Read Cooking for Picasso for Free Online Page B

monster.”
    Ondine was speechless, spellbound.
    “Which picture is your favorite?” he asked in a gentle, soothing tone, so calm that perhaps there was something mocking in it. He reminded her of the impish boys who congregated outside school and tried to trick a girl into showing them her underpants.
    He was waiting for her answer. Ondine lifted her chin defiantly. “This one,” she said, as casually as if she were selecting a rose from the florist, pointing to the friendlier, domestic scenario between the Minotaur and the blonde woman resting luxurious and naked on cushions together.
    “Well, you can’t have the calm without the storm,” Picasso teased. “What’s your name?”
    “Ondine,” she answered.
    “Ah, the water nymph! From the seas of Juan-les-Pins,” he exclaimed with humor.
    Something made Ondine say daringly, “Shall I address
you
as Monsieur Ruiz—or Picasso?”
    “Shh!” he said playfully, putting a finger to his lips. “Both names are mine. My parents gave me the longest string of names you can imagine—to honor so many uncles and relatives! Here in town, I use Ruiz, my father’s family name. But since he, too, was an artist, I sign my work with my mother’s family name; and so now I am simply—” he thumped his chest and declared with mock savagery, “Picasso.”
    As if reminded of his purpose, he turned away from her and began sorting through the many jars and brushes and other mysterious tools that filled the tables around him. Ondine understood that it was time to leave him to his work, and she quietly slipped from the room.
    Not until she reached the kitchen did she remember why she’d gone up there.
    “Oh, I forgot to ask him about
Maman
’s pitcher!” she exclaimed in distress. But she certainly couldn’t go bother him now. If her mother asked for it, Ondine would have to make up some excuse.
    —
    W HEN O NDINE RETURNED to the café, Madame Belange said briskly, “There’s a party at a villa out on the
Cap
. That Parisian family with the wild daughter, she’s having a birthday
fête
—and their chef needs help because one of his ovens broke down!” The kitchen table was already filling up with big trays of
hors d’oeuvres
. Ondine quickly tied on an apron. “They’re sending a car to pick it up,” her mother said. “Be ready to take the trays out, and make sure you show them which are hot and which are cold.”
    Ondine expected a chef’s delivery truck, so she was startled when, a few hours later a sleek black limousine pulled up to the café. She untied her apron, smoothed her hair and dress and went staggering out with a big tray, followed by waiters carrying more trays.
    The back door of the car seemed to open by itself. When Ondine peered in, she saw three young men dressed in navy and white flannel; and two women in pastel party dresses. They all had cocktail glasses in hand, and one of the men held a bottle of champagne.
    “Here comes our food,
splendide
! But alas—the trunk is full of our luggage from the train!” a young man shouted, and a burst of merry laughter made it clear that they were all rather tipsy. They were several years older than Ondine, but they had the cheerful, pampered faces of milk-fed calves.
    They must have come down from Paris on the luxury
Train Bleu,
and clearly for them the party had already begun—or perhaps to this exuberant crowd, life was one never-ending party.
    “Come on,” said another fellow enthusiastically, “we’ll move the girls into the front seat, and you—what’s your name? Ondine, you say? Lovely. Well, Ondine, you can pile all that food right here next to us!”
    There were shrieks of laughter as the girls popped out of the car and then slid into the front seat beside the driver. Ondine carefully passed her tray to the boys in the back, then the waiters placed their stackable trays on top of hers until the whole thing nearly touched the inside of the car’s roof. Ondine asked the driver, “Who should