“
Madame Escoffier," he said. In his white apron, he was again the man she loved. The gentle man who only spoke in whispers.
"I am sorry," she said.
"I am not."
He leaned over and kissed her. His lips tasted of tomatoes, sharp and floral.
The moment, filled with the heat of a reckless summer, brought her back to the gardens they had grown together in Paris in a private courtyard behind Le Petit Moulin Rouge. Sweet Roma tomatoes, grassy licorice tarragon, thin purple eggplants and small crisp beans thrived in a series of old wine barrels that sat in the tiny square. There were also violets and roses that the 'confiseur' would make into jellies or sugar to grace the top of the 'petit-fours glacés,' which were baked every evening while the coal of the brick ovens cooled down for the night.
"No one grows vegetables in the city of Paris," she said, laughing, when Escoffier first showed her his hidden garden, "except for Escoffier."
He picked a ripe tomato, bit into it and then held it to her lips. "Pomme d'amour, perhaps this was fruit of Eden."
The tomato was so ripe and lush, so filled with heat it brought tears to her eyes and he kissed her.
"You are becoming very good at being a chef's wife."
"I love you," she said and finally meant it.
'Pommes d'amour.' The kitchen was now overflowing with them.
”
”
N.M. Kelby (White Truffles in Winter)