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Authors: NANCY FAIRBANKS
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contributed much to the wealth of the city, but they were so poor themselves.”
Ahead of us was a long stairway between two buildings, leading up to a grassy area and a stone wall. We left the car, with Winston Churchill bounding along, tugging on his leash, but when we got closer, Sylvie handed the leash to me and instructed me to walk over to the man studying a map and pretend that I was talking to him while she took a picture. “Won’t he find that strange?” I asked, reluctant to approach the tourist.
Sylvie burst into laughter. “You see how fine our murals are. He is a painted tourist.” So Winston Churchill and I had our picture taken beside the painted tourist. I think the pug was fooled as well because he barked at the picture. Then I moved back to study the mural. It wasn’t just the steps that were painted. The buildings to both sides were part of the mural. There was a pigeon on the ledge of an upper window so realistic that I expected to see it fly away.
We stopped in a café for a snack of bread, cheese, wine, and, of course, sausage—Cervelas de Lyon. Sylvie said it had been brought here by the Italian silk merchants and bankers and contained delicious parts of the pig. Cervelas? —brains, I suspected, and shuddered. “So why would Victoire try to kill Jason?” I asked to distract Sylvie from further discussion of the sausage she had ordered.
“Robert was her lover, and Robert died in your room eating your pâté.”
“He actually died in the hospital, and it wasn’t our pâté. Someone sent it.”
Sylvie shrugged and popped a bite of the sausage into her mouth. “Victoire Laurent is a domineering woman. I can imagine her racing her car into someone if she thought the man killed her lover.”
“Well, it doesn’t make any sense,” I muttered, and slipped a piece of my sausage to Winston Churchill, who was happy to get it. He snuggled up against my leg, chewing lustily, but didn’t tip off his mistress to our conspiracy. “And thinking that Victoire tried to run down Jason doesn’t explain who sent the bad pâté.”
“Now you must try the cervelle de Canute. ” As she pushed the bowl toward me, Sylvie laughed at my expression. “Nothing terrible, Madam Blue. Although the name means silk workers’ brains, it is simply a fresh curd cheese with a bit of olive oil and vinegar whipped in with fresh herbs, shallots, and garlic.”
“Do call me Carolyn,” I said, eyeing the cheese suspiciously, but I couldn’t see anything that resembled brains, and it was, in fact, very tasty. I ate that with my bread and wine and continued to slip the brain sausage to the dog.
While out to lunch with a lady from Lyon, I reencountered my own objection to eating brains. She ordered cervelas , a sausage I assumed contained brains because of the Latin word cervelle , brain meat. Rather than offend her, I cut off pieces and slipped them to her dog. Then she insisted that I eat a cheese called cervelle de Canute , silk workers’ brains. I couldn’t believe my ill luck, but she insisted that it contained simply curd cheese and flavorings. Only later did I discover that the sausage I fed the dog, although it did contain brains in the time of Julius Caesar, now contained only pork with pistachios or truffles. I’d probably have loved it. The dog certainly did.
Cervelle de Canute
• Beat 1 pound curd or farmer’s cheese with a wooden spoon. Add 2 tablespoons olive oil, 1 tablespoon vinegar, 1 finely chopped clove garlic and beat into the cheese.
• Chop 2 tablespoons chervil, 4 tablespoons parsley, 2 tablespoons chives, 1 tablespoon tarragon, and 4 shallots. Mix well into cheese. Season to taste and serve with toast or bread.
Carolyn Blue,
“Have Fork, Will Travel,”
Birmingham Eagle
13
An Academic Suspect and a Japanese Fish
Carolyn
After our snack, Sylvie drove away while Winston Churchill lay burping in my lap. Perhaps the sausage hadn’t been such a good idea, but his ancestors must
Ahead of us was a long stairway between two buildings, leading up to a grassy area and a stone wall. We left the car, with Winston Churchill bounding along, tugging on his leash, but when we got closer, Sylvie handed the leash to me and instructed me to walk over to the man studying a map and pretend that I was talking to him while she took a picture. “Won’t he find that strange?” I asked, reluctant to approach the tourist.
Sylvie burst into laughter. “You see how fine our murals are. He is a painted tourist.” So Winston Churchill and I had our picture taken beside the painted tourist. I think the pug was fooled as well because he barked at the picture. Then I moved back to study the mural. It wasn’t just the steps that were painted. The buildings to both sides were part of the mural. There was a pigeon on the ledge of an upper window so realistic that I expected to see it fly away.
We stopped in a café for a snack of bread, cheese, wine, and, of course, sausage—Cervelas de Lyon. Sylvie said it had been brought here by the Italian silk merchants and bankers and contained delicious parts of the pig. Cervelas? —brains, I suspected, and shuddered. “So why would Victoire try to kill Jason?” I asked to distract Sylvie from further discussion of the sausage she had ordered.
“Robert was her lover, and Robert died in your room eating your pâté.”
“He actually died in the hospital, and it wasn’t our pâté. Someone sent it.”
Sylvie shrugged and popped a bite of the sausage into her mouth. “Victoire Laurent is a domineering woman. I can imagine her racing her car into someone if she thought the man killed her lover.”
“Well, it doesn’t make any sense,” I muttered, and slipped a piece of my sausage to Winston Churchill, who was happy to get it. He snuggled up against my leg, chewing lustily, but didn’t tip off his mistress to our conspiracy. “And thinking that Victoire tried to run down Jason doesn’t explain who sent the bad pâté.”
“Now you must try the cervelle de Canute. ” As she pushed the bowl toward me, Sylvie laughed at my expression. “Nothing terrible, Madam Blue. Although the name means silk workers’ brains, it is simply a fresh curd cheese with a bit of olive oil and vinegar whipped in with fresh herbs, shallots, and garlic.”
“Do call me Carolyn,” I said, eyeing the cheese suspiciously, but I couldn’t see anything that resembled brains, and it was, in fact, very tasty. I ate that with my bread and wine and continued to slip the brain sausage to the dog.
While out to lunch with a lady from Lyon, I reencountered my own objection to eating brains. She ordered cervelas , a sausage I assumed contained brains because of the Latin word cervelle , brain meat. Rather than offend her, I cut off pieces and slipped them to her dog. Then she insisted that I eat a cheese called cervelle de Canute , silk workers’ brains. I couldn’t believe my ill luck, but she insisted that it contained simply curd cheese and flavorings. Only later did I discover that the sausage I fed the dog, although it did contain brains in the time of Julius Caesar, now contained only pork with pistachios or truffles. I’d probably have loved it. The dog certainly did.
Cervelle de Canute
• Beat 1 pound curd or farmer’s cheese with a wooden spoon. Add 2 tablespoons olive oil, 1 tablespoon vinegar, 1 finely chopped clove garlic and beat into the cheese.
• Chop 2 tablespoons chervil, 4 tablespoons parsley, 2 tablespoons chives, 1 tablespoon tarragon, and 4 shallots. Mix well into cheese. Season to taste and serve with toast or bread.
Carolyn Blue,
“Have Fork, Will Travel,”
Birmingham Eagle
13
An Academic Suspect and a Japanese Fish
Carolyn
After our snack, Sylvie drove away while Winston Churchill lay burping in my lap. Perhaps the sausage hadn’t been such a good idea, but his ancestors must
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