French Fried

Jason dropped me at the chairman’s office, where Professor Laurent was absent, but his secretary, Mademoiselle Zoe Thomas sat at her contemporary black and silver desk, her fingers flying over her keyboard and a telephone tucked under her chin, while she spoke rapid-fire French. I dropped into a black chair with a fan back and a hard seat, wondering if these contemporary designers ever tried sitting in their creations. The office looked very smart, but not very welcoming.

The secretary, on the other hand, was a pretty woman with curly brown hair, her face and figure softly curved, not as fashionable as the gaunt Victoire Laurent, or as chic as the décor of the office. Perhaps the chairman had chosen Mademoiselle Thomas for her gently feminine appearance as well as her typing skills.

She replaced the telephone and addressed me in French, to which I replied apologetically in English. “No necessity for apologies. The English is easier to understand than the French of Americans. You are Madam Blue, yes? Who has asked about pâté? It did not come from our department. No pâté ordered by me would sicken or kill. But if the pâté is innocent in the death of our Robert, then you and Professor Blue missed a treat.”

“Perhaps the Guillots, but they were to meet you at the airport, so why send the gift? And they are gone. No, I think it was a mistake. You will find that Robert died of something else. America is such a violent country. But do not fret, madam. You are safe here.”

I was going to tell her about the attempt on my husband, but Sylvie, wearing a black-and-white polka dot dress, breezed in and whisked me away to her little sports car, a gleaming, silver blue, missing only the top. I’d never have known the car was very old if she hadn’t told me.

Before we could climb in, I was introduced to Winston Churchill, a small pug dog who greeted me by racing around my ankles and jumping up on my legs. “You know Albertine Guillot and her dog Charles de Gaulle?” Sylvie asked as she picked up Winston Churchill. “Winnie met Charles de Gaulle when he was a puppy and Charles a horrid adolescent, to whom Winnie took an immediate dislike. Immediately I decided that I’d call my dog Winston Churchill. Not very nice of me. But Albertine and I are not compatible. She says unpleasant things about Winston Churchill, both the prime minister and my dog.

“My camera equipment is in the backseat, so you won’t mind letting Winnie sit in your lap, will you? If he does something you don’t like, just say ‘No’ or ‘Non’ loudly. He’ll stop.” She opened the door for me and, without waiting for my consent, plopped her dog on my knees. Winnie licked my hand, which I really didn’t like, but before I could say no, he circled once, curled up, and went to sleep. “He loves to sleep in the car, just like a baby,” said his mistress affectionately.

I decided that any dog who disliked Charles de Gaulle was a dog I could tolerate, but if he licked me again, I’d certainly say no loudly.

As she drove away from the university, Sylvie explained that her father had once had just such a car as hers. His wasn’t new even then, but she had loved to ride in it along the cliffs overlooking the sea in England, and she was his helper in the many repairs that had to be made. Her father bad been English, her mother French.

“So imagine my happiness when an elderly widow in our neighborhood inherited this car. It had been her husband’s, but she herself could not drive it, so I fixed it up for her and took her for a ride several times a week. It made us both happy, and then she died and left it to me. Of course, Raymond wanted me to sell it since it is old and always breaking down. But why would I do that? My own car, and I know how to fix it, so you mustn’t be alarmed, Madam Blue, if it stops unexpectedly. I am an expert mechanic, at least for this car, and I carry tools and spare parts.

“Now as I drive through these streets, look at the ends of the buildings. They all have murals. This is the project of Tony Garnier, the architect.”

I peered at the sepia-toned murals depicting neighborhoods, buildings, and towers. Occasionally, Sylvie whipped the car to a curb and took a picture of me in front of a mural holding Winston Churchill’s leash. She must have had a very fast camera, because the dog would not pose. He never stopped moving, tugging at the leash, or barking at me in a friendly manner. You had to like him, even if he was hyperactive, for he did mind. Perhaps a bit of Ritalin would do him good.

Since she seemed the least likely person to attack us, I told her about Jason’s experience that morning and confessed that I thought we were being stalked but couldn’t imagine by whom.

“Ah, well,” said Sylvie, “Albertine is capable of anything. She told us of your problems with Charles de Gaulle. And then he was so tiresome when they got back to Lyon. He bit a policeman. The Guillots had to hire a lawyer to keep the dog from being put down, and then they had to send him to school to learn better manners. You may find him a nicer dog, but Albertine is the same always. She says she is not angry with you, but she probably is.”

“She has a black car. Ah, here it is, Le Mur des Canuts. Canuts were those who worked the silk looms, very skilled. They contributed much to the wealth of the city, but they were so poor themselves.”

Ahead of us was a long stairway between two buildings, leading up to a grassy area and a stone wall. We left the car, with Winston Churchill bounding along, tugging on his leash, but when we got closer, Sylvie handed the leash to me and instructed me to walk over to the man studying a map and pretend that I was talking to him while she took a picture. “Won’t he find that strange?” I asked, reluctant to approach the tourist.

Sylvie burst into laughter. “You see how fine our murals are. He is a painted tourist.” So Winston Churchill and I had our picture taken beside the painted tourist. I think the pug was fooled as well because he barked at the picture. Then I moved back to study the mural. It wasn’t just the steps that were painted. The buildings to both sides were part of the mural. There was a pigeon on the ledge of an upper window so realistic that I expected to see it fly away.

We stopped in a café for a snack of bread, cheese, wine, and, of course, sausage—Cervelas de Lyon. Sylvie said it had been brought here by the Italian silk merchants and bankers and contained delicious parts of the pig. Cervelas?—brains, I suspected, and shuddered. “So why would Victoire try to kill Jason?” I asked to distract Sylvie from further discussion of the sausage she had ordered.

Sylvie shrugged and popped a bite of the sausage into her mouth. “Victoire Laurent is a domineering woman. I can imagine her racing her car into someone if she thought the man killed her lover.”

“Well, it doesn’t make any sense,” I muttered, and slipped a piece of my sausage to Winston Churchill, who was happy to get it. He snuggled up against my leg, chewing lustily, but didn’t tip off his mistress to our conspiracy. “And thinking that Victoire tried to run down Jason doesn’t explain who sent the bad pâté.”

“Now you must try the cervelle de Canute.” As she pushed the bowl toward me, Sylvie laughed at my expression. “Nothing terrible, Madam Blue. Although the name means silk workers’ brains, it is simply a fresh curd cheese with a bit of olive oil and vinegar whipped in with fresh herbs, shallots, and garlic.”

“Do call me Carolyn,” I said, eyeing the cheese suspiciously, but I couldn’t see anything that resembled brains, and it was, in fact, very tasty. I ate that with my bread and wine and continued to slip the brain sausage to the dog.

While out to lunch with a lady from Lyon, I reencountered my own objection to eating brains. She ordered cervelas, a sausage I assumed contained brains because of the Latin word cervelle, brain meat. Rather than offend her, I cut off pieces and slipped them to her dog. Then she insisted that I eat a cheese called cervelle de Canute, silk workers’ brains. I couldn’t believe my ill luck, but she insisted that it contained simply curd cheese and flavorings. Only later did I discover that the sausage I fed the dog, although it did contain brains in the time of Julius Caesar, now contained only pork with pistachios or truffles. I’d probably have loved it. The dog certainly did.

Cervelle de Canute

• Beat 1 pound curd or farmer’s cheese with a wooden spoon. Add 2 tablespoons olive oil, 1 tablespoon vinegar, 1 finely chopped clove garlic and beat into the cheese.

• Chop 2 tablespoons chervil, 4 tablespoons parsley, 2 tablespoons chives, 1 tablespoon tarragon, and 4 shallots. Mix well into cheese. Season to taste and serve with toast or bread.

Carolyn Blue,

“Have Fork, Will Travel,”

Birmingham Eagle