French Fried Read online

  I sighed. Obviously I’d get no nap. I had to look up Japanese restaurants and importers and call them, not to mention Googling—what a ridiculous word—the toxin for information. Perhaps it is found in some French fish that Inspector Roux knows nothing about, I thought, and said good-bye to him. Obviously he took his work seriously, but his loyalty to Lyon blinded him to some things that should be investigated.

  First I looked up tetrodotoxin, so called because the fish has four ugly teeth. I discovered that it is over 1,250 times more toxic than cyanide. Good heavens, it would take only one ovary or bit of testicle harvested at the right time of year to poison a crowd. I hoped that the police hadn’t left the remaining slices lying around. If they had pâté lovers in their ranks, policemen would start dying.

  14

  Lyonnais Cuisine for the Well-To-Do

  Jason

  Fast asleep when I arrived in our room, Carolyn had to be rousted out of bed and convinced to dress in clothes suitable for the fancy restaurant to which the Doignes and the Girards were taking us. We were to pay for our own meals, but not theirs. While she was putting on pantyhose, the discomfort of which she seems to blame on all men, including me, and a green dress, and pinning her hair into a chignon, which required her to choose earrings, hair ornaments, and a necklace, she told me about murals and riding in an Austin Healy with a dog in her lap.

  “A large dog?” I asked, grinning.

  “A pug named Winston Churchill. Sylvie gave it that name to irritate Albertine and her dog, Charles de Gaulle. You do remember Charles de—”

  “Of course,” I said hastily, not wanting to rehash the Charles de Gaulle fiasco in Sorrento. After that I heard about the repairs Sylvie made to the car en route and the pictures taken of the dog and Carolyn with hair in disarray because of the topless car.

  “Sylvie’s very nice,” Carolyn added. “Have you ever heard of tetrodotoxin?”

  “Not that I recall.”

  “It’s in fugu, and Doctor Petit thinks it killed your friend Robert.”

  “Where would he get any fugu? I doubt that Robert would even want to try it.”

  “Probably someone put it in the pâté. Now all we have to do is find out—”

  “Carolyn, that’s ridiculous!”

  She glared at me in the mirror as she put on her second earring, picked up her purse, and walked out. I had to hurry to catch the elevator. Fortunately, the Doignes were waiting for us downstairs, so there was no more talk of puffer-fish toxin. Gabrielle, evidently a devout Catholic, began to tell Carolyn about the churches she’d see the next day.

  Our second restaurant in Lyon was much more upscale and much more expensive. I could see my wife trying to convert the euros into dollars, then giving up and ordering chicken.

  “Ah, Friccasse de Poulet de Bresse. An excellent selection, Madam Blue,” exclaimed Charles Doigne. “Bresse has the world’s finest poultry. I shall have the same.”

  Carolyn stared suspiciously at poor Doigne when he insisted that she order a salad of pâté on artichoke hearts. No doubt she was afraid the pâté would be spiked with fugu. He never noticed her dismay because he asked a question about my research, which ignited an excellent discussion of the chemistry of toxins and caused poor Carolyn to shift uneasily in her seat. I’m afraid the women hardly got a word in.

  However, when Carolyn’s salad was served, she interrupted loudly enough to stop us. “Do you, by any chance, like fugu, Professor Doigne?”

  He looked confused and replied. “Is that a type of American music?”

  “It is the meat of the puffer fish. Very popular in Japan, although toxic. Surely you’re familiar with tetrodotoxin?”

  Doigne obviously wasn’t. “Is that the scientific name? I know of many toxins, but I am embarrassed to say—”

  “I was unfamiliar with it myself,” I assured him and raised a mouthful of pâté and artichoke to my lips. “Ah!” I exclaimed, “This is truly a wonderful dish, Charles.” To my wife I whispered, “And my lips are not numb.”

  “Give it time,” she muttered back and, with everyone waiting for the American food writer to pronounce on a favorite Lyonnais salad, she took a bite and chewed so slowly that I knew she was waiting for a telltale tingle to alert her before she actually swallowed. Then the taste must have hit her, for she smiled at Charles and took another bite. “A salad to die for!” she remarked, but not happily.

  Gabrielle’s cell phone rang just then, and her husband raised his eyebrows. “Victoire insisted that I keep it turned on in case she needed to call,” said Gabrielle. Evidently Victoire Laurent was not to be denied. She had given that impression when we dined with her the night before.

  Our entrées came during this conversation, and Carolyn began to eat immediately. She probably wanted to try the chicken before the pâté killed her. Surely Charles’s response to her question about fugu should have convinced her that it was not to be had in Lyon and that Robert’s diagnosis was mistaken. Probably the doctor wanted to write a paper for a medical journal on an exotic case.

  “Jason, you have to try this. It is absolutely the best chicken I’ve ever tasted,” said my wife, as she dropped a piece of the chicken on my plate. Charles beamed at her, and I had to agree. Our mass-produced chicken at home certainly pales in comparison.

  At that moment, while I was savoring the poultry of Bresse, Gabrielle clicked off her phone and, tight-lipped, said to my wife, “Victoire has found that she will be available tomorrow to show you the traboules. You and Sylvie are to meet her at the department, and she will drive her own car. Victoire advises you to wear comfortable shoes, Madam Blue.”

  Sylvie giggled. “Although it is a classic, Victoire would refuse to ride in my car. She thinks it too small and too given to breaking down, but that is not a problem, is it, Carolyn?”

  “No, it isn’t,” said Carolyn, looking relieved that she was to ride in a larger car.

  “My wife, the mechanic,” said Raymond, bursting into laughter.

  “Why do you laugh, Raymond? I fix your car, too.” Sylvie then turned away. “So, Gabrielle, shall you go with them tomorrow, or shall I? Even Victoire’s Renault will not hold the four of us and my dog and cameras.”

  “I shall show Carolyn the churches on Wednesday,” said Gabrielle.

  “You’ll bring Winston Churchill?” Carolyn asked Sylvie.

  “But of course. Victoire will be delighted. He is such a cheerful little dog, don’t you think?”

  “Oh, absolutely,” my wife agreed, as she watched Sylvie burst into giggles. I was forced to the conclusion that Victoire would not be delighted to host the dog. Raymond sighed at his wife’s laughter. What a strange department—prickly wives and sexual liaisons. Probably a French thing. The wives at home seem to get along, and I hadn’t heard gossip about liaisons, other than a few with students, of which the deans take a dim view.

  “Another piece of chicken?” Carolyn offered.

  Naturally, I accepted. I’d never have guessed that chicken could be as good as beef, and my Charolais beef was very good indeed.

  The best chicken I’ve ever eaten in my life came from Bresse in France, and the birds are very handsome with their blue feet, fluffy white feathers, and red crests—colors of the French flag, by the way. The government dictates how they’re to be raised. From birth to day thirty-five they live on diary farms in a hen house and eat milk-soaked corn. Then they’re turned loose in green grass (by law they must have twelve square yards each) for varying lengths of time from nine to twenty-three weeks, after which they’re put in small cages and fattened up on nourishing feed. Believe me, the fat of a Bresse chicken smells wonderful, and the meat tastes even better.

  As for foie gras, the writer Toussaint-Samat warns against serving it with salad because the acidity of the vinaigrette will spoil the flavor. He’s wrong, but then I was combining it with artichoke hearts, with salad underneath. It worked for me.

  Artichoke Hearts with Foie Gras

  • Pull, do
n’t cut, the stalks off 4 large artichokes. With a sharp knife cut off the tops, rotating the knife.* Pull off the side leaves, put immediately into cold water, and cook for 15 minutes or until a fork will go through them easily. Leave in the cooking water.

  • To make a vinaigrette dressing, put 1 teaspoon French Dijon mustard in a bowl plus any of these optional ingredients: ½ teaspoon salt, ½ teaspoon ground black pepper, 1 tablespoon sugar.

  • Whisk in 3 or 4 tablespoons cider vinegar until the paste is smooth.

  • Vigorously, but gradually whisk in ½ cup olive oil until smooth.

  • Use some vinaigrette to season 11 ounces of different lettuces. Put the artichoke hearts1 in the rest of the vinaigrette.

  • Divide the salad leaves between 4 plates, place an artichoke heart in the middle of each plate on top of the salad and a thick slice of duck or goose foie gras on top of the artichoke heart.

  • Serve with toasted bread.

  Bresse Chicken Fricasseed in Cream Sauce

  • Divide a 4-pound free-range chicken, unless you can get a Bresse chicken, into 8 parts and brown in 2 tablespoons butter in a braising pan. Add salt, ground pepper, 1 cup Chardonnay wine, and 2 cups water. Cover and braise 20 minutes.

  • Peel 3½ ounces small onions. Clean 9 ounces mushrooms and cut off stalks. Put them with 2 tablespoons butter in another braising pan. Five minutes before serving, sprinkle 2 teaspoons sugar on the vegetables and glaze, then add salt.

  • Remove chicken pieces to a plate. Reduce liquid to half and pour in 2 cups crème fraiche (can be purchased at gourmet stores and online). Reduce again and pour on chicken. Garnish with mushrooms and onions. May be served with spinach and rice or noodles.

  Carolyn Blue,

  “Have Fork, Will Travel,”

  Tallahassee Call

  15

  Traboule Transportation

  Carolyn

  I couldn’t refuse to ride with Victoire when Gabrielle announced the change of plans, but it did worry me. If the chairman’s wife had tried to run Jason down, she might do the same to me, or poison me if we had lunch together. I slept badly.

  The next morning when Jason and I set out from Perrache, instead of burying his nose in a paper about toxins, he asked whether I’d enjoyed my pâté and artichoke salad, and I had to admit that I had, even though I worried about the foie gras. “Well, it didn’t make you sick,” he said cheerfully, “so I guess it wasn’t poisoned.”

  “Now, Jason, you’re always saying anything can poison you if you eat too much of it, and it’s true. Catherine de Médicis thought she was going to die after eating too many artichoke hearts at a wedding feast, those and the kidneys and combs of cockerels.”

  “Probably the cockerels did the damage,” said Jason. “Artichokes seem pretty benign, unless you get a mouthful of the choke.”

  “And you a toxin expert. I read just recently that if you keep a cooked artichoke more than twenty-four hours, it develops a toxic mold.”

  “Really.” Jason looked intrigued. “I’ll have to investigate.” He does love to hear about a new toxin.

  When we arrived at the university, Victoire was telling Sylvie that she couldn’t possibly allow Winston Churchill in her car. Her own dog would take offense.

  “But your dog isn’t here.”

  “You think Colette, who has a very sensitive nose, wouldn’t be able to smell your dog? Believe me, the next time we drive together, Colette will be very angry with me.”

  “What a lovely black car,” I exclaimed. “Very chic.”

  Victoire frowned and replied that, being of French manufacture, it was reliable and well made. Then she glanced at Sylvie’s convertible and shuddered.

  “I always think that the color of one’s car is significant,” I began, improvising as I searched for information. “For instance, couples who have been married for years often have cars of the same color. Jason and I do.” We didn’t, so I’d have to warn him in case the subject came up. “I’ll bet Professor Laurent has a black car, too. Am I right, Madam Laurent?”

  “No. This is my husband’s car.”

  Ah! So the chairman is probably the one who tried to run Jason down, but why would he do that? Jason wasn’t chasing after Mademoiselle Thomas, or showing undue interest in Victoire, as far as I knew. “Then what color is your car?”

  “We have only one,” she replied. “The cost of purchasing and running a good car is high.” Again she looked disdainfully toward the ancient, British-made Austin Healy. “We see no need—”

  “But how do you manage?” I protested, as if shocked to hear their one-car status. “Yesterday you had appointments. Did Professor Laurent have to take a bus to work?”

  Madam Laurent looked exasperated. “I can’t imagine why you are so interested in our transportation arrangements, Madam Blue, but since you insist on knowing, I had appointments with friends who provided transportation, and my husband drove this car to work. This obsession with cars is obviously some American oddity. At least I am happy to see that you took my advice and wore comfortable shoes. I know Americans choose to drive if they have only a few meters to travel, but we French are walkers, which is why obesity is not a problem here.”

  So it was her husband. And is she saying I’m fat? I’ve taken off the cruise pounds. “I always wear low-heeled shoes,” I replied.

  “Very sensible. Of course, on festive occasions, one wishes to wear a higher heel, but then your husband is short. Perhaps he would object. I pay no attention to Jacques on that subject.”

  While this conversation was proceeding, Winston Churchill forsook his interest in Victoire and bounded over to me. I said no immediately, so he didn’t jump on me, and I rewarded him by scratching his ears, which made him wiggle with delight, fall to the cement, and roll onto his back with all four legs waving.

  “Goodness, Carolyn,” said Sylvie. “Now my dog is in love with you. First Charles de Gaulle, now—”

  “He is not!” I protested. “Perhaps he has a cramp in one of his legs.”

  Giggling, Sylvie informed me that Winston Churchill wanted me to scratch his stomach. Then to the chairman’s wife, she said, “Victoire, the obvious solution is that we go in my car. But you must choose whether to sit in front with my dog on your lap or in the back with the cameras.”

  I was reluctantly scratching the dog’s stomach because he looked so silly with his legs wiggling in the air. Victoire had to take the backseat because Winston Churchill, when he was placed in Victoire’s lap, jumped out and snuggled up to my ankles like a cat.

  “Maybe you put out a pheromone that dogs like,” said Sylvie, looking puzzled.

  “You mean I smell like a dog?”

  “Well, he’s friendly, but he doesn’t usually take immediately to strange women. And that pleading look he’s giving you. As if he expects you to . . . You fed him the sausage, didn’t you?” she asked accusingly.

  Caught in the act. “I’m sorry, Sylvie. I hope it didn’t make him sick.”

  “Of course it didn’t.” Sylvie burst out laughing. “No wonder he loves you. He probably thinks you’ll be a source of sausage forever, but why would you give him your—”

  “I just couldn’t face eating brains,” I admitted shamefacedly.

  “No one puts brains in Cervales de Lyon anymore. Once they did, but now—you should have said something.” Then she turned to the chairman’s wife, still sitting in the front seat. “Victoire, it seems that Carolyn has bewitched my dog with sausage. Either we’ll have to take your car, or you’ll have to sit in back with the cameras. For some reason, Winston Churchill throws up if we put him in back, and we can’t let him vomit on our guest.”

  Looking quite grim, Victoire swung her long legs out and managed to squeeze herself crossways into the back. Then the dog and I settled down, and off we went to visit the traboules, while he looked up at me soulfully, waiting for more sausage. When it didn’t materialize, he went to sleep.

  We only had to stop for repairs twice.
A spoke needed replacement on one wheel, and then the car stalled at a busy traffic light. We gained quite an audience of young men to watch both repairs. Victoire stayed inside each time trying to restore order to her hair. Knowing what to expect, I had simply taken the scarf that tied my hair back and tied it under my chin.

  When we arrived at our destination, Old Lyon, and set out on foot, I became nervous again and watched every black car on the street as if Albertine might be behind the wheel, unless, of course, the chairman, who knew where we were going, had followed us. But his wife would surely recognize him and the family car. No, he wouldn’t take that chance. Would he? Maybe Laurent wanted to run her down, too, because of her affair with Robert, whom he had managed to poison with the fugu toxin.

  “You know what I’d like to have for lunch,” I said impulsively. “Japanese food.” If there was a local source of fugu, I needed to find it. “Do you have Japanese restaurants?”

  “Madam Blue,” said Victoire in a long-suffering voice, “one does not come to Lyon, a city known for its French cuisine, and ask to eat at a Japanese establishment.”

  “I don’t think there is one,” added Sylvie.

  “And if there were, I certainly would not want to patronize it,” said Victoire.

  Another dead end, I thought. I’d have to search the Lyon telephone book. It had occurred to me that Madam Laurent could be lying about her appointments yesterday. What if she had rented a black car and used it to attack my husband, and before that had poisoned the pâté and sent it to our room. Having poisoned her own lover by mistake, she would be furious with both of us, as well as unwilling to admit knowing a source of tetrodotoxin. But that didn’t explain why she’d send the poisoned pâté in the first place. Her lover was still alive, not dying on my bed, before the poison was added to the pâté and sent to us.