French Fried

We went downstairs, leaving the dead man sprawled across the beds with the door carefully locked by Inspector Roux. While he and I sat behind a cactus drinking coffee from the neon bar, he took my name and personal information, looked at my passport, and then questioned me about my reasons for being here, my discovery of the dead man, everything I did and touched thereafter, my interactions with Yvette before and after the discovery, and everything she said. I was even asked to provide my fingerprints for comparison purposes. Naturally I agreed and allowed Kahled to ink my fingers and roll them on cards. Afterward he provided little packages of detergent wipes so that I could scrub the ink off, which was very thoughtful. I couldn’t remember seeing that amenity offered by American policemen on television at home.

When we finished the interview, the doctor, who had talked to Yvette and supervised the removal of the French Canadian, joined us at the table and said, through the inspector, that the hotel would not have a substitute room with trees ready for several hours. That was certainly bad news. By then I was so tired that I was experiencing difficulty in focusing my eyes.

“But of course,” cried the inspector. “I can show you to one of sufficient length, madam.” He led me to a three-cushion leather sofa and plucked a decorative cushion from a chair for my head. I was dozing as soon as my head touched the pillow with its Mondrian-inspired color blocks. I did hear, as if in a dream, the raised voices of the inspector and Yvette as their combative interview ensued, but I found it comforting and sank down into deep sleep, from which I was aroused later by Inspector Roux saying, “Madam, it is at least another hour until your room is ready. Perhaps you would join Doctor Petit and me for a meal. An excellent brasserie of culinary and historic interest is close by.”

I blinked dazedly, wanting to fall back into sleep but also aware that I’d had nothing to eat since the continental breakfast served before landing in Paris. Culinary and historic interest? I should go for the sake of my column. So I dragged myself into a sitting position, regretted my rumpled appearance, and agreed to their kind suggestion. Brasserie Georges was, of all places, situated down the industrial side street to the left of the Perrache Station. However, once inside, I found a bustling nineteenth-century establishment with white tiled floors, gilding and draperies, framed advertisements for products no longer made, and a large menu.

Hoping to spend the afternoon asleep in my new room, I chose a soup recommended by the doctor—tomato, shrimp, and ginger, an interesting combination, and very tasty. With it, I ordered a nice white wine, also recommended by the doctor, whose rumpled suit made me feel less self-conscious about my own travel-worn appearance.

Meanwhile we held an interesting bilingual conversation. Yvette had revealed, grudgingly, information previously withheld. The inspector began by asking if she’d informed me that she had sent a man to my room. Imagine my astonishment. “Yvette claims he was a friend who came to see you. You are certain, madam, that you do not know Monsieur Robert Levasseur?” asked Inspector Roux.

“Certain,” I assured him, “and she never said a word about sending him to our room. Why would she do that? No matter what he told her, she had no right to offer our room to a stranger. And look what happened. He ate our pâté. My husband and I love pâté.”

The inspector and the doctor, who evidently understood some English but did not speak it, agreed that all sensible people loved Lyonnais pâté and that Yvette’s behavior was suspicious.

“Perhaps he was a friend of hers, and when she told him about the gift in our room, he wanted to have it,” I suggested. “Then he became ill before he could remove the evidence of his theft. Jason and I would never have known the difference if Monsieur Levasseur had consumed both the champagne and the pâté and disposed of the evidence.”

I thought about that. “To frighten me? She seems a very spiteful woman. And what did she say about the person who brought the pâté to the Charlemagne? Could she describe the delivery man?”

Our first courses arrived at that point, and I dipped hungrily into my soup, a thick tomato broth, fresh-tasting and tangy with the exotic flavor added by the strings of ginger. Ginger is another of those many foods once thought to be an aphrodisiac, although professors at the medical school in Salerno during the Middle Ages stated in verse that it was good for all sorts of things. Maybe I should try writing recipes in verse for my columns. Or maybe not. To this pairing of tomatoes and ginger, the small, salty shrimp provided a lovely contrast. And there was crusty French bread. Even as exhausted as I was, I wouldn’t have missed that soup. “The identity of the messenger may be important if Monsieur Levasseur is found to have died from pâté.”

Both men protested such a blot on the culinary escutcheon of Lyon, but I pointed out that someone might have added poison to the pâté. Where once such a thing would never have occurred to me, I had recently encountered so much crime during my travels that I easily conjured up that scenario.

“We hardly know anyone here,” I protested. Albertine Guillot! I thought. Can she be harboring a grudge over her poodle, Charles de Gaulle, who made such a pest of himself in Sorrento that they had to put him in a kennel? Surely not. Albertine and I became friends of a sort before the meeting ended.

When I finished my soup, the men were being served a second course. I was so upset at the thought that Albertine might have sent us poisoned pâté and then skipped town while we were dying that I called the waitress back and ordered dessert. On my first perusal of the menu, I had noted wistfully a dish called Crousillant aux Framboises. At that time I overcame my interest by reminding myself sternly that I was no longer eating desserts. I had eaten enough desserts on the cruise to last a lifetime.

But now, with the thought that Albertine might have planned my death by pâté, I needed dessert, and it was delicious, a crispy bag of filo dough, tied at the neck and containing raspberries and almond cream on a plate drizzled with raspberry coulis. Did they bake the cream-and-fruit-filled dough and then run it under the broiler to brown and crisp it? If the men had ordered dessert, I’d probably have had another serving.

“Let us hope the mysterious Monsieur Levasseur died of natural causes,” said the inspector, who was enjoying a hearty sausage and potato dish. “If not, madam, I will inform you as soon as the doctor discovers the cause of death. In the meantime you and your husband should take care. Eat in restaurants. Give no one access to your food and drink,” he advised. “I am regretful to warn you in this way when you have the culinary delights in Lyon awaiting you, but in this situation you would be wise to—”

“Yes, yes,” I agreed, not much worried because the only people in Lyon who knew us were now out of town. “Thank you for your concern.” I finished my Crousillant aux Framboises without a qualm. After all, I doubted that the inspector or the doctor would have any interest in poisoning me.

Tomato Soup with Ginger and Shrimp

• In a heavy saucepan over medium heat, sauté 2 large diced yellow onions in ¼ cup olive oil. Add 1 tablespoon finely diced orange zest and 20 small ripe tomatoes, quartered. Stir occasionally for about 20 minutes.

• Puree soup in food processor and strain through medium mesh sieve placed over large, clean saucepan. Discard peels and seeds.

• Peel and cut into strings 6 tablespoons fresh ginger and add to soup. Reheat over medium-low heat, add ¼ pound of tiny cooked shrimp, and season with salt and pepper.

• Add ½ to 1 cup heavy or light cream to taste. Season again and serve.

Carolyn Blue,

“Have Fork, Will Travel,”

Minneapolis Post