They would drive to the beach in Jean’s Fiat 500. And take a picnic. No fancy food this time.
Early in the morning, Jean walked to the corner kiosk on the edge of the Mont Boron area of Nice – two streets from the harbour. The kiosk opened at 7:30am and stayed open until they had sold out. Usually by 10am everything had gone. Locals knew this was The Place to come for Pan Bagnat: fresh baguette, drenched with olive oil and stuffed with anchovies, tuna, tomatoes, black olives, boiled eggs, and sliced onions. The best in the world. No-one could make them like this.
Jean bought two: one for him and one for Emile.
He carried them home in a plastic bag to stop the oil leaking out. Then wrapped them up in foil so the feisty flavours could marinate and mingle before lunchtime. The wetter the better for Emile – he smiled thinking fondly of his lifelong friend.
Jean drove to the airport to collect his friend. They hadn’t seen each other for 3 years. At our age you cannot afford to wait any longer, Emile half-joked over the telephone. It would be his 75th birthday next week. Jean was 73. Their days of lunch in New York, dinner in Colorado were long gone. Both retired from IBN eight years ago. Their city playboy days behind them, they now lived simpler lives. Emile had bought a small-holding in Corsica. Jean stayed in their birth town of Nice. Today they were going to Villefranche to sit on the beaches and look at the peaches.
“For old time’s sake” laughed Emile. He had always loved the peaches.
It was windy when they arrived at the seaside town just along the coast. Sunny too – young April sun. A few families were on the beach – small children laughing and screaming as they ran into the waves. Gulls called. Boats bobbed in the harbour. Picture postcard perfect. It was 11:15am
“Time for un petit pastis” winked Emile as they passed the verandah of The Welcome Hotel.
They sat in the sunshine in front of the hotel. “Bienvenu and welcome, messieurs”. The handsome young waiter took their order and returned with drinks, a carafe of water and a small tray of olives and breadsticks.
The two men sipped and watched the sea. They exchanged few words. This was the time to soak up the sun and the time together. Talking could come after lunch.
A woman came and sat down with a book two tables away from the men and started reading a novel. She wore sunglasses and had her hair tied back. She might have been late forties. She was serene; perhaps a little tired. Emile smiled at Jean and, almost imperceptibly, raised one eyebrow.
“No, my dear daft friend” Jean retorted gently. “We are retired and tired”. But he knew it was a pointless protest:
“Madame? – Vous pouvez nous prendre un photograph? «
She looked up and smiled. “ Ahhh – Oui”. She was English.
“Excuse me, Madame.. do not be afraid. We are ‘aging playboys’. Too old to be any trouble..”
She laughed and stood up, took his phone to take the picture. She was wearing white jeans and a light blue shirt. She put down her book. ‘A Moveable Feast’. A book given to her by a kind of angel at the hospital last month.
They chatted for a few moments both speaking Franglais. She made a note of the special sandwich Emile described to her ‘Pan Manguant..?’ (Non, Pan Bagnat, Madame..)
“Merci, Monsieur. I will find that place and buy one tomorrow.. demain. It will be a kind of ‘Last Supper’ for me. “La Sainte Cene” The man chuckled. It was almost Easter after all.
Emile bought the ‘English rose’ a Pastis before the two friends wandered down the beach to view the peaches and talk about sugar and cream they had known.
This tale is dedicated to a school friend, an English Rose, who found love and married him last summer. She died of cancer a couple of weeks ago at the age of 54.
It is never too late to start something new.