Echoes of Paris ...by Keith Hansen.

1996
I always start the day with a mocha coffee the one with the chocolate. It propelled me into
the working hours when a kitchenhand or a chef must exist entirely on his wits. You might know
the recipes backwards and yet you can fall foul of tricky ingredients. That is the complexity of
"fruiti de mare" or fruits of the sea.
No doubt the fresher you can get them the better they taste to the palette, yet lets face it,
one can't be near the sea every day. Especially when working in the Latin Quarter of Paris or
farther still from the sea Berlin.
One time I went to Cherbourg to take a fishing trip out in the channel. The weather was foul
and we barely missed going aground. Eventually we reached the island of Jersey where a cousin
of the boat owner lived. A green historic place which was like a French country village stuck on a
rock in the middle of the ocean. Not much to do except drink and play backgammon and watch
your money did not get skited away.
The day when we had to go "periwinkle picking started out enticingly beautiful. The beach of
sparkling sand and the tide had drifted out to reveal a tidal flat that stretched for miles onto the
horizon of the "Chanel Englese".
Chevon appeared with the buckets and the spades dressed in her Jersyite gear of gumboots
and Norwegian fishing pullover pulled over faded jeans that were rolled up over the knees. She
had the flaxen hair and china skin of a Breton with the high forehead that gave her a very gnome
like appearance.
We started our walk towards the horizon for half an hour or less. Digging in the sand we
collected the periwinkles and stood for a good while talking, mostly about the future.
'You decided to stay after the armistice Harry,' she said with a soft rolling accent. 'Even
though you could have taken a free passage back to Sydney.'
'Yes. I felt inspired to see more of the world,' Harry said with a sincere tone. 'Back there I
would only be at working in the family business.'
'Oh and what kind of business is that?'
'Breeding horses. And the carriage trade.'
'A bit of a fancy man who likes to ply the stable trade.'
'I've always been keen on horse racing and going to the derby.'
'So would you fancy staying here and keeping me company.'
'Well...thats a question you ask,' Harry stared into Carolines deep blue eyes. 'Should I play
the affair by ear or just proceed in reckless fashion?'
Caroline gave him a beaming smile of reassurance and then froze.
'Oh my god, the tide has changed. We've been out here too long. If we don't get ashore we'll
be swept out sea.'
They ran with the buckets as best one could in the sort sand and the waters slowly rising
around there ankles. The shore appeared a fair way off.
'Not to worry Harry. We shall make it,' she cooed. 'Lucky we moved when we did.'
'Never seen a tide like this. Must be the biggest in the world.'
She gave his hand a squeeze and they carried on to the shore.
Harry could see a woman on a horse, Clydesdale, trotting from the shore she appeared to be
carrying a long coiled length of rope slung around her waist.
'I'll tow you both in if you tie the rope around your waist and hang on tight,' Chevons sister
Cleo was an expert horse woman who could handle the Clydesdale in any situation.' This horse

is able to move against the tide it has so much strength in her body.' Cleo called to the pair who
trailed behind the horse as it dragged them to the shoreline where a crowd was waiting.
Sitting in the local Pub, the Smugglers Cove, they dried out with a tipple of green ginger wine in
hand. Aptly named as this was the pub where pirates and other renegades had done their deeds
on the windswept coastline of the channel isles until about thirty years ago.
They sat in a corner of the front bar which had been decorated in a seafaring theme of old
clipper ship paintings and regalia. Harry having bought a second round of drinks they settled in
for a long drinking session.
Chevon gave Harry a long stare. 'So how did a horse trainer ever finish up in the cooking
game,' Chevon said running her fingers through her flaxen hair. 'Food is a different world to the
racetrack.'
'It's a long story. When I sustained a wound in Picardy, North of France. I had been sent to a
hospital in England. Stoke on Trent a lovely place,' said Harry. 'The army put me in the catering
corps which is basically meaning a field kitchen.'
'So you've decided to stay in the mother country and learn the chefing trade?'
'It's another feather in ones cap. Sure to be useful in the future!'
'I have an uncle on my mothers side. He runs a restaurant in Paris,' Chevon said. 'Very old
school. Knows all the tricks of the cooking trade.'
'Oh, sounds interesting. Could I work there?'
'It's called the "petite Papillion.'
'Hmm...Thats where I need a translation.'
Chevon smiled and said 'I think its "little butterfly", just don't hold me to those exact words.'
'Time we were gone back to the hotel for the night,' said Harry checking his watch. I see a nice
trip to Paris in store for us.'
They paid the bar tab and wandered down the flagstone street into the light grey drizzle of the
Channel rain.
The morning they departed for the Continent could have been the middle on winter. Winds
howled and waves broke across the bow of the steamer that took them to La Harve.
'Now there is a port of historical interest,' said Chevon to Harry. 'Many famous sea expeditions
have left from this well fortified port.'
'Is this where La Perouse sailed from on his journey to Australia,' Harry asked taking the
brown leather suitcases in hand. 'They landed near Sydney after a harrows sea voyage around
the Cape of good hope.'
'Did La Perouse try to cross the Indian Ocean to reach Australia?' Chevon asked
'He sailed up along the coast of Africa and through the straits of Malacca coming down the
East coast of Australia.' Harry replied. 'They used the tracing of the maps drawn by an earlier
Spanish explorer Admiral Queros. This map roughly drawn by Quiroz, was in a museum in
Lisbon.'
'Oh...a very long voyage. Did they set up a colony near Sydney?'
'Well, no. He took one look around and left. Sailed away up the coast and his fleet have never
been seen since.'
'A mystery unsolved!'
Huge green waves picked up the groundswell and rolled the iron hull of the steamer. Rivets
and iron plates strained as the ship strained to make headway through the unrelenting force of
the ocean. On the moving horizon clipper ships who were making passage down the channel
had set their rigging at half-mast.

'I'll never be so glad as to set foot on dry land,' Chevon said rubbing her upset stomach that
seemed to be moving with the ship. This was the first time she had set foot on a ship of any size
and thought to herself the last time.
'I shall be so happy when this trip is over. There was no warning of this wild storm.'
'It sprung up from nowhere,' said Harry sympathizing with Chevon. Many of the passengers
were clinging to the rails being very green and sick.
'Cherbourg cannot be far away. We shall be founding Cape de la Hague soon.' a seaman in
oiled wet weather garb who patrolled the deck called out. 'All is good,' he followed. 'We shall be
pulling to and unload a small boat which is in our lee.'
The ship laid the fishing smack in its leeside allowing its passengers to climb a sturdy rope
ladder over the gun wall rails of the steamer. An older lady looked very seasick as two men
helped her up the ladder. Harry took her hand bracing himself from the breaking waves that
lashed the deck. He swung up and wrapped a woolen blanket around her plump cold torso. The
men came onboard and shook the hands of their almost rescuers clasping them firmly.
'John Peter Russell,' said the half bearded man in the black Jedson jacket. 'Thanking you kindly
for a job well done.' He shook Harrys hand and smiled a big mouthful of gold fillings.
'We're so happy you are safe. Are the other men on the fishing craft going to be safe.' said
Harry with concern!'
'Not to worry. The storm is easing and they can sail to Guernsey with the wind behind them.
We had to get off as Mrs. Monet is getting too seasick and was finding the whole episode very
unpleasant.'
Chevon appeared on deck holding a tray with piping hot tea on it and past them around.
Russell took a cup and said,' youre the most promising cabin boy I've seen in a long time.'
'Well yes, I must look the part,' Chevon said brightly. A cabin boy of all things.' I'm sure your
picture has appeared in the London Illustrated News. The social column of all places.'
'Ah...well yes. I do seem to summon a bit of attention in my line of trade.' Russell said. 'I'm a
bit of an art collector and hobbyist.'
'And not only that from what I've read a famous artist to boot!' Chevon exclaimed. 'Are you
from England by any chance?'
'From what I hear you have a rather colonial accent,' Harry said. 'South African or Australasian
maybe!'
'Well yes. I'm from a suburb in Sydney called Darlinghurst. I have been living on Belle Isle at an
artists colony for a number of years.' Russell said.
You must be very successful to have acquired so much fame as an artist at such an early age.'
Chevon inquired.
'I must confess I came into an inheritance at a very early age which seen me through a
Paris school of art where I have learnt the trade of oil painting'
Oh ...we must come to visit this art school when we are in Paris to visit my uncle."
'Well its run by a rather eccentric fellow by the name of Fernand Cornion,' Russell wiped his
brow. 'A rather hard task master at that. He works you to the bone.'
'Sounds remarkable if not a huge effort,' said Harry as he coiled a length of rope. 'Do they
have many famous artists at the art collage where you learn painting?'
'Oh a few. One fellow by the name of Toulouse, my god he's the best stone lithographer I've
ever seen. The man's a ruddy marvel.'
The ships bell rang to announce the arrival at Cherbourg harbor even though they were three
hours late. The steamer had fought and won the battle with the fierce seas of the English
Channel.

The group from the ship sat in a harbor side cafe enjoying rich coffee and other hot beverages
with Russell overseeing his fellow passengers enjoyment of the treated delights.
He turned to Chevon and Harry who sat close by. 'If you have the time do come down to Belle
Ille and spend a few days. We have a lovely spacious villa and really it would be a delight to have
you with us.'
'That's most generous of you Mr. Russell. I've always had an interest in art myself,' Harry said.
'And I'm sure I could vouch for Chevon as well.'
'Goodo. No need to keep it so formal 'boyo'. Just call me John Peter,' said Russell. 'Everyone
else around the island does. Time to eat.'
The group entered into the downstairs of the old tavern via a set of limestone steps that had
been carved into the rock face. A very thin lady greeted them and showed them to a table at the
rooms end where indoor ferns grew.
'The cuisine here is good and hearty, mostly provincial. Let me order a few starters,' said
Russell.
'Ah... Hors d'Oeuvre, how most wonderful,' exclaimed Chivon as a piping hot plate of
Saucisson en Croute arrived at the table.
'Most tasty. Seared pork and wild mushroom sausages with a bevy of herbs. Cooked in puff
pastry and fired in a hot oven.' Russell said. 'The leftover pastry is cut into amusing shapes and
before firing is adhered with egg yolk.'
'And the salad is sensational. Is it traditional?'
'On no. It's called salade la Americane, a new arrival. Layers of sliced tomato and cucumber
with green leaf and crispy fried pork pieces. Three cheeses are added and a sauce barnaise is
drizzled lightly on top.'
'Very rich I would say.' said Harry. 'Never seen the like of it.'
They finished the meal and retired to their cabins. A rocking motion taking them to a deep
sleep. Except for Chivon, who lay awake on the bunk in the wooden cabin, pondering the future,
questioning why she had left the home, and the fields of France