“When the soul lies down in that grass,
– Rumi, A Great Wagon
the world is too full to talk about.
Ideas, language, even the phrase each other”
Gourmandise translates to gluttony, which means “1) excess in eating or drinking; 2) greedy or excessive indulgence.” How sad. Once upon a childhood, in another language, it meant something, sparkling, else.
A gourmandise meant something locked, like treasure, a jewel, in the farthest right drawer of a china cabinet. The latter was gilded, oak, Louis XV – I know that now – and had a blue bronze key that opened magic. I knew that then.
A gourmandise meant something hot berry pink, lemon yellow, on a thin white stick, shaped like a raindrop: a lollipop, wrapped in wax paper that would crackle, sing when opened, like sparklers on a cake. A Pierrot Gourmand, the doe-eyed clown reclined on a crescent moon, legs dangling.
A gourmandise meant Sunday, family, lunch, French fries, blue dress, red satin sash tied in a bow behind my back.It meant time could stop, sugar and colour rush, and we could be. It meant… I do not remember why it changed or when the Pierrots Gourmands went.
Perhaps when time grew scarce and took Sundays with it. When life grew hard and did away with lavish lunches; the cheese, dessert – moelleux, crème brûlée, éclair – dreamy elderflower digestifs. When the world grew smaller, monochrome. When we grew up. I forget.
I also forgot, for a while, the taste of berry pink, lemon yellow, rose petals, mint, dew, light, and sticky fingers. I forgot there was a time, a language without words like wrong and right. One with wows! and miams! that meant … exactly that. In which nuzzles, caresses did not need translation. Kissing, holding hands. Then, the other day, a sidewalk café. Suddenly, I remembered.
Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing,
there is a field.
There was a table. Three chairs. On two, folded coats served as bolster seats. Passing dogs, spring, and sun dominated the conversation. Stomachs were full. Not too full. Never.
“La carte, s’il vous plait.”
Let’s see. I could not remember the last time I had had…
“Un café gourmand, s’il vous plait!”
S’il vous plait, echoed two voices. Two pairs of dangling legs swung and all three of us fidgeted, until,
“Et voilà pour vous!”
An espresso, for me. Three little spoons and napkins. And a long white platter of magnificent, jeweled, sparkling…
chouquettes, mini chocolate fondant, mini crème brûlée – “Hooray!” – mini panna cotta, mini rainbowed salade de fruits – triple applause, wow!, miam! – mini speculoos,
“Oh non!”
Indeed!
“Monsieur!”
He nodded. He returned with two more.
It was a Sunday. We watched people chase the bus, rush into the Métro. We laced our lips with chocolate, dotted our noses with cream, and discussed, seriously, how Pierrot Gourmand could nap on the moon without falling.
We ate and loved with “excessive indulgence” and the day was sugar and colours. And life, at that moment, meant a table and three chairs, three dirty spoons, a polished platter.