Free French Fried by NANCY FAIRBANKS Page B

Sylvie made to the car en route and the pictures taken of the dog and Carolyn with hair in disarray because of the topless car.
    “Sylvie’s very nice,” Carolyn added. “Have you ever heard of tetrodotoxin?”
    “Not that I recall.”
    “It’s in fugu, and Doctor Petit thinks it killed your friend Robert.”
    “Where would he get any fugu? I doubt that Robert would even want to try it.”
    “Probably someone put it in the pâté. Now all we have to do is find out—”
    “Carolyn, that’s ridiculous!”
    She glared at me in the mirror as she put on her second earring, picked up her purse, and walked out. I had to hurry to catch the elevator. Fortunately, the Doignes were waiting for us downstairs, so there was no more talk of puffer-fish toxin. Gabrielle, evidently a devout Catholic, began to tell Carolyn about the churches she’d see the next day.
    Our second restaurant in Lyon was much more upscale and much more expensive. I could see my wife trying to convert the euros into dollars, then giving up and ordering chicken.
    “Ah, Friccasse de Poulet de Bresse. An excellent selection, Madam Blue,” exclaimed Charles Doigne. “Bresse has the world’s finest poultry. I shall have the same.”
    Carolyn stared suspiciously at poor Doigne when he insisted that she order a salad of pâté on artichoke hearts. No doubt she was afraid the pâté would be spiked with fugu. He never noticed her dismay because he asked a question about my research, which ignited an excellent discussion of the chemistry of toxins and caused poor Carolyn to shift uneasily in her seat. I’m afraid the women hardly got a word in.
    However, when Carolyn’s salad was served, she interrupted loudly enough to stop us. “Do you, by any chance, like fugu, Professor Doigne?”
    He looked confused and replied. “Is that a type of American music?”
    “It is the meat of the puffer fish. Very popular in Japan, although toxic. Surely you’re familiar with tetrodotoxin?”
    Doigne obviously wasn’t. “Is that the scientific name? I know of many toxins, but I am embarrassed to say—”
    “I was unfamiliar with it myself,” I assured him and raised a mouthful of pâté and artichoke to my lips. “Ah!” I exclaimed, “This is truly a wonderful dish, Charles.” To my wife I whispered, “And my lips are not numb.”
    “Give it time,” she muttered back and, with everyone waiting for the American food writer to pronounce on a favorite Lyonnais salad, she took a bite and chewed so slowly that I knew she was waiting for a telltale tingle to alert her before she actually swallowed. Then the taste must have hit her, for she smiled at Charles and took another bite. “A salad to die for!” she remarked, but not happily.
    Gabrielle’s cell phone rang just then, and her husband raised his eyebrows. “Victoire insisted that I keep it turned on in case she needed to call,” said Gabrielle. Evidently Victoire Laurent was not to be denied. She had given that impression when we dined with her the night before.
    Our entrées came during this conversation, and Carolyn began to eat immediately. She probably wanted to try the chicken before the pâté killed her. Surely Charles’s response to her question about fugu should have convinced her that it was not to be had in Lyon and that Robert’s diagnosis was mistaken. Probably the doctor wanted to write a paper for a medical journal on an exotic case.
    “Jason, you have to try this. It is absolutely the best chicken I’ve ever tasted,” said my wife, as she dropped a piece of the chicken on my plate. Charles beamed at her, and I had to agree. Our mass-produced chicken at home certainly pales in comparison.
    At that moment, while I was savoring the poultry of Bresse, Gabrielle clicked off her phone and, tight-lipped, said to my wife, “Victoire has found that she will be available tomorrow to show you the traboules. You and Sylvie are to meet her at the department, and she will drive her own car.