French Fried

by Nancy Fairbanks

  He was sweet to worry about me, but I refused to miss the excursion. “And Charles de Gaulle and I will be along to watch over Carolyn,” called Albertine from her end of the table. When the dog heard his name, he lifted his head from my lap and trotted back to his mistress.

  At the other table they were still eating their entrées, so my young people insisted that I should be home in bed, getting my rest after my dangerous experiences in Lyon. They offered to escort me home. Fine, I thought, still angry that Jason was sitting with two sexually aggressive women and hadn’t even saved a seat for me. Our waitress brought the bill, which sounded terribly expensive, but not bad at all when we divided it by twelve. I told her that my husband, the man with the beard at the end of the other table, would have to pay my share because he had the only credit card. Everyone, including the waitress, thought it a shame I didn’t have my own card.

  I had ten euros in my handbag, which I had insisted that Jason give me, so I put five into the empty ashtray, and the others contributed the usual change to the pot. Then we all rose, and our happy waitress said, “Madam, you must come again.” With some of the group beginning to sing, we left.

  “Carolyn, where are you going?” Jason shouted after me.

  “My friends are seeing me to the hotel,” I called back. As there were only two females in the group, they walked Albertine to her hotel first—it was much fancier than ours—and then me to mine, where they serenaded me as I wobbled into the hotel on Pierre’s arm. Bridget whipped my key out and took me to my room.

  What lovely people the French are, although of course Bridget was from Ireland, but I remember thinking the Irish must be lovely, too. After all, they made whiskey, and there had been whiskey on my dessert. Tomorrow, I reminded myself, I’d return to skipping dessert.

  “Good night, madam,” said Bridget and left me to fall, within minutes, into a deep sleep. I never heard Jason come in, and I ignored him when he spoke to me. Why wake up for a man who hadn’t even saved me a seat at dinner?

  Olives and olive oil are staples of Provençal food and of all those lands that border the Mediterranean. Whiskey is not, but the locals do love coffee in all its incarnations. Who doesn’t? To begin and end a meal, here are two delicious recipes.

  Tapenade

  • In a food processor, chop 2 cups pitted black olives, 3 tablespoons rinsed capers, 1 crushed clove garlic, and 6 anchovies.

  • Add 2 teaspoons Dijon mustard, 1 tablespoon lemon juice, 1 teaspoon chopped thyme, 1 tablespoon chopped parsley, and process to a coarse paste.

  • Can be kept in the refrigerator covered for three days.

  • Serve with bread or toast or as a dip for raw vegetable pieces.

  Café Glace with Whiskey

  • Soften mocha almond fudge or other coffee ice cream, drizzle a sweet whiskey on each serving, and decorate with mint leaves.

  Carolyn Blue,

  “Have Fork, Will Travel,”

  Raleigh Herald

  33

  A Morning Chat

  Jason

  Carolyn didn’t wake up when I got in, but she certainly did in the morning. I’d barely gotten into my running clothes when she sat up and said, “Where are you going?”

  “For a run,” I replied, sitting down to lace my shoes.

  “Then meet me downstairs for breakfast.”

  I wonder if I looked as shocked as I felt. “They charge twelve euros for breakfast here. I can pick up coffee and a roll for nothing at the meeting.”

  “Oh yes, the meeting. In the Palais des Papes,” said my wife, flinging back the covers. “I find it hard to believe that you never mentioned the actual meeting was at the palace. I’d have been very excited to hear that. Were you afraid I’d tell you more than you wanted to know about the palais?”

  “Carolyn, I gave you the brochure. It mentioned the venue, which, frankly, is rather strange. It’s like attending a scientific conference in a cathedral. I keep expecting some cardinal to show up during a paper and excommunicate the speaker.”

  “Very funny, but I think you’re safe, Jason. You’re not Catholic. Now, Mercedes probably is. Maybe he’ll excommunicate her. And why would you think I’d look at anything in that brochure but the social events? I saw that the banquet would be held in the Grand Tinel, but I never realized—”

  “Well, we can talk about the papal palace at dinner. I’ll describe whatever rooms I see in the conference wings, but right now I really—”

  “—need to explain to me why you didn’t save me a seat at dinner last night. When Albertine and I got to the terrace, there you were with the two most sexually rapacious women in Avignon, and all the rest of the seats at your table were filled.”

  “Sexually rapacious? The chairman’s wife was beside me.”

  “Yes, she was the mistress of your friend Robert. Now she’s probably looking for a new lover. And Mercedes, who can’t seem to keep her hands off you.”

  “Carolyn, I’m old enough to be her father.”

  “Then act like one. Her behavior is embarrassing, and you’re not doing a thing to stop it, which makes me think—”

  “What am I supposed to do?” I demanded. “I’ve never encouraged Mercedes.”

  “For starters, you could have said, ‘I’m saving this seat for my wife.’ ”

  “But I was talking to Victoire when Mercedes sat down. I couldn’t very well tell one of them to find another seat. Really, Carolyn, you’re overreacting, and I resent the implication—”

  “And I resent the way it looks when that girl is always hanging on your arm, and making snide remarks to me.”

  “Well, for goodness sake, you seemed to be having a grand time yourself last night. Were you drinking? Surely the doctor told you not to. And then you walked off with all those young men.” By then I was quite irritated. “You might consider how that looked.”

  “I had three glasses of wine, Jason. I’d had no pain pills since morning. And I was tired by the time we finished eating; I wanted to go home. Was I supposed to walk back in the dark by myself while you were finishing your entrée and flirting with your Latin ladies?”

  “Look, Carolyn, you’re being—”

  “—a normal wife, who doesn’t like to see her husband chasing after a student. Furthermore, you never let me tell you what Albertine and I think all the these attacks are about, or do you still think I just fell down those stairs?”

  “I give up. What’s going on?”

  “Terrorists. I was the person primarily responsible for taking that boat back. And one of those men who are now in jail was a terrorist. He probably sent a fellow conspirator after us.”

  “But that’s crazy. You think there’s a—”

  “Haven’t you been following the news? Islamic people are burning cars and buildings on the outskirts of Paris—near the Saint-Denis Cathedral. Saint Denis is the patron saint of Paris—or is it France?—in case you don’t remember. It makes me wonder if that Moroccan crime-scene person isn’t a conspirator. He probably got himself assigned to our case to be sure that one or both of us died from the pâté, and when we didn’t, he tried to run you down, and when that failed, he lay in wait and pushed me down the stairs. I called the inspector last night to tell him.”

  “And what did he say?” I asked sarcastically, glancing at my watch and then wishing that I hadn’t asked. I’d be lucky to have enough time for half a mile if my wife kept talking.

  “He said the fellow had been on the force for seven years. But of course, terrorists take those courses in Pakistan and then stay undercover for years in western countries until they’re given an assignment.

  “So you just go off for your run, Jason. Don’t worry about me. If I’m shot at Fort Andre or pushed down a well when Catherine and I visit Villenueve-les-Avignon this morning, maybe I’ll be lucky again and only end up in the hospital.”

  “Then don’t go,” I retorted. “And Carolyn, I am not interested in Mercedes in any way except scientifically. She’s an excell
ent student.”

  “I’m so happy to hear it. Maybe you should tell her that you’re only attracted to her mind. I have a feeling she wouldn’t believe me if I told her.”

  “I’m going now, Carolyn. I’ll call you later, and we can make plans.” As I left the room, Carolyn said, “Plans for the three of us? Or the four of us? Maybe we should invite Jacques Laurent and his girlfriend, the delightful Mademoiselle Zoe Thomas.”

  I stopped and turned around. “I can’t believe Laurent is having an affair with that well-rounded, iron-willed secretary? Where do you hear these things?”

  “They’re common knowledge. Now all we need is another young man for Victoire and one for me. Then we’ll all be taken care of.”

  “There’s always Pierre,” I snapped. “He declared his love at the city hall and probably several times at your table last night.” With that, I left and slammed the door. Rioting in Paris? Could that be right?

  34

  A Twenty-four Euro Breakfast

  Carolyn

  I was in tears when Jason slammed the door, indifferent to my concerns and angry that I’d held him up. Why couldn’t he understand that Mercedes’s obvious infatuation, whether or not he returned it, was embarrassing to me? And he just brushed off the idea that terrorists might be after us. What was so unbelievable about that? They always retaliate. Look what had gone on for decades in the Middle East.

  Before I could have a good cry, the telephone rang—Albertine calling to ask when Catherine planned to pick me up, so she and Charles de Gaulle could to join us. At least, someone cared what happened to me. I wiped my eyes and invited her to breakfast. That would cost twenty-four euros, which I’d put on the room bill since Jason had left before I could ask for his credit card. What was I supposed to do if we went across the Rhône by bus or had lunch after our trip?

  Albertine accepted, so I dressed and went downstairs. We walked around the corner to the breakfast area and the row of tables with large windows looking out on the street. Once we had our food, Albertine mentioned “that young woman who seems to adore your husband.” I mumbled that she was just a graduate student. “Then you should make sure she stays away from him on social occasions. She should have been at the young ones’ table, and you and I with the notable professors.”

  I agreed, feeling morose.

  “Well, I must think what to do, Carolyn. Perhaps you are naïve about these things, but you should realize that your husband is reaching a dangerous age. He needs to be protected from himself. I watch Adrien closely and have defended him and myself for at least ten years.”

  “Tell me, Albertine, why do so many Frenchwomen wear black?” I asked to change the course of an embarrassing subject. Albertine had on a handsome black suit with white trim, not to mention shoes quite unsuited for sightseeing.

  “Black is chic,” she replied, “but different Frenchwomen wear it for different reasons. I favor it because I look good in black, which compliments my complexion and hair. Victoire wears black because she wishes to look as thin as possible, although she looks skeletal in any color, while Catherine wears black because she is a widow.”

  “She’s still in mourning?”

  “Her husband died years ago, so she should have given up mourning clothes by now, but he killed himself. He was much older, and she was wildly in love with him, a student of his before they married. Unfortunately, she failed to notice that he was given to fits of depression. Why would he kill himself when he had her? she thought, so she blamed his death on criticism of his research, but her husband had been falling into melancholy long before that.

  “Adrien says it was not so terrible a matter, the paper. All scientists make a mistake or two, which is pointed out in the literature. The offender then writes a courteous letter to the critic, a retraction to the journal, and that’s the end of it. But Catherine wouldn’t be consoled. After his death, she sold their home and bought that apartment. Perhaps she wanted to die, too, but not to kill herself, being a Catholic. Since then she no longer socializes. She spends all her time doing research and driving her poor students to despair. A woman her age should have remarried, or at least taken a lover. Her conduct is unhealthy.”

  “But it’s sad, isn’t it?” I said. I’d have to be extra nice to her. No wonder she had seemed standoffish when we first met.

  The waitress told us that a lady was waiting for us in the lobby, so we finished our coffee and left to meet Catherine, who seemed quite surprised to see Albertine, or maybe she was surprised to see the dog. “I didn’t know you were coming, Albertine. We will be crowded in my car.”

  Oh good! She had a car. I wouldn’t have to use any money for bus fare, and I could always claim that I wasn’t hungry if we went out to lunch. Of course, I’d be sure to mention to Jason tonight that I’d gone hungry. Catherine decided I should sit in front with her so that she could tell me about Villeneuve before we got there.

  The ride was quite unusual. For one thing, she took shortcuts through streets that had posts coming up out of the pavement to block cars. At the first one, she clicked a gadget, and the posts retreated into the roadway. “That’s Catherine’s apartment,” said Albertine, pointing to a gate through which I could see banks of squares that were actually apartments with balconies. Then the complex was gone, and we approached another street with posts.

  “You’ll have to get out and push or jump on that post, Carolyn,” said our driver. “They’ll all go down when you push down the first.” Reluctantly, I approached a post, but pushing didn’t accomplish anything. I had to climb onto it before it retreated under my weight, and then I more or less fell off. What if I’d hit my head again? After that we left the posted streets and headed for the bridge.

  Catherine told me that Villeneuve-les-Avignon, which was on the right bank of the Rhône facing the papal city, had been occupied since the fifth century when the hermit, Saint Casarie, lived there. “In the tenth century a Benedictine monastery was founded on his site and named the Abbey of St. Andre, around which quarrymen and stone-masons formed a small town. Avignon ruled the town across the river until Louis VIII—”

  “He’s the one who besieged Avignon for three months because of its heretics and finally starved them into giving up,” I exclaimed. “I hadn’t realized until yesterday that Avignon was one of the places attacked by the crusade against the Albigensian Heresy.”

  “Yes,” said Catherine, obviously resenting my interruption. “St. Andre then made a treaty with the king and later with Philippe le Bel, who built the tower at the end of Pont St. Benezet. In the fourteenth century, the bridge ran all the way across the Rhône. Then in the fifteenth century, when the papacy was moved to Avignon, the new town grew bigger with the palaces of rich men and cardinals who wanted to escape the filth and crime of Avignon, brought on by all the people who came to profit from the papal court. The fort and defensive walls were built by the kings of France as a barrier against the power of the church across the river.”

  Catherine recited these facts without much interest, which surprised me because it was she who had suggested the trip. She finished by saying that we would drive up Mount Andaon to see Fort St. Andre, and then back down to visit the Church of Notre-Dame, the museum, and the Monastery La Chartreuse.

  What a tour it was! We walked at a tremendous pace through the monastery church, around the huge crenellated walls, in and out of a funny old chapel, and up and down rough paths cut through deep grass. I could hardly keep up, but then both women had longer legs than I, although I don’t think Albertine was in any better shape, and she was older and wearing heels. Charles de Gaulle was in seventh heaven. The weather had turned cold, overcast, and windy, but I was perspiring by the time we got to a group of huge, round towers that had once guarded the only entrance to the fort.

  “I’ve saved the best for last, as you Americans say,” Catherine remarked. “The view from the top is exquisite.”

  “We’re going to climb up there?” Albertine was not happy.
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br />   “You and the dog can rest,” said Catherine, “but Carolyn would never forgive herself if she missed this view. What could I say? Breathless and tired, I started up after Catherine, who climbed stairs like a mountain goat.

  “I’m following,” called Albertine. When I glanced back, Charles de Gaulle seemed the most eager of us all. He strained at his leash. Then I lost sight of them as I puffed upward. By the time we reached the top, I was dizzy, but Catherine took my arm and led me across the open space toward a lower crenellation around the edge of the tower. Looking down made me twice as dizzy.

  “Look,” said Catherine, nudging me forward. “Isn’t it wonderful?”

  “Wonderful,” I echoed, wishing her hand was still on my arm. No matter how wonderful the view, I intended to back up before I fell over, and I nearly did. I heard Charles de Gaulle give a deep-throated woof, his toenails scrabbling across the stones, and then a thump and a shriek from Catherine. When I turned, she was on the pavement, the dog standing over her.

  I hurried toward Catherine as Albertine came into view. “He got away from me,” she gasped. Catherine tried to give the dog a shove, and he shoved back until his front paws were planted on her midriff. “Charles, what do you think you’re doing?” Albertine called. “Off! Non!” She used the last of her strength to reach us. The dog didn’t move until she arrived and dragged him away. Catherine, meanwhile, shouted, probably curses, into his face.

  “I can’t imagine what got into him,” said Albertine. “He’s supposed to be protecting Carolyn, not knocking down members of the faculty. “Shame on you, Charles! Can’t you tell an academic from a terrorist?”

  Catherine staggered upright, not appeased in the least. “Look at my outfit! I can’t go to the conference in torn, dusty clothes. Since I’ll have to go home and change, this will be the end of our tour.” And she strode off toward the stairs.