Cassoletta - Red
Pump heel 7 cm
THE TRUE STORY OF THE CASSOLETTA
My mother quickly became emancipated. At sixteen, she packed up and left home.
Her parents were getting on her nerves, and she was tired of being beaten at every turn. Things were never right, and her father used his nerves and frustrations to destroy everything she loved. Leaving her Normandy home, she landed in Paris without a plan in mind. But she did remember that she had a distant cousin whom her parents forbade her to see. A bad seed, they said. Yet she had nowhere else to go. She took her one-franc coin, inserted it into the telephone slot.
Two months later, she was hanging out arm in arm with her cousin in all the bars of Saint-Germain. They had become inseparable, with every guy wanting to buy her a drink. Sometimes they took advantage. Sometimes they'd throw it back in their faces, because behind it lay dishonest propositions. Matzneff-like propositions.
My mother liked to have a good time, but she also knew her limits, so before she became an alcoholic, she left her cousin's studio for a little maid's room rented with money a distant aunt had given her for her 10th birthday. Not enough to last long, but at least the first fortnight. She'd have to make up for the rest.
She imagined herself as a lock keeper, but there were very few places available and none to fill at the time of her job search. Time was running out and her landlord threatened to throw her out if she didn't pay her dues.
Pressed for time, she took the first job that came her way, working in a Spanish inn on rue Amelot in the eleventh arrondissement. My mother was welcomed like a daughter by the owners, a couple of old Iberians who had fled Franco to come and cook good, comforting food in France. Their dishes were benevolent, prepared to make other exiles forget that they had been uprooted.
The restaurant was crowded, as many people sought refuge there in order to get a taste of Spain in their mouths. My mother served sangria, tapas and squid-ink tortillas until all hours of the morning, as they had also kept their southern schedules. They had late lunches and late dinners. Her dream was to take archaeology courses, but she couldn't manage both.
The restaurant took up a lot of her energy, but she needed the salary and the parental love they gave her. A choice had to be made.
A choice that became a necessity when the boss fell headfirst into a deep-fried dish, blinding her.
From that moment on, my mother also took charge of the stoves. She had a vague knowledge of the house specialties from serving them, but she also began to improvise and include traditional French dishes mixed with those on the menu.
She invented the Flammekueche Flamenca. A 'tarte flambée' with mussels instead of bacon. And above all, a cassolette of scallops. A dish that made her the darling of customers who already adored her as a waitress.
With this new string to her bow, she now had a harp in her hand and the entire clientele at her feet. So much so, in fact, that people soon began calling her mi pequeña Cassoletta. It was a crowning achievement for this young woman from Normandy, who had conquered Paris while dreaming of dusting off temples and pyramids.
This she did just a few years after leaving the catering trade to become the world's first amateur archaeologist, registered with UNESCO and the inspiration for the film A la Poursuite du Diamant Vert. So now you know why this beautiful, radiantly shaped pump is the sign of renewal for the prophetic brand you've come to cherish.
