Petite Provence: A Tale of Love and Lattés

Petite Provence on Southeast Division in Portland, Oregon is a French bistro and bakery; that, in itself, is enough to excite the casual appetite with dreamy images of artful espresso drinks and hordes of motleyed macarons. However, when considering this establishment, I look beyond the pleasantries and see a love story: a tale of two young people, a Bakery, and the pain au chocolat that drew them together.

Before a description of the patisserie can be given, the key characters of my story must be introduced: meet Jeff, a lonely young man snared in the seemingly hopeless task of finding a life companion. Next, we find Bonnie’s shining face tucked behind the counter at The Bakery; yet beneath her sunny disposition is a similarly lonely heart that still hopes, and waits.

“I’ve met this girl! She’s really something,” Jeff sighs. “I’m going to ask her to dinner.” I pause from my book long enough to skeptically raise my eyebrows; unfortunately, my cynicism often triumphs over my half-hearted optimism.

A few days later: “Dinner was amazing! We have so much in common. Did I mention she works at a French bakery?” A Bakery? A French Bakery? Glowing images of well-proportioned éclairs drift across my vision; dropping my crossword, I look him intently in the eye.

“Bring her home. Tonight. Tomorrow. As soon as possible.”

In the following days, Bonnie is a hit with the Family; she can laugh as hard and well as the rest of us, and she simply adores Jeff. “Comes visit me at work tomorrow,” she eagerly urges me, and obviously, little encouragement was needed.

On the following day, my sister Ellie and I step through the doorway vaguely resembling the Arc de Triomphe to be greeted by the bustling interior of Petite Provence. The pleasant yellow wallpaper brightens the small but open space, and the tastefully sedate furnishings complement the stone tile floor nicely. Immediately our senses are overloaded with the scents and clamor of a French bakery with lunch rush in full swing; I hungrily eye the chocolate soufflés and golden brioches imprisoned behind a glass pane, begging to be released.  Behind the pastry counter, Bonnie glides silkily from one task to another, concocting a café au lait here and cheerfully ringing up a customer the next moment. Catching my eye just as a tentative maître d’ shuffles towards us, she motions that we should follow the lurking attendant towards an empty table. “Don’t worry, it’s on me,” she mouths.

We have arrived during an initial wave of lunch patrons, thus we are promptly seated at a table situated towards the room’s far end; this location provides us with the ideal modus operandi to observe the many happenings of The Bakery. I survey the menu whilst slurping the foam off a vanilla latté, my eyes feasting on the likes of French Onion Soup and Blueberry Crêpes; the price spectrum, although not inexpensive, is reasonable, with meal offerings ranging from $6.95 to $12.95. Promptly sailing over to our table, a young waitress smilingly takes our respective orders: the Quiche du Jour and a Monte Carlo sandwich, and we settle in for the wait.

The clientele of The Bakery are of differing mode and make, although all bear a distinct Portland flavor. Trendy mothers clad in REI sportswear chat over a salad as impish tots guzzle cream puffs; austere older gentlemen nibble a spartan croissant and clip away at a laptop; and of course, quintessential plaid-sporting hipsters coolly sip espresso, and wax poetic over the Opera Cake (almond cake with coffee syrup, layered with chocolate ganache and coffee buttercream).

Before I have even sated my people-watching appetite, a generous slice of vegetable quiche sits hot in front of me; Ellie’s eyes light up at the sight of her sandwich heaped with smoked turkey, bacon, pepper jack cheese, and fresh tomato. Although some could argue that a simple quiche leaves little room for variation or spontaneity, the first bite was perfectly salty to my taste, without diminishing the effect of succulent tomato and pungent basil. Thrusting inhibitions aside, the meal is quickly consumed, along with the accompanying lentil soup.

Off come our coats and sweaters as the glow of a contented belly and the heat of the humming Bakery warm us to our very core; it is often overlooked that to achieve such satisfaction of heart and mind, one need not look far beyond the dinner table.

“How was everything?” Bonnie queries in a free moment, slipping away from the counter.

“Wonderful!” we chorus together, and sing the praise of all things French and butter-laden.

            Once at home, the Family is regaled with our tales of The Bakery, its decadent pastries, and the smiling lass that led us there. Jeff, who as always talked more than all of his five sisters put together, chatters incessantly about their uncanny similarities of both temperament and emotion. Throughout his reveries, he dreamily clutches a somewhat-battered chocolate croissant, a token of affection from his most recent visit to Petite Provence.

“I really think I’m going to marry this girl,” he earnestly states, with hopeful eyes and an even more hopeful heart.  My cynical nature begins to falter, and a hesitant ray of optimism slowly begins to shine.

Life carries on as usual, and our rich uncle comes to visit; Uncle Jeff (Jeff is his namesake) is the classic wealthy relative: eccentric, affectionate, and generous beyond belief. Without fail, he showers us with electronic playthings and caters to our every whim; one sunny morning, he innocently offers to treat my sister and I to a lunch of our choosing.

“Anywhere you like!” he heartily encourages.

Ellie and I exchange a sly glance, and reply, “We know just the place.”

For the second time, we stroll through the entrance of Petite Provence and inhale the already-familiar aromas wafting through The Bakery; keeping pace with our previous visit, we are seated quickly and coolly by the attractive attendant, and subsequently we begin to peruse the menu. Amongst his peculiarities, Uncle Jeff is an exceedingly timorous and careful eater, having a cautious palate that does not venture far beyond the familiar; thus, he skims over offerings of goat cheese and crab, settling instead upon Ellie’s previous choice: the comfortable turkey and bacon-topped Monte Carlo. Sandwiches similarly prevail over Ellie and I, as we fall prey to the Chipotle Chicken Sandwich and the Vegetarian Croissant, respectively.

         Ellie dashes to the front counter as soon as our orders are submitted, that she might better admire the stratified French cakes, resplendent with ganache and buttercream. The Lemon Graffiti layers white chocolate cream and tart lemon cream upon delicate chocolate cake, finally to be rounded off with almond-topped ganache. Diced apricots furtively peak out of the Crunchy Hazelnut and add a delightful surprise beneath slabs of ganache-painted chocolate cake.

         Behind the case, the idle barista leaves his station to shyly discuss the complexities of cake preparation and assembly with Ellie. “Carlo?” Bonnie later remarked, “He doesn’t know anything about cakes. He just makes coffee.” I spy many a subtle glance sent in her direction throughout our visit; when our espresso drinks arrive, the surface of Ellie’s mocha is etched with an intricate floppy-eared dog, whimsically peering up at her. My latté has hardly a swirl.

         Uncle Jeff hums contentedly to himself as we wait impatiently for our fare, and my people-watching efforts yield much the same results as before. Our table, off-balanced by the uneven stone floor, lurches hazardously back and forth; with a practiced air, the waitress surreptitiously dives beneath our view to insert a steadying wedge beneath the table legs. She apologizes with a look of chagrin, and in reparation, scurries back momentarily with a haul of sandwiches. Ellie’s smile oozes caramelized onions and chipotle aioli, while Uncle Jeff’s humming becomes louder and more rampant as he chews. I am again entirely fulfilled in every sense of the word by the food of Petite Provence: a fresh, airy croissant serves as the perfect foil to a medley of vegetables slathered in basil pesto.

         Once our business is completed, we saunter over to the pastry counter to say a quick hello to Bonnie, and Ellie and I successfully coax Uncle Jeff into the acquisition of several colorful macarons, a pink meringue pig, and a regal crème puff shaped like a swan; gleeful expressions coat our faces as we march triumphantly out the door.

         It’s only a matter of time before Jeff sidles up to me, face awash with excitement, and grasping a small velvet box. “I bought her a ring!” he whispers breathlessly, “Now I just need to find a way to propose.” A petite diamond glitters on a slender gold band, and my hardened heart melts like a pat of butter; an excited phone call later, I discover that I’ve gained another sister and a euphoric brother.

         Wedding preparations begin with a bang, yet the daily routine must be maintained; my sister Esther’s birthday approaches, and so I decide a lunch outing is in order. Naturally, we head to Petite Provence.

         Bonnie is radiant with happiness, her left hand sparkling and twinkling like a star in the night sky; she hands change to customers with grand flourishes, and pauses to allow pleased patrons to admire the dainty rock on her finger. It seems as though I’ve been coming here for years: the familiar waitresses, the topsy-turvy tables, and the steamy lattés are just like old friends; The Bakery sways to its vibrant rhythm, as women chatter, keyboards clack, and sentimental French music drifts over my head.

I think I’ll have the Quiche du Jour.

        

        

                 

            

the sun shines, but not so brightly
the birds sing, but not so sweetly 
surrounded by voices and drowning in faces
but lonely for One and no other

lilting sweet harmonies in hopes that
a faraway ear might catch a phrase
slipping lightly over shore and sea
to him for whom my heart still yearns.

when the words won't come,
and my tongue is barren but my heart is full,
i sigh the verses that flowed from another man's heart,
and caress ivory keys with notes singing of someone else's sorrow.
i hope you're listening
carefully, closely
to the words
i can't
i don't
know how to say.
when, where, why, why
why.

           

            When the house is quiet and I feel at peace, my thoughts drift towards the future: to a future life, future loves, future dreams. And yet, these thoughts of a time yet to come inevitably draw me to those individuals who have guided, shaped, and inspired me to become what I am today and also what I hope to be in the future. In particular, I think of you.

            I often marvel at the way you have lived your 85 years; few people could even attempt to fill your shoes. When my biological grandmother took her own life, my poor grandpa was left the heart-broken father of three little boys. The youngest of those boys was my dad, a baby hardly five months old; his brothers were little older. After her death, my grandpa spent three years alone changing diapers, kissing owies, and drying tears while juggling his duties as a hard-working farmer. His heart ached for his motherless boys.

            This is where you enter the story. Great-Aunt Inga told Grandpa: “I think I know just the lady for you.”  I wonder how you felt when you were invited to that pivotal 4^th of July picnic. Frightened? Timid? Uncomfortable? As you sat down on the grass to enjoy the summer evening, three little boys all vied with each other, each struggling to clamber onto your lap. One thing led to another: Grandpa asked you out to dinner, and a year later, you were engaged to be married.

            My romantic aspirations always consist of a suave, debonair Prince Charming who will sweep me off my feet and whisk me away to marital bliss. This wasn’t the case with you. It takes a very rare kind of person to step into the position you did; few people have the character, compassion, and courage needed to assume the role of wife, mother, and farmer all at once. I question whether I could ever possess such character, compassion, and courage.

            Although you easily fell into the pace of motherhood, and were eventually blessed with a little girl of your own, your legacy extends far beyond this. Three little boys grew up under your loving wings, and a generation later, so have I. As a child, innumerable lessons were learned and memories made during my travails to your house, a mere mile down the country lane separating us. When the neighbor dog decided to say hello with his teeth, you were there to wipe my tears. When my sisters and I spontaneously appeared on your door after a strenuous bicycle ride, you without fail stuffed us with tea and cookies. When you guided us through the construction of our first (and only) quilt, you taught me the importance of diligence and precision. As you tenderly nursed a dying bird rendered helpless after a collision with a window, you showed me the meaning of true compassion.

            But now the tables have turned. In the past two years, I have spent many nights with you, helping as you struggle to complete the most basic tasks, such as using the bathroom or getting up from a chair. The physical body you inhabit continues to fail you as osteoporosis and blindness are ever tightening their vicious claws in you. Yet, your mind has remained strong and steadfast. Lately, though, I watch helplessly as you slip a little more each day; sometimes you call, forgetting that you now live in an assisted living home, and instead begging to be returned to your old home on the farm. While your memory and clarity of thinking are in a slow regression, one thing will always remain: your extreme love and kindness towards your children and many grandchildren.

            A. A. Milne once wrote something profound that truly articulates the everlasting lessons I’ve learned from you: “If ever there is tomorrow when we're not together... there is something you must always remember. You are braver than you believe, stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think. But the most important thing is, even if we're apart . . . I'll always be with you.” 

Someday I sincerely hope to inspire as you have inspired, to give as you have given, and to love as you have loved. I love you, Grandma.

Two American Blondes in Taiwan

Fifteen years ago, my eldest sister Adrianne did what most young girls do in the summer: attend summer camp; in addition to the usual hemp bracelets and face paint, this experience was set apart by a petite Taiwanese girl named Sandra. Her English was extremely marginal, but she bridged the language barrier by shyly braiding Adrianne’s lengthy locks with nimble fingers, smiles gleaming out of her dark eyes. The camp drew to a close, and my parents were eager to meet Sandra and her parents at the closing barbecue; shortly they learned that Bernard and Ruth Lee were vacationing in the US in order that their two children, Sandra and little Michael, might learn English, the coveted language. The Lee’s English was scarcely better than Sandra had been able muster; however, through sign language and rudimentary drawings scratched on napkins, a friendship was formed that has lasted to this day.

            The Lees had generously brought my three older siblings to their home in Taipei, giving them the grand insider view of the vast, throbbing city. Thus, in December of 2010, my sister Ellie and I also found ourselves en route to Taiwan for a three-week stay; we blearily stumbled into the Taipei airport around midnight local time, to be greeted by a grinning Mr. Lee with English much improved through the passage of time. Sleep came quickly, and I awoke the following morning to the sounds of an unfamiliar city: a megaphone at the elementary school across the street blared obtrusively; car horns scolded each other like small children vying for a toy; scattered Mandarin drifted up from a streetmarket nestled into the adjacent alleyway.

            “Good morning!” Mrs. Lee chimed, ushering us to a small table positioned outside the kitchen; with the light of morning flooding through barred windows, we curiously surveyed the snug apartment before us. The furnishings were simple, in the modest style characteristic to urban Asians; our American eyes found no overstuffed couches or 50-inch televisions, instead falling upon delicate calligraphy-adorned tapestries and a set of uncomfortable wooden furniture topped with miniscule red cushions. A glance out the third-story window revealed a view of the narrow alley below; mopeds skittered hither and thither, cutting corners and dodging slower-moving pedestrians. Still, the rumblings of weary jet-lagged stomachs quickly drew our attention back to the task at hand: breakfast.

Settling at the table, a colorful array of peculiar fruits stared up at me, among them guavas, sugar apples, and deliciously crisp wax apples (see photos). I hesitantly tasted a moon cake filled with curiously flavored red-bean paste, acquired in the traditional style from a relative’s recent wedding. Yet few things stick in my memory and on my taste buds as well as milk bread, an unassuming treat that fast became our breakfast staple. Its soft, tender crumb easily surpassed and exceeded all white breads that I had ever tasted, melting luxuriously on the tongue with buttery ease.

Soon, our breakfast tradition was established: a slice of milk bread, untoasted (toasting it would have been like using glow-in-the-dark paint on the Sistine Chapel-some things shouldn’t be improved upon), a selection of fruit from Mr. Lee’s morning market ventures, and an aromatic cup of oolong tea.

To my great surprise, the Lees held various levels of disregard for tea, ranging from passive dislike to outright disdain; this phenomenon completely defied my misguided visions of dignified old Orientals sipping thimblefuls of tea while contemplating the venerable sayings of Confucius. Over the years, Ruth and Bernard had always showered my family with gifts of traditional Taiwanese clothing, snacks, and cookies, but among our favorites was loose jasmine tea, with its dainty floral notes serenading the olfactories. Perplexed by the seeming discontinuity, I questioned Mrs. Lee as to what compelled them to continuously give us this tea, the apparently loathed substance. “Jasmine tea is cheap, low-quality tea, but Americans love it,” she replied matter-of-factly. “Everyone is happy. ”

With a curt laugh at the shocked expression coating my visage, she strolled briskly through the busy marketplace. I hastened my steps to keep pace with Ruth’s quick gait, as she expertly wove through street vendors noisily advertising their wares; it is no mystery how these petite folk maintain their diminutive stature, as they almost exclusively walk, bike, or take public transportation for all purposes. Mrs. Lee simply refuses to drive in Taipei, dreading the perilous streets of Taipei and its equally frightening drivers.

We were on a very specific mission, scouring the stalls for ingredients of that night’s dinner; with a critical eye, Mrs. Lee patiently selected an assortment of fish balls, enormous prawns, intestines, shellfish, and other such appetizing items.

That night we were to be introduced to a winter staple for most Taiwanese households: hot pot. Although methods and preferences may vary from family to family, the fundamentals remain the same: a communal shallow kettle of water is perched upon a hot plate in the center of the table, and surrounded with various raw meats, seafood, vegetables, noodles, etc. Once the water is boiling contentedly, each diner is responsible to drop in items of his choosing, and then wait as they cook in a matter of mere seconds.

I eagerly boiled away, sliding thinly sliced beef, bok choy, mushrooms, and udon into the bubbling frenzy; with dampened fervor, I hesitantly sampled dark, salty duck blood, balking at the gelatinous texture. Vigorously suppressing the gag reflex, Ellie gummed a mouthful of stringy pig intestine, while I valiantly attempted to fish out a shrimp with my chopsticks. With a practiced air Sandra skillfully removed the hardened skin and tail of a similar plump, pink shrink using only her chopsticks and lips, and all this in the blink of an eye; during my travels, I found that the Taiwanese are unparalleled in dexterity of hand, particularly where the dinner table is concerned.  “Just put it whole in your mouth!” Bernard advised with an amused smile, as I meanwhile fumbled clumsily with my chopsticks, trying in vain to remove the shrimp’s inedible portions. “Put it in your mouth, and spit out the skin.”

Practically every meal at the Lee’s table was accompanied by a bottomless bowl of rice, and tonight’s dinner was no different; Sandra wrinkled her nose in distaste at the sight of the multigrain glutinous rice that Mr. Lee prefers over white. “Do you have any soy sauce for the rice?” Ellie queried with American naivety, asking what seemed a perfectly natural question; the Lees exchanged a collective glance, slipping each other furtive smiles. “You Americans and your soy sauce. We never put soy sauce on rice.” Bernard said with a laugh.  Blushing crimson, Ellie rushed into the tiny kitchen to retrieve an undersized bottle of soy sauce. Needless to say, we never requested it again.

Another evening, Mr. Lee herded Sandra, Ellie, and I into the car, a notable occasion in itself; our destination was a Japanese restaurant, and our purpose was to experience sashimi (very fresh raw fish). We seated ourselves at the counter directly opposite a chef preparing seafood, separated only by a lengthwise case containing various cuts of fish and other unknown meats. Peering curiously at us, a silent waitress provided chopsticks and cups for tea, the latter Ellie and I drank in copious amounts that night to quench wasabi-induced thirst. Bernard chattered familiarly with the chef, who, for what seemed like hours, kept a steady stream of various fishes flowing over the counter for us to sample.

At first, I stared blankly at the piece of raw pink flesh perched upon a small mound of white rice, and my stomach knotted with uneasy anticipation. Following Sandra’s example, I dabbed the rice-and-fish in wasabi paste, and thrust it in my mouth with a piece of pickled ginger; gasping for air, I blinked wetly, the wasabi flushing out my sinuses in seconds flat. “More tea! More tea!” The waitress encouraged enthusiastically. However, I was astonished to discover that I actually enjoyed the fish’s silky smooth texture, supplemented by the white heat of the wasabi and the ginger’s pungent sweetness. Salmon, tuna, and mackerel I consumed with gusto, even venturing to choke down a morsel of raw squid, chewy to the point of frustration.

“More tea! More tea!”

I obliged willingly.

Eating and drinking, the evening passed easily, slowing down as my stomach reached its capacity. I groaned with serene contentment, and turned my attention to the doings behind the counter; the chefs were busily preparing some unidentified dish, of which, as we soon discovered, lobster was quite literally the centerpiece. Gazing at the finished product in wonder, we marveled at the entrée now heaped into an enormous wooden boat. The unused portions of the lobster, being the head and tail, were artistically placed in the container to give a distinctive life-like appearance; however, what I at first assumed to be dead was moving imperceptibly, its slender legs flailing helplessly and antennae feebly probing the surroundings. “Is it alive? Why in the world do they serve it still alive?” I asked Mr. Lee dubiously. “The lobster is served barely alive, so that the customers know it is fresh!” Bernard replied knowingly, chuckling at my surprise.

Nodding thoughtfully, I wonder if I’ll ever learn not to be surprised.

No, I realize, a life without surprises is a life void of flavor, and the lack of spontaneity sucks the spice from existence.

Pass the chicken feet, please.