on a hefty retainer. Nothing so crude as what transpired up on Malabar Hill, but just as effective.
“Tell that man to stop,” Mallory imperiously ordered the mayor. “That Indian. Have you seen what he is doing? He’s turned that beautiful Dufour mansion into a bistro. An Indian bistro!
Horrible.
I can smell that oily cooking all up and down the street. And that placard?
Mais non
. This is not possible.”
The mayor shrugged. “What do you want me to do?”
“Shut him down.”
“Monsieur Haji is opening a restaurant in the same zone as you, Gertrude. If I shut him down I have to shut you down as well. And his lawyer won permission from the Planning Committee for the placard. So, you see, my hands are tied. Monsieur Haji has done everything correct.”
“
Mais non
. This is not possible.”
“But it is,” continued the mayor. “I can’t close him down without justification. He is acting completely within the law.”
Her parting remark, I understand, was singularly unpleasant.
Our first face-to-face with
la grande dame
took place three days later. Mallory arose at six every morning. After she ate a light breakfast of pears and buttered toast and strong coffee, Monsieur Leblanc drove her to Lumière’s markets in the beaten-up Citroën. You could set your watch by their ritual. Promptly at six forty-five Monsieur Leblanc retired with the newspaper
Le Jura
to Café Bréguet, where some of the locals were at the bar and already on the day’s first
ballon
of wine. Meanwhile, Mallory in her gray flannel poncho and wicker baskets on each arm made her way from market stall to market stall, buying fresh produce for the day’s menu.
Mallory was a magnificent sight to behold, pounding the streets like a workhorse, each of her hard breaths exploding in white smoke. The bulk orders—a half dozen rabbits, perhaps, or fifty-kilo sacks of potatoes—were delivered by van to Le Saule Pleureur no later than nine thirty a.m. But the chanterelles and the delicate Belgium endive and perhaps a paper cone of juniper berries, they went into the baskets hanging from Mallory’s meaty arms.
On that particular morning, just weeks after we arrived in town, Mallory as usual started her shopping at Iten et Fils, the fishmonger that occupied a white-tiled corner shop on Place Prunelle.
“What’s that?”
Monsieur Iten bit the corner of his mustache.
“Eh?”
“Behind you. Move. What’s that there?”
Iten stepped aside and Madame Mallory got her first good view of a cardboard box on the counter. It took just a second before she knew the claws waving in the air belonged to crayfish scrabbling over one another.
“Wonderful,” said Mallory. “I haven’t seen crayfish in months. They look fresh and lively. Are they French?”
“
Non, madame
. Spanish.”
“Never mind. I’ll take them.”
“
Non, madame. Je regrette
.”
“Pardon?”
Iten wiped a knife on a tea towel.
“I’m sorry Madame Mallory, but he just came in and . . . and . . . bought them.”
“Who?”
“Monsieur Haji. And his son.”
Mallory squinted. She couldn’t quite comprehend what Monsieur Iten had just said. “That Indian? He bought these?”
“
Oui, madame
.”
“Let me get this straight, Iten. I have come to you—and before you, to your father—for over thirty years, every morning, and bought your best fish. And now you are telling me, at some godforsaken hour, an Indian came in here and bought what you knew I would buy? Is that what you are telling me?”
Monsieur Iten looked down at the floor. “I am sorry. But his manner, you see. He is very . . . charming.”
“I see. So what, then, are you going to offer me? Yesterday’s
moules
?”
“Ah,
non, madame,
please. Don’t be like that. You know you are my most valued customer. I . . . I have here some lovely perch.”
Iten scurried over to the cooler and took out a silver tray of striped perch, each the size of a child’s palm.
“Very fresh, see? Caught this morning
“Tell that man to stop,” Mallory imperiously ordered the mayor. “That Indian. Have you seen what he is doing? He’s turned that beautiful Dufour mansion into a bistro. An Indian bistro!
Horrible.
I can smell that oily cooking all up and down the street. And that placard?
Mais non
. This is not possible.”
The mayor shrugged. “What do you want me to do?”
“Shut him down.”
“Monsieur Haji is opening a restaurant in the same zone as you, Gertrude. If I shut him down I have to shut you down as well. And his lawyer won permission from the Planning Committee for the placard. So, you see, my hands are tied. Monsieur Haji has done everything correct.”
“
Mais non
. This is not possible.”
“But it is,” continued the mayor. “I can’t close him down without justification. He is acting completely within the law.”
Her parting remark, I understand, was singularly unpleasant.
Our first face-to-face with
la grande dame
took place three days later. Mallory arose at six every morning. After she ate a light breakfast of pears and buttered toast and strong coffee, Monsieur Leblanc drove her to Lumière’s markets in the beaten-up Citroën. You could set your watch by their ritual. Promptly at six forty-five Monsieur Leblanc retired with the newspaper
Le Jura
to Café Bréguet, where some of the locals were at the bar and already on the day’s first
ballon
of wine. Meanwhile, Mallory in her gray flannel poncho and wicker baskets on each arm made her way from market stall to market stall, buying fresh produce for the day’s menu.
Mallory was a magnificent sight to behold, pounding the streets like a workhorse, each of her hard breaths exploding in white smoke. The bulk orders—a half dozen rabbits, perhaps, or fifty-kilo sacks of potatoes—were delivered by van to Le Saule Pleureur no later than nine thirty a.m. But the chanterelles and the delicate Belgium endive and perhaps a paper cone of juniper berries, they went into the baskets hanging from Mallory’s meaty arms.
On that particular morning, just weeks after we arrived in town, Mallory as usual started her shopping at Iten et Fils, the fishmonger that occupied a white-tiled corner shop on Place Prunelle.
“What’s that?”
Monsieur Iten bit the corner of his mustache.
“Eh?”
“Behind you. Move. What’s that there?”
Iten stepped aside and Madame Mallory got her first good view of a cardboard box on the counter. It took just a second before she knew the claws waving in the air belonged to crayfish scrabbling over one another.
“Wonderful,” said Mallory. “I haven’t seen crayfish in months. They look fresh and lively. Are they French?”
“
Non, madame
. Spanish.”
“Never mind. I’ll take them.”
“
Non, madame. Je regrette
.”
“Pardon?”
Iten wiped a knife on a tea towel.
“I’m sorry Madame Mallory, but he just came in and . . . and . . . bought them.”
“Who?”
“Monsieur Haji. And his son.”
Mallory squinted. She couldn’t quite comprehend what Monsieur Iten had just said. “That Indian? He bought these?”
“
Oui, madame
.”
“Let me get this straight, Iten. I have come to you—and before you, to your father—for over thirty years, every morning, and bought your best fish. And now you are telling me, at some godforsaken hour, an Indian came in here and bought what you knew I would buy? Is that what you are telling me?”
Monsieur Iten looked down at the floor. “I am sorry. But his manner, you see. He is very . . . charming.”
“I see. So what, then, are you going to offer me? Yesterday’s
moules
?”
“Ah,
non, madame,
please. Don’t be like that. You know you are my most valued customer. I . . . I have here some lovely perch.”
Iten scurried over to the cooler and took out a silver tray of striped perch, each the size of a child’s palm.
“Very fresh, see? Caught this morning
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