the
meat from the leg and save the crispy skin
for the last bite.“You’re the only woman, besides my
mother, who has ever cooked for me.”
Frenchman said this when he especially
enjoyed a meal. When I asked him about
her most memorable dish, he’d become
animated: “Lapin à la moutarde!” Braised
rabbit with mustard.
I wasn’t familiar. When he described
how his mother cooked rabbit, he’d squint
and chef’s kiss, and his accent would go
full-on South of France. It was clear this
country stew was something special. I was
determined to cook it.
I had traveled in France, including the
region where Frenchman was from, but
could not recall ever eating rabbit with
mustard. Some U.S. magazines referred to
it, but there were no recipe reviews. French
magazines called it a “grandma’s dish” but
offered no helpful guidance. There was
conflicting information on how to serve it.
But how hard could it be?
Lapin à la moutarde is a simple dish.
Shallots. Parsley. Wine. I just needed rab-
bit. After some research and a 30-minute
drive, I found a shop with four small, intact
rabbits on display. But when the butcher
held one up for my approval, I squirmed. I
had been cooking my entire life but had no
idea how to choose a rabbit.
What should I look for? How should it
smell?
I began to overthink the recipe, because
I had no idea what I was doing. Should the
sauce be beige or brown? Do I deglaze the
pan with white wine or red? Do I serve
it with a salad? How. Is It. Supposed. To.
Taste? No chef friend I could call was famil-
iar enough with lapin à la moutarde to help
me. Frenchman didn’t cook. Somehow, the
idea of cooking a dish for someone I cared
deeply about began to give me anxiety.
Finally, I asked Frenchman what hewanted to eat.
He touched the side of my face and said
lovingly, “I know that whatever you cook, it
will be great because you made it.”
That night, I put down the rabbit and
made duck confit.
Frenchman said it was the best he ever
had.I COOKED NEW DISHES FOR HIM EVERY CHANCE I
COULD AS A DELIBERATE ACT OF LOVE. I LOVED
WATCHING HIM SCARF DOWN FOOD I’D PREPARED.
Writer and editor
Jamila Robinson’s
Lemon Curd Tart
recipe is on p. 91.