The Marseille Caper Read Online Free Page A

eat. He’s invited us to what he calls a pique-nique .”
    Elena realized that packing—always, for her, a long and complicated business involving many refinements and changes of mind—had caused her to skip lunch. “I think I could force something down,” she said. “Actually, I’m starving.”
    Mathilde had laid the dining table with white linen and cloth napkins and crystal glasses. A white orchid drooped elegantly from its vase, also crystal. It only needed Reboul in a chef’s hat to complete the picture of a restaurant de luxe . In fact, he was in his working clothes: no jacket, no tie, the top two buttons of his silk shirt undone. Elena’s eye was caught by what she at first took to be a monogram on his shirt pocket; a closer look showed it to be a line of tiny Chinese characters. Reboul noticed her interest and anticipated her question.
    “These shirts are made for me in Hong Kong,” he said. “Monsieur Wang, who makes them, likes to have his little joke, so he puts this on”—he tapped his chest—“instead of my initials. He told me it was a line from Confucius, ensuring a long life and good fortune.”
    “What does it say?”
    “It says: Please take your hand off my left breast.” Reboul shrugged and grinned. “Chinese sense of humor. Now then—what kind of picnic do you have for us, Mathilde?”
    “There is smoked salmon. Foie gras , of course. The last of the asparagus.” Mathilde paused here to kiss her fingertips. “Some good cheeses. And best of all, your favorite, Monsieur Francis: salade tiède aux fèves et lardons .” She waited, smiling, for Reboul’s response.
    “Oh!” he said. “Oh! I am dead and in heaven. Elena,Sam—do you know this dish? A warm salad of young broad beans and chopped bacon? No? You must try it, and then we can attack the foie gras or the salmon. Or both. It has been an eternity since lunch.” He turned to peer into the large ice bucket that Mathilde had placed on the bar. “You can stay with champagne, or we have an ’86 Puligny-Montrachet and, for the foie gras , an ’84 Sauternes. You must forgive me,” he said to Elena, “but I never ask red wine to fly with me. The changes in altitude, the turbulence—they tend to upset even the best Bordeaux and Burgundy. I hope you understand.”
    Elena nodded knowledgeably, despite the fact that her wine course hadn’t covered drinking on private jets. “Of course,” she said, smiling sweetly. “But perhaps you could tell me more about this salad. I’ve never heard of it.”
    “My mother used to make it, and I learned from her. To start with, you take a saucepan of cold water, and a frying pan. Chop a large piece of fat bacon into cubes, and put them in the frying pan over medium heat. While they are cooking, put the beans into the saucepan of cold water, over high heat. The second the water comes to the boil, drain it off; the beans are ready. Put them into a bowl, and pour over them the chopped bacon—and, most important, every drop of hot bacon fat. Et voilà . Mix well and eat instantly, before the salad cools. It is sublime. You will see.”
    It was indeed sublime, as was everything else, and as Elena watched Reboul tuck into his salad, a plate of asparagus, and two thick slices of foie gras , she wondered how he managed to stay so trim. It was something she had asked herself lasttime she’d been to Paris and had been struck by the absence of obesity. The restaurants were full, the French ate and drank like champions, and yet most of them never seemed to put on weight. Unfair and mysterious.
    “Why is it, Sam?”
    “What?”
    “Why don’t the French get fat?”
    Sam had asked the same question of Sophie, his accomplice in the wine robbery. Her answer had been delivered with the total conviction that came from having been born French, and thus having superior logic and common sense on her side, not to mention centuries of correct eating habits. Sam had no difficulty remembering her exact words: