French Fried (5 page)

I laughed at the idea that Carolyn would end up in Toulouse, which is quite some distance from Lyon.

“It’s not funny, Jason. I’m tired and upset and—well, maybe I should just stay here.”

“Sweetheart, we’re the guests of honor. If you’re worried about getting lost, you’d better take a cab.”
God knows what that will cost
, I thought. “You’ll need to change dollars for francs at the hotel. And you might as well go straight to the restaurant. Say at seven-thirty.” While Carolyn looked for pen and paper, I consulted the chairman, who estimated the length of the cab ride and suggested that she meet us at eight instead of seven-thirty.

“Your wife will wish enough time for all the necessary feminine preparations before a night out in Lyon,” he said rather pompously.

“Dress up,” I advised when she got back on the line. Then I told her the name of the restaurant, and she wanted me to spell it. French spelling is not my forte, but I made a stab at it and was quickly relieved of the telephone by the chair, Professor Laurent, who introduced himself to “dear Madam Blue,” and proceeded to dictate the name and address, a lengthy process because the French pronounce the letters differently, and many letters required whole conversations to convey.

The chairman seemed irritated by the end of the process, so I could imagine how Carolyn was feeling.
Not the best beginning for the evening
, I thought with misgivings as I took the phone back to say good-bye.

“Who in the world was that?” she asked. “He’s almost as bad as the woman down at the reception desk. And, Jason, I have the most amazing story to tell you. When I got here—”

“Carolyn, it will have to wait until later. If you’re to make it to the restaurant by eight—”

“Oh, all right, Jason. I’ll start getting ready. Did you mean formal, as in long dress and—”

“No, no. But the men will be wearing suits. See you at eight, love. I’ll let you go now.” I hung up before she could tell me that she didn’t like the hotel. She’d had her doubts when I made the reservation, so I assumed her story was about the Charlemagne’s deficiencies. At least I could count on her enjoying the dinner. Carolyn always responds happily to new culinary experiences.

I’d had
my
doubts when she became a food writer, mainly because she grew more interested in eating out than in cooking at home, but her new occupation did avert the onset of empty-nest syndrome when our youngest left for college. Carolyn even makes some money with her writing hobby, not to mention the tax advantages. What man could object when his wife was able to deduct all her travel expenses? We ate in restaurants we could never have afforded before.

Our replacement room was much like the first, same décor, same leafy trees outside, and the bed was luxuriously comfortable. I’d slept soundly until Jason called. I hadn’t even showered or unpacked before falling into bed. Consequently, I didn’t discover the drawbacks of the bathroom facilities until I began to prepare for dinner. On one side of the hall off the bedroom were a small closet and a room holding a toilet, bidet, and sink. On the other side were another closet and another room with a skimpy, curtained shower and another sink. It had looked fine on my brief visit before going to bed.

When I actually used the shower, I discovered the problems. While turned on, it sprayed everything in the room—the sink, the shelf for cosmetics above the sink, the towels, the bath mat, the wastebasket under the sink, even the wall socket into which one could plug a razor if one had a razor that worked on French current and was unconcerned with the danger of being electrocuted.

Imagine stepping from the shower onto a wet tile floor and soggy bath mat, then trying to dry off with a damp towel. I left footprints across to the other half of the bath, and then down the hall into the bedroom, where the telephone began to ring while I was donning my robe. If Jason was calling to hurry me up, I had a thing or two to tell him that couldn’t be said at the dinner table.

“Madam Blue,” said a French-accented voice. “This is Inspector Theodore Roux. I have very strange news for you.”

What now?
I wondered, sitting down in the orange chair.

“The man you found in your room. It seems that he is not deceased, as we thought.”

“But Doctor Petit declared him dead! They carried him out in a body bag.”

“That is true, madam, but our good doctor was so curious about the case that he scheduled Monsieur Levasseur for immediate autopsy.”

I shuddered, loath to hear what came next. Something ghoulish seemed likely.

“Most embarrassing. After all, the gentleman had no signs of life until Doctor Petit made the first cut. You may not be familiar with the practices of autopsy—”

“Nor is it something I really want described to me.”

“And I do not wish to upset you, madam. To make short my story, Monsieur Levasseur, upon being cut with the dissecting knife, bled. The dead man does not bleed. Certainly not several hours after being declared dead. Doctor Petit and his assistant were horrified.”

“I should think,” I replied weakly, wondering how many more bizarre happenings I was to encounter on my first day in Lyon. “What did they do?”

“They cancelled the autopsy and checked again for signs of life. There were none. Then they bandaged the cut and sent Monsieur Levasseur to the hospital, where he is being examined. We will hear when anything is determined.”

“Well,” I said in a shaky voice, “let us hope he recovers from—whatever it is that makes him seem to be dead. Have you ever heard of such a thing, Inspector?”

“Only when the wrong person was sent to autopsy, but that mistake was discovered
before
the procedure began. However, Doctor Petit is much intrigued. He has turned his duties over to others and gone into a medical library to search out similar cases.”

“Romeo and Juliet come to mind, although I’ve never heard exactly what potion it was the priest gave Juliet.”

“That is fiction, madam,” said the inspector sternly. “This is reality. We must now determine why Monsieur Levasseur appeared to be dead and how this deception was caused.”

“You think he was playing a trick?” I asked.

“Or perhaps he attempted suicide. But never have I heard of pâté sending a man into a coma so deep that he appeared to be dead. I think you can assume that no attempt was being made on you or your husband, madam. So I wish you happy dining.”

“Thank you,” I replied. “And you will let me know how this strange affair turns out?”

“But of course.”

“And you should have the pâté tested. Just in case.”

“Certainly, madam. The pâté is safe in our laboratories, ready to yield up its secrets, if any.”

Because our group
had a private room at the bistro, I had to abandon the wine and pâté prelude to look for Carolyn. No one in the restaurant, other than my scientific colleagues and their wives, seemed to speak English. If she came in, didn’t see me, and couldn’t inquire, she might head back to the hotel. Carolyn arrived fifteen minutes late and looking very pretty in a blue dress topped by a delicate shawl she had bought on the Amalfi Coast.

“You’ve missed the pâté and wine, sweetheart.” Much to my astonishment, Carolyn turned pale and expressed relief.

“I had to take a call before I left,” she explained.

“For me? You don’t know anyone in Lyon.”

“For me, and it’s a story you should hear.”

“Unfortunately, we don’t have time.” I hustled her into the private dining room, offering her a taste of my wine on the way. “I think they said it was Saint-Peray.”

She nodded and sniffed. “I read that it’s grown on steep vineyards in cool weather. Notice how flowery it smells.”

Carolyn passed the goblet back, and I sniffed, but if it was flowery, I couldn’t tell. “Maybe I can get you a little foie gras,” I offered, knowing how much she loves it. Her willingness to miss pâté could probably be chalked up to some weight she gained on a cruise last spring, for which we’d all suffered during her summer diet. However, as always, she looked wonderful to me.

“I’ll pass,” she replied, and surprised me again by taking back the Saint-Peray and draining it. “And, Jason, I really need to warn you about—”

“Ah, Professor Laurent, my wife has finally arrived,” I said to the chairman. “Carolyn, may I introduce Professor Jacques Laurent and his wife, Victoire.”

Carolyn smiled and shook hands, while Laurent said, “Madam Blue, your husband tells us that you write about food. Consequently, I changed our reservations so that you can savor the real food of Lyon, a famous Lyonnais bistro dinner.”

“That’s so thoughtful of you,” said Carolyn, looking somewhat dismayed.

Was there something about bistro food she didn’t like? The chairman seemed to think we would all be bowled over with whatever was coming.

“Fortunately, they serve fish if one doesn’t like workers’ food,” said Victoire Laurent. She was a woman a good deal taller than I, silver-haired, and fashionably dressed in a black suit with colored braid decorating the lapels, as if she were a female member of some eighteenth-century army. She was as thin as her husband was blocky, her face almost emaciated, his perfectly square.

“Professor Charles Doigne and his wife, Gabrielle, my wife, Carolyn. And Professor Catherine de Firenze.” Both Gabrielle and Catherine were dressed entirely in black, and I remembered Carolyn remarking that French women seemed overfond of the color. “Professor Raymond Girard and his wife, Sylvie, my wife, Carolyn.” They were the youngest of the group, and the very tiny Sylvie was attired in a whirl of soft colors. Had she turned around, I’d have expected to see fairy wings sprouting from her shoulder blades.

The introductions over, we all took our seats, I beside the intimidating Victoire, Carolyn beside Jacques Laurent, a man who rarely smiled, although a smile might not be noticeable beneath his great beak of a nose. God knows how Carolyn would get along with him. I looked at the menu and spotted several dishes that would not be to her taste, and in fact, she was studying her own menu and frowning, probably at the Saint-Cochon au Bistrot, which contained things like mustard-basted pig’s head and blood sausage—or the sheep’s trotters in remoulade. Even the beef dish contained diced calves’ trotters.

“Tell me, Professor Laurent,” Carolyn asked, looking up from her menu, “why is it that Lyon is called the capital of gastronomy?”

“A matter of placement,” he replied. “We are at the confluence of the Rhône and the Saône—”

“And the Beaujolais,” Carolyn added, smiling. “I’m told it is the third river of Lyon.”

“Indeed, a veritable river of that fine wine is drunk here, and all the ingredients of fine cooking are within our reach,” he continued. “Ah, here is the
fondant de foie de volaille aux avocats et concassée de tomates.
”

Two plates had been placed on the table containing black-spotted bread with bowls of red stuff. “I love avocados and tomatoes,” said Carolyn cheerfully, as Laurent pushed some decorative greens aside and piled the red material on bread.

“Not only
tomates
and
avocats
, but also the fine addition of—mmm—liver of chicken, you would say, on bread of olive.”

Carolyn had already taken a bite of hers when Laurent mentioned chicken liver. She echoed that ingredient, looking queasy.
What in the world?
I wondered.
The woman loves pâté.
Now suddenly the very mention turned her green. “Very tasty,” she murmured.

“As I was saying,” continued the chairman. “We have Beaujolais from vineyards nearby, fine wines from the northern Rhône, delicious fruits and vegetables from the Rhône Valley, wonderful cheeses from the Lyonnais hills, game and mushrooms from our forests, and of course you will have heard of the tender, flavorful chicken of Bresse, the best in the world, not to mention the amazing beef from our Charolais cattle and the famous fish of the Dombes. Lyon has been the home of gourmands since the times of the Romans. Later, wealthy churchmen and rich merchants, for Lyon is a city of trade and manufacture, demanded the best.”

“But we are not eating in a restaurant that caters to gourmands,” said Victoire. “In the bistro you will find the food of the poor and hungry, the parts of meat that gourmands scorn. No Charolais beef here or Bresse poultry. My advice is to order fish, unless you are fond of the feet and intestines of animals.”

“And I’ve never understood the popularity of Beaujolais,” added Professor Doigne. “The gamay grape is inferior to anything grown in Burgundy and spreads like a weed. Centuries ago a duke of Burgundy ordered the gamay vines uprooted from all his lands.”

Laurent scowled at both his wife and his Burgundian professor, then prepared Carolyn two more olive bread slices slathered with the tomato, avocado, and chicken-liver mixture. Actually I found it delicious, and evidently Carolyn liked it; she ate both slices as she studied her menu once more.

“
This
looks wonderful,” said Carolyn, passing up the chitterling sausage recommended by our host in favor of a dish of trout tartare wrapped in cured salmon and drizzled with lemon cream sauce.

“A safe choice,” said Victoire.

“It is an appetizer,” protested Professor Laurent.

“All the better,” said Carolyn. “I had a large lunch, so a light dish will be perfect, and so exotic. I’ve never had raw trout, but sushi is delicious, don’t you think?”

“I do not eat Japanese food,” said Laurent.

“I’ll have the Salade Lyonnaise,” said Victoire. “What will you have, Professor Blue?”

“The red mullet looks good,” I replied, “but what’s a mangold tart, other than something wrapped in leaves?”

“A
salad
?” exclaimed Laurent. Then he turned to Carolyn and muttered, “My wife eats
nothing.
She becomes more skeletal each year.”