French Fried (11 page)

“I do not have a car!” cried Nicole. “We live in an area with wonderful shops. Each day I walk to the markets to pick out the freshest vegetables and fruits, the best fish or meat, and the finest bread from a lovely patisserie only a block from my door. People who shop from cars are tempted to buy too much. Only food purchased on the day it is to be eaten is worth cooking. Don’t you agree, Carolyn?”

“Of course,” said Carolyn, who had never been grocery shopping two days in a row. “And tell me, Nicole, do you cook Japanese?”

Bertrand chuckled merrily in anticipation of his own joke. “Japanese are not sold in our markets. Nor would it be legal to cook and eat them. Surely, Carolyn, you do not eat Japanese in America, even considering that they, many years ago, were so dishonorable as to bomb your ships without first declaring war.”

I could hear my wife sigh. “I was thinking of Japanese fish,” she replied politely. “They are so rare and tasty.”

“But a Japanese fish would have to be frozen and flown here,” protested Nicole. “We eat the fish of our region. The fish of Dombes, for instance. It is so interesting how these fishes are caught.”

“Yes,” Bertrand agreed enthusiastically. “From shallow, freshwater lakes in huge nets spread by tractors and then pulled in by fishermen, who wade into the water and haul in the carp and pike for immediate consumption or shipment. At the restaurant I shall point to you some fine fishes from Dombes.”

“Yes, I read that some of those breeding ponds were established in the twelfth century,” said Carolyn. I think she gave up at that point on the Fourniers as murderers. Their car was the wrong color, and the idea of eating Japanese fish was obviously appalling to them.

At the restaurant, which had no sign outside, only an ornate and possibly aged door and heavily draped windows so that we could not see inside, we had to knock to be admitted by a man who greeted both Fourniers with a torrent of French and embraces, which extended to hand-kissing in my wife’s case. He didn’t greet me at all, evidently taking me for some hanger-on with no culinary credentials. The restaurant itself was small with elaborately set tables and yellow brocaded walls and chairs, but we were led to the bar because the rest of our party had not yet arrived.

“I know that Americans love cocktails before dinner,” Bertrand said and helped both ladies onto high stools facing an inlaid wooden bar with an elaborately etched mirror behind it. Carolyn whispered that the décor was Art Deco, while Bertrand ordered a round of Hypermetropes. I had no idea what was coming, but of course the Fourniers were anxious to tell us in detail about this mixture of green Chartreuse and Vertical Vodka, both made by the monks of the Chartreuse, and served very cold, so cold that my test sip made my teeth ache. I sensibly failed to mention this problem to Carolyn, who would whip out a toothache remedy she carries in her purse. She’d evidently once forced it on a Catalan homicide inspector in Barcelona.

“How interesting,” said my wife after her first sip. “I knew it wasn’t crème de menthe.”

“Heaven forbid,” cried Nicole, and she launched into the history and distillation of the two ingredients.

After a few
sips of my Hypermetrope, I grew to like it. I think it was all the alcohol that made it so palatable. I was feeling quite merry by the time Catherine and her student arrived. But good grief. He was huge. And Norman, according to Nicole, which explained the red hair.

When we were introduced, I said, somewhat the worse for having drained my cocktail, “You must be a descendent of William Rufus.” Silence followed that remark. “The son of William the Conqueror, the second Norman king of England.”

“Are you inferring something about my sexual orientation, madam?”

Oh dear, I’d forgotten those rumors about William Rufus, who had never married and—well, I hadn’t meant that. “Certainly not, Monsieur Le Blanc. William Rufus was redheaded and very large, a man much given to the practices of chivalry, even if there
were
rumors about him, not that there’s anything wrong with being a homosexual.” I really needed to get off that subject.

“You may remember when the youngest son, Henry Beauclerc, was holed up with his knights on Mont-Saint-Michel, while his brothers William Rufus and Robert, Duke of Normandy, besieged him. Henry sent a messenger asking that he and his men be allowed to ride ashore with all honors, and William, so charmed with the chivalric honor that would accrue to him by granting the request, agreed.”

“Not only does the lady know her Norman history, but she obviously meant to compliment you, Martin,” said Catherine sharply.

Martin le Blanc immediately rearranged his expression and shook my hand. Then we all went to our daffodil brocade chairs and had our meals chosen for us by the Fourniers. I had to have Dombes pike, dragged in a net fresh from one of a thousand or more ponds and shipped to me in a tanker that very day. Pike in butter sauce and Gratin Dauphinois, a dish of thinly sliced potatoes baked in a very rich sauce. It was quite nice, although Catherine said she preferred the potatoes with poultry or lamb.

“But Carolyn has not yet sampled it,” cried Bernard.

“A terrible mistake on the part of her previous hosts,” said Nicole. “What could Gabrielle have been thinking? Carolyn could have had the Gratinois with her Bresse chicken last night.”

I assured them that I was happy to accompany my fish with the potatoes, which had an excellent texture. That earned me a lecture on Bintie potatoes, an old Netherlands variety with an oval shape, a yellow skin, no eyes, and the excellent ability to stay meaty after cooking. I made note of all this for future columns.

“And did you enjoy the traboules today?” Catherine asked, perhaps feeling it only polite to bring up something I could talk about.

“They were fascinating,” I said. “Sylvie told me that you are from an old Florentine family and that you live in that district.”

“Yes, I own an apartment in a tower. When it came on the market, I bought it immediately because family papers indicate that my ancestors once lived there. I am myself from Avignon and have a flat there as well, but it is not so charming as my home here in Lyon.”

“How lucky you are to live where your ancestors once lived,” I said enviously.

Catherine smiled. “Would you like to see it?”

“Goodness, yes, if it wouldn’t inconvenience you.”

“Unfortunately, I cannot show you through. I know you are going to see the churches with Gabrielle tomorrow, which will no doubt take you into the afternoon, while I must drive to Avignon tomorrow. However, I can leave a key for you with Madam Ravelier, who lives on the first floor. Simply knock on her door and then climb the stairs. You can let yourself in and look around, then return the key to my neighbor.”

“That’s so kind of you, Catherine, but I couldn’t let you—”

“Not at all. Just be sure to lock up afterward. I’ll write down directions. Madam Ravelier will be home after three in the afternoon.” She wrote directions in English on a piece of paper that showed me how to get from Charlemagne Cour to her apartment by public transportation and on foot. I was quite excited at the prospect of seeing a tower apartment, and thanked her with all my heart. What a generous woman, although I’d initially thought her rather reserved.

Bernard interrupted us by launching into a description of Antonin Careme, a nineteenth-century chef who created pureed sauces from sugar and fruit or nuts and then turned them into beautiful, if ephemeral, designs on dessert plates by using the a knife blade.

“This is a talent still practiced here in Lyon, especially in this restaurant,” Nicole added. Then the chef himself came out with six waiters, each carrying a plate that featured a different design highlighting small balls of colorful sorbets. Mine was a scene with purple mountains, green grass, a tree, and bushes. It was so beautiful that I couldn’t bear to eat it, but the chef, after my comment was translated, said that I must. Still, I insisted on being allowed to photograph each creation before anyone ate. The result was that the sorbet began to melt into the decorations, so I didn’t feel as bad about eating mine. Then the chef kissed me on both cheeks and presented me with an autographed menu.

Catherine warned me to take care in her neighborhood, which contained public as well as private housing. “You’ll be safe,” she said. “I’ve never been accosted, but do keep your eyes open, and be sure to turn on the light on the stairs. It gets rather dark before you reach my door. The switch is to your left as you enter the tower.”

I assured her that I would be careful, lock the door, and return the key. It was only after we said good night that I realized that I’d forgotten to ask her the color of her car and whether she liked Japanese food. However, I saw that the car in which she and Martin left was not black, so I didn’t worry about my failure to pursue my investigation.

I did worry when the Fourniers announced that they would now take us to see the festival of lights. Goodness knows when we’d get home after such a long dinner, and I had to get up early to meet Gabrielle and Sylvie at the university.

I have to admit that I forgot about bedtime once we began to drive by beautiful buildings spotlighted in gold, blue, and green, their reflections shining in the waters of both rivers. We saw the hospital, Hotel-Dieu, with its cross-topped capitol dome reflected in the Rhône, several old stone forts, the beautiful St.-Georges footbridge over a river with a floodlighted church spire behind it, a mansard-roofed university, and perhaps best of all, the basilica on the hill, aglow in blue light. It was magical. I almost regretted the fact that we would be leaving soon for Avignon.

Jason was regretting the size of the dinner bill. “That meal cost us a fortune,” he said as we walked into the hotel.

“But wasn’t it delicious?” I replied.

On our way
to the university, surrounded on the tram by students, Jason tried to talk me out of visiting Catherine’s apartment, but I refused on grounds of rudeness.

“But she said the neighborhood is dangerous.”

“No, she said to keep my eyes open, but that she’d never had a problem.”

“She’s an Amazon. What criminal would bother
her
? At least take Sylvie with you.”

“Absolutely not. If I take Sylvie, I’ll get stuck with holding the dog’s leash while she takes pictures. For once I want to take my own.”

Jason gave up, and I stared out the window at the modern university buildings, all named after famous scientists. “Don’t they have the liberal arts here?” I asked.

“How should I know?” Jason muttered. “I only see chemists and eat in expensive restaurants.”

To cheer him up I pointed out a building named for Ampère and told the story of his statue, one of many snatched from their pedestals in Lyon because of a 1941 law requisitioning bronze statues to be melted down to make chemicals for French grape vines and soldering pipes. “Ampère’s statue wasn’t pulled down until 1944, but after Lyon was liberated by the Allies, they discovered the statue in the Perrache Station. It never was sent away to the foundry.”

“Where do you find these stories?” Jason grumbled.

“In a booklet I sent for from the tourist bureau.”

With that we left the tram, and I headed for the parking lot where Winston Churchill, Sylvie, and Gabrielle awaited me. Sylvie was carrying a large basket and informed me that we would have a
machon
picnic after seeing the basilica, our last stop. Gabrielle protested that a
machon
was a breakfast. “But eaten in the vineyard,” Sylvie retorted.

“What’s in it?” I asked.

“Beaujolais, of course.” She lifted the napkin. “Good farm bread with
fromage fort
to spread on it, bacon, sausage—but the sausage has nothing nasty in it, Carolyn—and pâté.”

“Pâté?”
I echoed. Was it Sylvie who had tried to poison us? Why would she? And her car was not black, but maybe Raymond’s was. And how was I to explain my refusal to eat her pâté? While she popped the basket into the trunk with her tools and ordered Gabrielle into the backseat with the cameras, I decided that I would eat no pâté that Sylvie did not first eat herself. If she served me first, I could politely pass my portion to Gabrielle. Surely Sylvie would not allow Gabrielle to eat poisoned pâté. Satisfied with my plan, I climbed into the front seat. Winston Churchill then jumped into my lap and went into his I’m-starving-where’s-my-sausage routine. I turned my head.