Chapter 3. Before the ER, September 2010
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Chapter 3. Before the ER, September 2010
Only a few weeks before Jamie was in the ER, we’re in a taxi driving home from JFK — we’ve just arrived back from a European hiking adventure. Home for us now, and for the past ten years, is a parlor-level, high-ceilinged, one-bedroom apartment in a brownstone on West 10th Street, between 5th and 6th Avenues. As the taxi drives through the tree-lined, cobblestone streets in Greenwich Village, I look out the window watching vivid autumn leaves dancing to the ground, bedazzling me once again. My experience growing up in Australia did not include such vibrant-colored-leaf-shows every year. And while Jamie grew up in Massachusetts, the foliage still delights him too.
We both love living on the island of Manhattan, but we also relish time in nature. Especially hiking in the wilderness, although Jamie is not really a camping kind of guy. So when I discovered we could hike the hundred-mile circuit of the Tour du Mont Blanc, through France, Italy, and Switzerland as a self-guided tour, it piqued his interest.
Sherpa Expeditions transported our luggage each day to the next auberge, leaving us free to enjoy full days of unfettered walking.
With overnight accommodations already booked, each night we could count on sleeping in a warm bed, sometimes after soaking in a hot bath. Besides the rewards of stunning vistas while we traversed rocky mountain ranges, we also savored a variety of local cuisines: alpine cheeses, cured meats, vintage wines, crusty breads, and tasting Swiss raclette for the first time.
One evening at a restaurant in Champex Lac, while attempting to decipher French menus, Jamie noticed a small table up against the wall that held a heating apparatus positioned over a large half-moon of cheese — the cut side facing up towards the flame above. When the waiter arrived, Jamie pointed to the side table and asked, “Qu'est-ce que c'est ça?”
We learned it was called raclette, derived from the French verb “racler,” to scrape. The waiter held up his hand, motioning for us to wait and watch. He walked over and turned up the flame. When the cut surface of the cheese began to bubble, with a long knife and a swift movement, he scraped off the top layer and put it on a plate. Once he had made three plates like this, he delivered them to the patrons, then looked over to Jamie and me with his hands held up in question.
We both nodded, yes please.
His chin high and shoulders back, he stood tall, feet apart and firmly planted on the floor, while repeating the performance of his mastery in creating this Swiss specialty. Once complete, with a flourish of a white linen napkin over his arm, he brought us two plates of raclette served with boiled potatoes in their skins, cornichons, jambon cru (similar to prosciutto) and small pickled onions. He also poured us each a glass of a Fendant white wine. Our anticipatory smiles seemed to gratify him, and he stepped away.
I forked a piece of hot potato, half a small pickled onion and scraped on some of the warm, melty cheese. Pausing with it close to my mouth, I used my tongue to see if it was too hot. It wasn’t. I took the bite and chewed slowly. The cheese was reminiscent of a Gruyere and was balanced by the tang of the pickled onion, all of which melded beautifully with the potato and a sip of the wine. I felt myself disappear into the marriage of flavors and textures. This kind of fresh, vital, and alive food invigorates me. Smiling, I said to Jamie, “I’m in love.” When he also took a bite, his whole face lit up. There was a sublime nature to the food, especially when married with sips of the frisky Valais wine. Leaning back into our chairs we marinated in the lusciousness. Heaven on earth.
Later, we learned the dish was invented by cow herders and mountain farmers who, after a long day in the brisk, thin air, craved a warm meal. I imagine if prepared over a fire outdoors, the dish would also have an appealing smoky flavor. Raclette somehow satisfied a yearning for the simple life.
~
Hiking the Tour du Mont Blanc was a pinnacle of our lives. For several months before we left, we ran on treadmills, lifted weights, and sweated through aerobic classes at our local gym. After arriving home, I thought re-entry into our jobs was going well. I enjoyed my commute of walking to Penguin’s offices on Hudson Street just below Houston. Jamie used to walk to his office at Credit Suisse First Boston on Madison between 24th and 25th Streets, but when he began working at J.P. Morgan a few years prior, his commute became a short subway or taxi ride.
I was feeling fit and healthy, and thought he did too. I believed both our bodies still hummed in the zone of a hiker’s high. So I was bewildered when Jamie woke up in a cold sweat that night before he went to the ER.
Click to read chapter 4.