Chapter 2

Rose was manning the reception desk as usual that morning. She looked up and smiled at the fifty-year old man approached.

"May I help you?"

"Yes, I wondering if I may have a day-pass, please. My name is Farouq Yacine."

"You don't have a reservation, do you, sir? Are you alone?"

"Yes, I am."

"I'm sorry, sir, but we've had to install a policy of refusing to admit single men who are not known to us. This is not to my liking but past experience has made it necessary."

"That 's quite all right. I understand. It is the same in France. Perhaps this will help ... here is my passport and here is my membership card to the 'Fédération Française du Naturisme.' It is, how you say ... the equivalent to your A, A, N... ?"

"The AANR; it's pronounced 'an-er'." Rose smiled.

Farouk smiled back. "I know of it; before, both the FFN and AANR were members of the International Naturist Federation but AANR withdrew its membership a couple of years ago."

"Do you know anyone here, Mr ... Yacine?"

"Call me Farouq; it's easier to pronounce ... I was led to believe that a Mr. Jacques Le Bigot lived here?"

"I don't know a Mr. Le Bigot ... wait... ! Jacques... ! Do you mean Chef Jacques?"

"Well, Jacques always did like to cook..."

Rose reached for the phone and said, "Give me sec and I'll call him..."

"May I make it a surprise? We haven't seen each other in over twenty-five years ... possibly, could you ask someone to escort me. I promise I won't be any trouble."

Rose hesitated... "Very well, I'll call one of the waitresses."

"Excellent! In the meantime, I shall go back to my car and leave my clothes there."

When he got back, carrying a towel, Rose was waiting with a tanned young woman in her early thirties wearing but a half apron.

"Shelly, this is Mr ... Farouq. He says he's a friend of Chef Jacques. Could you escort him, please?"

Shelly smiled at the bearded, tanned gentleman. "Mr Farouq, would you come this way, please?"

"Just Farouq ... it's my first name. Your name is Shelly, is it not? Have you been working here long?"

Shelly smiled proudly. "For over fifteen years ... I started part-time during high school and I've never left. I would not want to work anywhere else."

"It IS nice, isn't it ... fresh air, lots of sun ... the feel of the breeze on your skin."

"Here we are," said she as she opened the door to the Maison d'Or. "I'll call Chef Jacques."

"Wait! Let's pull a little ... how you say ... a joke on him. You're a waitress, no?"

"The word is 'a prank', and yes I am a waitress ... I'm the head waitress here."

"Good. Do you have 'Ratatouille' on the menu?"

"What's that? I've never heard of it."

"Excellent. What I would like to do is to order a plate of Ratatouille..."

Shelly grabbed her pad from the pocket of her apron. "How do you write that?"

"Here, let me..." and he reached for the pad and her pen. Quickly he scrawled a few words on the top sheet. "Don't say a word ... just give him that the way you usually do."

Shelly glanced at her pad as she made her way to the kitchen and shrugged. "Ratatouille à l'Anchoïade," was all that was written. She could not even begin to guess at how that second word would be pronounced.

She was back with Farouq when Chef Jacques rushed out of his kitchen with the order slip in his hand. "Shelly ... Who ordered..." He stopped, frozen still, staring at Farouq sitting there at one of the tables.

« Salut, vieille branche... »

« Farouq... ? Vingt Dieux! Que fais-tu ici? »

Farouq looked up with a sly smile at Shelly and said "You see, I knew it would work..." as he rose up and stuck out his hand. Jacques slapped it away and grabbed him in both arms. They hugged and slapped each other's backs.

Finally, they released each other. Chef Jacques stepped back and, still holding Farouq at arm's length, said...

« Viens ... il faut arroser ça. Tu prendrais bien un pastis? » Chef Jacques then turned back to Shelly.