Free Dying on the Vine by Peter King Page B

but a while ago, when I had been smothered in a cloud of angry bees …
    As we went outside, Monika asked, “How did you get to Colcroze?”
    â€œI had a car.”
    â€œI didn’t see it there.”
    â€œI forgot about it,” I said. “I was so glad to be able to get away with you, I didn’t think of anything else.”
    â€œHow do you feel now? Do you want to go back and get it?”
    â€œWhat I want to do is buy you the best meal in France as a way of saying thank you for saving my life.”
    She smiled delightfully. “I would be happy to accept although I think you overstate it. In any case, I have another assignment today. Suppose I take you back to get your car and we have lunch tomorrow?”
    â€œExcellent,” I said enthusiastically. “If you could choose anywhere to eat, where would it be?”
    She shook her head reprovingly. Her blond hair danced as she did so.
    â€œYou don’t mean that!”
    â€œCertainly I do.”
    â€œI have always wanted to eat at—but, no, it’s not fair to ask you …”
    â€œYes, it is. Ask me.”
    She eyed me mischievously for a moment. Then she said, “Very well. The Louis Quinze in Monte Carlo.”
    I had to admit I had asked for it. Probably the most illustrious and famous restaurant on the Riviera. As for cost … well, never mind that. After all, hadn’t my life been saved?
    â€œOkay,” I said casually. “The Louis Quinze. Tomorrow.”

Chapter 14
    I DROVE BACK TO Saint Symphorien, choosing the wider roads over lesser ones and with more than one nervous glance at the sky. One of those terrifying insects was enough—a horde of them would be like a scene from a John Carpenter version of Food of the Gods.
    The busy center of the village was a welcome refuge. I parked and strolled around, not leaving the crowded pavements, but then I realized that I was hungry and the dilemma of where to eat took priority. As a change of pace, I chose Timgad, a restaurant serving north African food.
    The south of France has a large population of “pieds noirs,” French who were forced to leave their farms and plantations in north Africa when the former colonies became independent. Another large group is the “Maghreb,” natives from those same countries who retained their French citizenship and could come to France to live and work.
    Inside the restaurant, it smelled wonderful. Chilies, coriander, curry, and mint aromas floated in air that was without the “advantage” of air-conditioning. Colorful banners and posters covered the walls, basket chairs and tables had pale blue cushions and covers, and the blue and white tiled floor suited perfectly.
    A smiling Arab girl brought me a menu. It was in both Arabic and French and I concentrated on the French side. I have had amusing experiences in Asian restaurants in France attempting to translate the French-named dishes into English when the original translation already left a lot to be desired. I had eaten in Arabic restaurants and was familiar with many of the main dishes. Foods there are naturally low in fat and lively on the palate due to the spices I had smelled in addition to garlic, cumin, and caraway. Cooking styles are generally simple. Whereas in the West, we cook aromatics such as onion and garlic first in either oil or butter before adding any other ingredients, in north African cuisine it is customary to put all the ingredients into one pot at the beginning.
    I chose the fennel marinated in lemon and served with feta cheese as the first course. It is simple and very refreshing. The other diners were about half French and half Maghreb and I watched the latter to see if they were eating in true Moslem style. They were not—this requires that the diner eat only from around the edge of the dish, leaving the middle so that the blessing of Heaven can descend upon it. I ate all of my salad.
    I followed it with a