French Fried (21 page)

My talk went
well—good attendance, interesting questions, and afterward, congratulations from colleagues, including Mercedes, who was overly enthusiastic. My argument with Carolyn that morning had made me uneasy around the girl, hardly an auspicious situation for research collaborators. Then when Adrien mentioned our evening at Hiely Lucullus, Mercedes invited herself along. Patting her on the shoulder in an avuncular way, Adrien said that this outing was for her elders, but he had a graduate student who longed to meet her. He actually led her over to a young man, who looked quite happy to receive the introduction. Maybe they’d fall in love and relieve me of a troublesome situation.

When Adrien returned, he expressed surprise, given the probability of parking problems, at Albertine’s insistence on taking their car to Hiely Lucullus. It occurred to me that the idea might have been my wife’s. She isn’t an enthusiastic walker, even if there is some place of historical interest within walking distance. I’d boarded many a bus, tram, and train while traveling with Carolyn, when left to my own devices I’d have preferred to walk.

The talks ran late because we would be losing the afternoon to the palais tour the next day. Therefore, it was seven-thirty when I got home, just enough time to take a shower and dress for what I assumed would be a fancy and expensive evening. Carolyn didn’t renew our argument, for which I was very thankful, and she looked quite lovely in a dress the color of the Mediterranean on a sunny day—why did French women always dress as if they were in mourning?

At any rate, we climbed into the Guillots’ black car—good heavens, what if Carolyn noticed the color and again accused them of returning to Avignon to run me down? No one had mentioned that Hiely Lucullus was on the second floor of the building, and we hadn’t thought to look upstairs, so we lost time driving around, after which locating a parking place took more time, and it was distant from the restaurant. Both Guillots were short-tempered by then, as was the maitre d’ because we were late for our reservation.

After that, things went more smoothly, although the prices were, as I had feared, high. Still, the food was good, and Adrien and I had a stimulating conversation about a paper we’d heard later that afternoon.

Albertine had looked grim when she saw that I wasn’t wearing the high heels, but my feet still hurt from the practice session. Then Adrien grumbled all the way to the restaurant, and she hissed, “If you were not going to take my advice, you might have told me before I offended my husband by insisting that we drive.”

I did my best to settle that problem by saying to Adrien, while we were waiting to be shown to our table, “It was so kind of you to drive. I must admit that I’m still feeling wobbly after my concussion, and I do appreciate your thoughtfulness.”

I gave him my sweetest smile—if Jason wanted to flirt with other people, why shouldn’t I?—and Adrien responded that I wasn’t to worry in the least; he was glad to save me from excessive walking, no matter how ridiculous the parking situation in Avignon. Evidently I had appeased him, because he suggested driving us to the banquet the next night. What a relief that was! I could please Albertine by wearing those shoes and not have to walk very far in them because her husband was so chivalrous.

And the restaurant was beautiful, simple, and elegant, all white and gold with drapes spanning windows that overlooked the Rue de l’Republique. I was enchanted with both the place and the food.

“I still don’t know what to think about Charles knocking Catherine down this morning,” said Albertine, studying the menu and deciding on hen with peaches, which she said was a Provençal favorite.

“Mon dieu!”
exclaimed her husband. “The wretched dog must be in love again. That is just what he did to Carolyn the first time he saw her. I thought he was over falling in love with women. Maybe we should have him—what is the English?—deprived of manhood, or doghood.”

“What a terrible idea! Have you any idea, Adrien, what fees Charles commands when he makes puppies? And a dog of his excellent lineage has a duty to reproduce.”

“The money is welcome, but his behavior is deplorable when he’s on a breeding mission.” Adrien then recommended cod fish with berries.

Was it that nasty salt cod so popular in Southern France and Catalonia? I didn’t take his suggestion, at which he frowned. Men always think you should do what they want. Having been reminded that the dog was supposed to protect me that morning, not irritate Catherine, I glanced around the restaurant, just in case there was a terrorist lurking at some secluded table, not that I imagined terrorists came to restaurants like this.

At least four busboys looked somewhat Arabic to me, so I leaned over to tell Albertine, and she muttered that she would have brought Charles, except that Adrien had objected. “Let us hope,” she murmured back, “that all the terrorists are busy torching cars in St. Denis and attacking cruise ships off the coast of Somalia.”

“I think the cruise ship incident was due to pirates,” said Adrien. “May I suggest that we order Châteauneuf du Pape, 2002, Blanc de Blanc?” Everyone agreed.

“If you’ve been attacked by pirates,” I said to Adrien, “you’d see very little difference between them and terrorists. And surely the French government will control the rioters before they move out of their own districts. I think I’ll have
this
and
this
,” I announced, pointing to items on the menu. They turned out to be a sort of ratatouille cake on red salad leaves, followed by a tender white fish in a citron sauce.

“Do you even know what you’re ordering, Carolyn?” Albertine asked, laughing.

“I feel adventurous,” I replied, and my choices
were
tasty. Jason picked out a salmon salad and veal liver in a balsamic reduction. His sauce was wonderful, but I had no desire to eat liver, even if it came bathed in gold that I could take home and put in the bank.

Adrien commended him on his choice and advised him to get a half bottle of red wine to go with the liver. He didn’t commend my choices, but I later placated him by telling him that the wine was marvelous. Men always like to be thought wine connoisseurs. Maybe he was. I’m not, but it did taste good with my appetizer and entrée. Jason ordered the half bottle of red, and I had a bit of that with my dessert. But as soon as we’d ordered, the men started talking toxins, while Albertine and I kept watch on suspicious busboys. Happily, nothing untoward happened.

I ended my meal with a beautiful little dessert plate containing a honey-soaked doughnut, a cup-shaped fruit cake, a torte alternating thin cake layers with white chocolate and liqueur-flavored pastry creams, and a nice tart. So much for resolutions about skipping dessert. Jason ate most of my tart, which was probably the least high cal of the four offerings. Then we went home.

As we were getting ready for bed, I commented on how wonderful the dinner had been. Jason agreed, but he did mention what it had cost. “It was
Albertine’s
choice,” I pointed out, “and L’Epicerie was
mine. My
meal last night wasn’t all that expensive. Tell me, Jason, how much did
yours
cost?” I had him there. His had been about twice as expensive because at his table they’d ordered three courses and wine from the wine list.

“I hope you didn’t spend a lot today,” he grumbled.

“I had soup for lunch, and everything I eat is tax deductible. You might remember that.” I didn’t mention the shopping trip. He’d see the results of that tomorrow night, and I hoped that he’d be impressed enough to pass up asking what my outfit had cost. At least we hadn’t spent the evening with Mercedes in tow.

“I’m being difficult, aren’t I?” asked Jason somewhat ruefully.

“Absolutely,” I replied, “and I appreciate your admitting it.” Then I climbed into my bed, separated from Jason’s by tucked sheets and blankets. Not very romantic.

“Then maybe you’ll admit,” said Jason, climbing into his, “that you were difficult this morning. It’s not much fun to get out of bed on the day of your paper and be accused of all sorts of things.”

“I suppose so, but Jason, I’m not the only person who notices that Mercedes is always trailing after you.”

“It’s her first international conference. She’s probably feeling shy and—”

“Shy?” I exclaimed and snapped off the light. “She’s not shy.” How could Jason be so dense? Or maybe he wasn’t that dense. Maybe he enjoyed having a pretty young thing clinging to him in front of other men his age. She’d looked even better today because she’d abandoned the silly curls and let her hair go straight and long. Maybe Jason was—I’d never get to sleep if I kept thinking that way. I closed my eyes tight and listened to the wind. Was that a mistral blowing in from Africa? I imagined it picking up sand from the Sahara, fluttering the robes of Arabs in the markets, tugging at their turbans, exposing the hair of the veiled women in Tunisia, and swooping across the Mediterranean, kicking up waves that rocked the cruise ships, where passengers were worrying about pirates, and . . . I fell asleep.

After breakfast, I
practiced wearing my heels. They were still uncomfortable, but I felt somewhat steadier, especially since the maid came in to make up the room and stayed to give me instructions, demonstrations actually, since she spoke no English. She looked as silly demonstrating in her tennis shoes as I looked walking in my heels.

At ten I went down to the lobby to meet Albertine and Charles, who sidled up for an ear rub. His mistress complimented me on having charmed Adrien so thoroughly that he offered to drive to the banquet. “If you can work such a miracle with my husband,” she said, “surely you can do the same with your own.”

“I shouldn’t have to with Jason,” I said stubbornly, and she rolled her eyes at my naïveté.

“Every woman has to manipulate her husband. Otherwise, there would be no marriages left. Lucky for you, I have plans.”

“What?” I asked suspiciously, afraid that she would next insist that I wear a corset or a padded bra.

Albertine just shrugged mysteriously, and we set off for Pont St. Benezet, built by a shepherd of that name and finished at the end of the twelfth century, torn down, rebuilt, and then washed away repeatedly by the Rhône until the people of Avignon gave up in the seventeenth century. The four remaining fourteenth-century arches are rather plain, but still interesting. I enjoyed walking out onto the bridge and visiting the chapel of St. Nicholas. Albertine said the people of Avignon go out to dance on an island under an arch of the bridge, which spawned a popular song I’d never heard of. She sang a bit for me, and I could only hope it sounded better when sung by someone who could carry a tune.

Charles de Gaulle, taking his guard duties seriously, barked at a few people who got too close, but acted with discretion in the chapel. Perhaps his lessons had included proper behavior in churches. He became quite frisky when we went to Saint Pierre, which I wanted to see in the daylight. The front was marvelously ornate, flamboyant Gothic with a hint of Renaissance symmetry in the double-pointed towers and matching windows. The
doors
were gorgeous, carved walnut depicting St. Jerome, St. Michael with
very
impressive wings, and the Annunciation.

We went around to see the belfry on another side and then inside, where the décor was less elaborate. There were pictures by French painters I’d never heard of, but Albertine seemed to like them, or at least know things about them. The dog examined them carefully as well, and then sniffed his way by the pews that faced the organ loft and looked for a minute as if he were considering leaping up onto a sixteenth-century throne. Albertine discouraged that by tugging his leash.

Then we dashed over to L’Epicerie for an early lunch. I had a
taramasalata,
a tomato salad with basil dressing that tasted a bit like tapenade. The carp roe that accompanied it wasn’t bad, either. Since Charles de Gaulle didn’t eat my salad, as he had in Naples, we had a pleasant, nonconfrontational lunch, after which we went on to the palais. The tour for the meeting had been moved up so that a poster session could be fitted in between the tour and the banquet. “Now, be nice to your husband,” Albertine whispered to me as we assembled in front.

A good thought, but I didn’t get to because Mercedes talked to him from the Court of Honor, where the tour started, to the very end. I don’t know what was so important that he couldn’t pay attention to a magnificent palace and a hundred years of church history, but I gave up trying to attract his attention and stuck with the historian. He was terribly learned and interesting, although he had bad breath. Poor man. Someone ought to drop him a hint.