this one, which, whatever color it had once been, was now mottled, but never black.
“I do not have a car!” cried Nicole. “We live in an area with wonderful shops. Each day I walk to the markets to pick out the freshest vegetables and fruits, the best fish or meat, and the finest bread from a lovely patisserie only a block from my door. People who shop from cars are tempted to buy too much. Only food purchased on the day it is to be eaten is worth cooking. Don’t you agree, Carolyn?”
“Of course,” said Carolyn, who had never been grocery shopping two days in a row. “And tell me, Nicole, do you cook Japanese?”
Bertrand chuckled merrily in anticipation of his own joke. “Japanese are not sold in our markets. Nor would it be legal to cook and eat them. Surely, Carolyn, you do not eat Japanese in America, even considering that they, many years ago, were so dishonorable as to bomb your ships without first declaring war.”
I could hear my wife sigh. “I was thinking of Japanese fish,” she replied politely. “They are so rare and tasty.”
“But a Japanese fish would have to be frozen and flown here,” protested Nicole. “We eat the fish of our region. The fish of Dombes, for instance. It is so interesting how these fishes are caught.”
“Yes,” Bertrand agreed enthusiastically. “From shallow, freshwater lakes in huge nets spread by tractors and then pulled in by fishermen, who wade into the water and haul in the carp and pike for immediate consumption or shipment. At the restaurant I shall point to you some fine fishes from Dombes.”
“Yes, I read that some of those breeding ponds were established in the twelfth century,” said Carolyn. I think she gave up at that point on the Fourniers as murderers. Their car was the wrong color, and the idea of eating Japanese fish was obviously appalling to them.
At the restaurant, which had no sign outside, only an ornate and possibly aged door and heavily draped windows so that we could not see inside, we had to knock to be admitted by a man who greeted both Fourniers with a torrent of French and embraces, which extended to hand-kissing in my wife’s case. He didn’t greet me at all, evidently taking me for some hanger-on with no culinary credentials. The restaurant itself was small with elaborately set tables and yellow brocaded walls and chairs, but we were led to the bar because the rest of our party had not yet arrived.
“I know that Americans love cocktails before dinner,” Bertrand said and helped both ladies onto high stools facing an inlaid wooden bar with an elaborately etched mirror behind it. Carolyn whispered that the décor was Art Deco, while Bertrand ordered a round of Hypermetropes. I had no idea what was coming, but of course the Fourniers were anxious to tell us in detail about this mixture of green Chartreuse and Vertical Vodka, both made by the monks of the Chartreuse, and served very cold, so cold that my test sip made my teeth ache. I sensibly failed to mention this problem to Carolyn, who would whip out a toothache remedy she carries in her purse. She’d evidently once forced it on a Catalan homicide inspector in Barcelona.
“How interesting,” said my wife after her first sip. “I knew it wasn’t crème de menthe.”
“Heaven forbid,” cried Nicole, and she launched into the history and distillation of the two ingredients.
Chartreuse liqueur is made in a monastery founded by Saints Bruno and Hugo in the eleventh century. The recipe for an herbal elixir was given to the monks in 1605, but they were busy mining and smelting, so didn’t get to perfecting it until 1764, when it was considered a medicinal stimulant and distributed free to local peasants. Later the monastery distilled a liqueur, 55 percent alcohol, from it. Only three Carthusian brothers ever know the recipe, which contains 130 different plants.
Through avalanches, revolutions, wars, and expulsions, the secret has been kept, but the brothers are now back
“I do not have a car!” cried Nicole. “We live in an area with wonderful shops. Each day I walk to the markets to pick out the freshest vegetables and fruits, the best fish or meat, and the finest bread from a lovely patisserie only a block from my door. People who shop from cars are tempted to buy too much. Only food purchased on the day it is to be eaten is worth cooking. Don’t you agree, Carolyn?”
“Of course,” said Carolyn, who had never been grocery shopping two days in a row. “And tell me, Nicole, do you cook Japanese?”
Bertrand chuckled merrily in anticipation of his own joke. “Japanese are not sold in our markets. Nor would it be legal to cook and eat them. Surely, Carolyn, you do not eat Japanese in America, even considering that they, many years ago, were so dishonorable as to bomb your ships without first declaring war.”
I could hear my wife sigh. “I was thinking of Japanese fish,” she replied politely. “They are so rare and tasty.”
“But a Japanese fish would have to be frozen and flown here,” protested Nicole. “We eat the fish of our region. The fish of Dombes, for instance. It is so interesting how these fishes are caught.”
“Yes,” Bertrand agreed enthusiastically. “From shallow, freshwater lakes in huge nets spread by tractors and then pulled in by fishermen, who wade into the water and haul in the carp and pike for immediate consumption or shipment. At the restaurant I shall point to you some fine fishes from Dombes.”
“Yes, I read that some of those breeding ponds were established in the twelfth century,” said Carolyn. I think she gave up at that point on the Fourniers as murderers. Their car was the wrong color, and the idea of eating Japanese fish was obviously appalling to them.
At the restaurant, which had no sign outside, only an ornate and possibly aged door and heavily draped windows so that we could not see inside, we had to knock to be admitted by a man who greeted both Fourniers with a torrent of French and embraces, which extended to hand-kissing in my wife’s case. He didn’t greet me at all, evidently taking me for some hanger-on with no culinary credentials. The restaurant itself was small with elaborately set tables and yellow brocaded walls and chairs, but we were led to the bar because the rest of our party had not yet arrived.
“I know that Americans love cocktails before dinner,” Bertrand said and helped both ladies onto high stools facing an inlaid wooden bar with an elaborately etched mirror behind it. Carolyn whispered that the décor was Art Deco, while Bertrand ordered a round of Hypermetropes. I had no idea what was coming, but of course the Fourniers were anxious to tell us in detail about this mixture of green Chartreuse and Vertical Vodka, both made by the monks of the Chartreuse, and served very cold, so cold that my test sip made my teeth ache. I sensibly failed to mention this problem to Carolyn, who would whip out a toothache remedy she carries in her purse. She’d evidently once forced it on a Catalan homicide inspector in Barcelona.
“How interesting,” said my wife after her first sip. “I knew it wasn’t crème de menthe.”
“Heaven forbid,” cried Nicole, and she launched into the history and distillation of the two ingredients.
Chartreuse liqueur is made in a monastery founded by Saints Bruno and Hugo in the eleventh century. The recipe for an herbal elixir was given to the monks in 1605, but they were busy mining and smelting, so didn’t get to perfecting it until 1764, when it was considered a medicinal stimulant and distributed free to local peasants. Later the monastery distilled a liqueur, 55 percent alcohol, from it. Only three Carthusian brothers ever know the recipe, which contains 130 different plants.
Through avalanches, revolutions, wars, and expulsions, the secret has been kept, but the brothers are now back
Similar Books
