French Cuisine Can Kill You

by Rebecca Dunsmuir

  On the television screen, people sitting in a semi-circle were debating about something. Some of them were speaking quite vehemently. One person was standing up and yelling at another, showing his fist.

  "What is this? The French version of The Larry King Show?"

  A man in the middle who seemed to be the host of the show tried to keep control of the situation. It wasn't working, insults were still flying.

  "Damn, what are they talking about? It must be important."

  Amanda pressed one of the remote control buttons to display information about the show on the TV screen. She read out loud. "'Has French cinema recovered since the New Wave?'" Amanda looked at d'Artagnan, intrigued. "Wow. I can't believe that they're fighting about that."

  The dog mumbled something. Me neither, and I don't care. Give me that big piece of meat over there. You don't want it, right?

  Amanda took the spoon beside the steaming bowl of soup. Each mouthful of the mellow leek soup titillated Amanda’s palate, and so did the tender pieces of Régine’s beef stew. The softened Camembert spread on the crusty baguette paired perfectly with the red wine. Amanda closed her eyes, murmuring her pleasure.

  “Now, that’s what I call ‘fine cuisine,’ d’Art.”

  The dog followed each of Amanda’s moves, desperately waiting for her to forfeit her feast.

  A few minutes later, a happily sated Amanda fell sound asleep on the bed while the heated debate on the television show kept escalating. People were now literally fighting.

  Thrilled that Amanda had 'passed out,' the Great Dane eagerly emptied her plate. It would be such a shame to let this go to waste!

  The present or the future of French cinema had no relevance to d’Artagnan. All essential things in life were about food. Period.

  Chapter 18

  T he cell phone alarm went off. Amanda awoke with the memory of a dream that was fading away like ripples in a pond.

  She had been in the castle, feeling lost and scared. It was dark. A woman was running after her, and they switched rooms instantly. Did she want something good or bad? This uncertainty made her feel uneasy.

  Amanda heard d'Artagnan barking, but she wasn’t sure if it was in her dream or in reality. She opened her eyes and saw the dog standing by the windowsill, his head out of the window.

  "Shush d'Artagnan! You'll wake everybody in the hotel and get us in trouble."

  Amanda looked around and remembered that she had two companions. One was missing.

  "Oh my God. Bronx!"

  Amanda ran to the window and stuck her head outside. No cat. She panicked and turned the room upside down, checked under the bed, in the closet, the drawers, the bathtub. Pretty much anywhere an average sized cat could hide. No cat.

  D'Artagnan was following her everywhere. Don't worry, he's gone. It's all good news. No need to make a fuss about it.

  "Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God! Where is he?"

  Far away, hoped d'Artagnan.

  Amanda put on her bathrobe, slid her feet into her slippers, ran out of the hotel room and slammed the door, leaving d'Artagnan behind.

  What? No! Don't leave me alone again!

  Amanda hurtled down the stairs and rushed towards the front door. Titi, who was resting on his pillow, saw something passing in front of him as fast as a rocket. Too fast to give him the opportunity to bark. Amanda was already outside, searching frantically for her cat.

  "Bronx! Bronx! Where are you?"

  All the cars in the streets nearby were clear, no cat was hiding underneath. Amanda ran randomly, looking down one street, then another, in hope of finding the fugitive cat. Then, about fifty feet away from her on the sidewalk, she saw an elderly lady leaning over something. The woman was petting an animal, and it was a cat. A cat with black fur on his back, and white fur on his head and paws. No doubt about it, it was Bronx. Amanda ran toward the lady, waving her arms in the air.

  “Hey! Madam!” yelled Amanda.

  When the woman saw a crazy stranger in pajamas running toward her, waving her arms, she grabbed the cat, turned around the corner and hurried along the sidewalk as fast as she could. Amanda panicked.

  “What? No! Hey! Madam, that is my cat!”

  Amanda sped up and turned around the corner, but there was nobody in the street. The lady and the cat had disappeared.

  “Where are they?” moaned Amanda.

  She walked up the street, carefully looking around. Maybe the lady had gone into a house? Then Amanda stopped abruptly and took a few steps backwards. By the shop window of a bakery, she saw Bronx resting in the arms of the lady who was feeding him little choux buns. The feline was devouring the pastries, giving sweet innocent looks to the lady. It was Bronx in all his glory, putting on another act to get what he wanted.

  Amanda put her hands on her hips and frowned. "I can't believe this!" She pushed open the door of the bakery. The smell of fresh bread and pastries should’ve soothed Amanda’s mood, but she was too mad at Bronx for escaping. She pointed an accusing finger at the cat. "You, mister!"

  The elderly woman, who was tall and bony, threw a sharp glance at Amanda, and held the cat tight against her chest. Bronx smirked. He was chewing a choux bun like gum, very much enjoying the situation. This is going to be quite entertaining… thought the cat.

  The woman scanned Amanda with disdain from head to toe. Who was this woman running after her, panting, in a bathrobe and slippers, her hair all messed up? She could only be crazy or homeless.

  "What do you want?" asked the woman abruptly.

  "I'm glad you found my cat. Thank you."

  The lady squinted.

  "How do I know it's your cat."

  "Because I'm telling you."

  The elderly woman shrugged.

  "It doesn't prove anything. This cat doesn't even have a collar. See. No proof."

  Bronx was licking sugar from his paws. Amanda swore the cat was smirking at her.

  A man wearing a white apron came from the back store, holding a large plate with warm croissants and pains au chocolat. He displayed the pastries with care on racks behind a glass counter. It was hard not to notice him. Tall, well built, with dark hair and blue eyes. Probably in his forties, and the most important detail, incredibly handsome.

  "What's going on?" he asked the women, with a smile.

  "Hello," said Amanda, "I'm trying to explain to this lady that this is my cat."

  Amanda pointed at Bronx. The woman turned her head to the baker.

  "Who knows if this is really hers?" she said, with a defensive tone. Then she leaned to the counter. "I think she's insane,” she whispered. "Look at her."

  The man looked at Amanda and smiled again. Amanda blushed.

  "Mrs. Parmentier, if this lady says it's her cat, I believe her. I've never seen this cat around here before, and I know for sure that he's not your cat, right?"

  The woman turned her head and let out an offended 'pfff!'

  "I'm not lying. This is my cat,” said Amanda. “I'm staying at the hotel over there, The Little Norman. You can call them and ask them if you want."

  "No need to do that," said the dreamy baker, "Mrs. Parmentier will give you back your cat because she can't have pets in the seniors’ home anyway. Right, Germaine?"

  The man gave a pointed look at the woman. Mrs. Parmentier exhaled another 'pfff' and handed the cat to Amanda, reluctantly. Bronx emitted a weak 'meow.' The cat was falling asleep, feeling the effects of a full belly.

  "Thank you," said Amanda.

  "Hmm," grunted Mrs. Parmentier.

  In a quick move, Mrs. Parmentier grabbed a bag full of pastries from the counter, and left, giving Amanda a final cold look before she closed the door.

  "I'm so sorry, sir,” said Amanda. “I feel terrible, and I know all this looks odd, but—"

  "No worries,” replied the man, “no need to explain yourself. What's the name of your cat?"

  "Bronx."

  "Bronx?" The sexy baker laughed. "He must be a rough cat to have earn
ed such a tough name."

  "He is indeed. He escaped from the hotel room, and I was scared that something bad might happen to him. He’s used to doing things like this just to make me crazy. But I love him. I've had him since he was a kitten."

  "Are you here visiting? You have an accent. Are you American?"

  "No, I'm Canadian. I'm not sure yet if I'm just visiting or staying."

  The baker took a white paper bag, put a few croissants in it, and handed it to Amanda with a warm smile. "Here's to welcome you, and hoping that you'll stay."

  Amanda blushed again and melted inside. She wanted to hide under a counter, and wished she had listened to her friend Kate, for once. She looked like a grungy wacko in front of, well, the most attractive man she had seen for a long time. And he was French. Moreover, a baker.

  "Oh, you don't have to... I have money," she said.

  The man laughed. "I know. It's my pleasure to offer you these. I'm Pierre, by the way."

  The man presented his hand, waiting for a handshake. Amanda shook his hand.

  "I'm Amanda."

  "Pleased to meet you, Amanda." She walked to the door, feeling a bit disoriented, and hit her head first on the glass. Pierre laughed.

  "You have to open the door. This is how it works," said the baker.

  "Yes, I know..." stammered Amanda. Could she embarrass herself more?

  Amanda walked back to the hotel with Bronx sleeping and snoring in her arms. The cat had been lucky to end his spree in a bakery, his greedy stomach full of buttery pastries.

  A grin crept across Amanda’s face. She caressed the cat and whispered, "Bronx, right now I don't know if I should ground you or if I should thank you."

  Chapter 19

  “J

  eez, thish guy ish increjibly hanshome!"

  "What?" asked Kate.

  Amanda swallowed the big chunk of croissant she had been chewing.

  "This guy is incredibly handsome."

  "Hmm… A hot French guy, and a baker,” said Kate, reveling in the exciting news, “I like that. It sounds promising. For once, Bronx did something good. So, how did the visit at the castle go?"

  Amanda was lying on the bed, talking on the phone with her friend, while d'Artagnan lay at her feet, eating a couple of croissants directly from the paper bag. Bronx was sleeping on a chair, snoring. The cat was resting on his back in an odd position, his legs straight up in the air.

  "To be honest, I don't know what to think about the castle,” answered Amanda. “The visit was pretty scary."

  "Scary? What do you mean?"

  "First, this property is huge. I mean, really huge. A castle is way too big for me."

  "Come on, that's exciting! You love old castles, antiques, and anything labeled as 'French.'"

  "Yes, but yesterday I wasn't so much into it. It was pouring like hell—even worse than what we’re used to—and it was very dark. And there was thunder rumbling, lightning... the place was spooky. I even saw something weird in the kitchen."

  "What? A ghost?" said Kate with a teasing tone.

  "Very funny, Kate. But I'm serious. During a lightning flash, I saw the shape of someone in a corner as we were leaving the room. Mr. Perrier checked the room, but saw nobody. But I swear I saw someone standing there."

  "It must've been your imagination mixed with all the stress and the bad weather, don't worry about that. So, how many rooms does this castle have?"

  "Twenty-four! And when I say twenty-four, you can double the number easily to have a better idea of the area. These rooms are gigantic and at least as twice large as our regular rooms. Can you imagine doing the housework in this place? It must be hell. I can’t do this, I'm telling you. That's the problem, it's way too big. What would I do with an old castle with twenty-four rooms? It must cost a fortune to maintain it. Plus, it needs serious repairs, and I don't have the money for this. Honestly, Kate, I think that I should just give it up and go to the south of France as I had planned."

  "Wait until your second visit before making any decision, and talk about this with Mr. Perrier. Maybe there are solutions that would help you keep the castle?"

  "Like what? Winning the lottery? I never play."

  "I don't know... something like grants for the restoration and preservation of heritage buildings?"

  "Maybe... but I can't count on that, it's way too risky. I don't feel good about all this, Kate. Sure, it's France, and it's fun, but I have to be realistic: maybe this inheritance is more a pain in the ass than the romantic French life I had imagined."

  "Don't give up now, Amanda. You just arrived in Orvilly, and you haven't even seen the full castle yet. Visit it again, and take the time you need to make a rational decision. I understand why all this is scary, but don't rush things, or you might regret making the wrong decision for the rest of your life."

  "The problem is that I have to give an answer to the notary by the end of this week. It doesn't leave me much time to reflect on such an important matter that will impact the rest of my life."

  "Don't bite your sister! Don't you—"

  Amanda frowned. This last advice was probably not for her. She heard children shouting and crying on the other end of the phone.

  "Sorry, but I have to go," said Kate, "Joshua recently discovered that he could bite people, especially his sister. I have to end this game before my terrifying two-year-old eats his older sister alive. Talk to you later!"

  D'Artagnan was still chewing the fresh croissants. The bag of viennoiseries was empty.

  "Thanks for sharing, d'Art."

  No problem, smiled d'Artagnan. Pieces of croissant were stuck between his teeth.

  Chapter 20

  T hree quick honks, sharp and hoarse, as if the car had caught a bad cold. It was the signal.

  Amanda put her head out of the window to look down on Brigadier Street. Liliane, the woman she had met in the train, was waiting in an old Citroën 2CVa ‘Deux Chevaux’ or a ‘Deudeuche,’ as the French call it fondlyparked in front of the hotel. Liliane thrust her arm out the driver’s window and waved at Amanda who waved back. Then Amanda rushed to put on her running shoes and then grabbed her raincoat. The weather looked agreeable in Orvilly-sur-Mer, but after the rains she had experienced the previous day, she already knew better than to leave her room without at least a raincoat.

  She took d’Artagnan’s leash from the doorknob. The Great Dane bounced all over the place.

  I’m going out! I’m going out! I’m going out!

  Bronx was on the windowsill. The cat raised his eyes to the ceiling, sighing with exasperation. Yes, you’re going out, dumb dog! And do me a favor, don’t ever come back.

  Amanda locked the three windows carefully and stroked Bronx’s head. The feline frowned.

  Crap. No trip to the bakery today.

  “Be a good cat, Bronx. We’ll see you later.”

  Within a few seconds, Amanda and d’Artagnan were on the sidewalk, ready to go for a sightseeing tour of Orvilly-sur-Mer and the surrounding area. Liliane had kindly offered to be their guide for the day.

  When Amanda opened the back passenger door and asked d’Artagnan to get in, the dog looked at her with round eyes.

  Are you kidding? It’s smaller than my sofa at home! I’m never going to fit in! Why is everything so tiny here?

  After a few strategic moves that required gymnastic contortions, the Great Dane finally took his place in the back seat. But he couldn’t move an inch.

  When Amanda went to open the front passenger door, she stopped and stared at the door, intrigued. Strangely enough, she couldn’t find a handle. There was none. Liliane laughed when she saw Amanda’s face.

  “This is an old model made in the fifties, so the handle is on the other side.” She pointed with her finger toward the front of the car.

  Amanda found the small handle, that could easily be missed, and pushed it down to open the door backwards. It felt strange and quite impractical to step into the vintage car this way.

  “Who
came up with this twisted idea?” asked Amanda.

  “I don’t know,” said Liliane. “But when I tell you what we call these doors, I’m not sure you’ll want to touch them ever again.”

  Amanda was afraid to ask. But she did.

  “They’re called ‘suicide doors,’” said Liliane.

  Amanda turned pale. “What?”

  Liliane laughed even more when she saw the panic on Amanda’s face.

  “I’m not sure if I should ask why…” said Amanda.

  “But I’ll tell you anyway. Citroën, the company that started to build this car at the end of the forties, quickly realized that these doors were dangerous because they would suddenly open and tear off, causing accidents, and leaving the drivers and the passengers without protection. So they were given the name ‘suicide doors.’ After the sixties, however, this model was built with regular doors.”

  Amanda was speechless. Liliane grinned, still amused by Amanda’s reaction, and started the car. The vehicle trumpeted and trembled, then stalled. Amanda gave an anxious sideways look to Liliane, strongly doubting that any sightseeing tour would be possible. Liliane replied with a simple smile. Not worried the least, the woman started the car again. It trumpeted and trembled again for a few seconds, then settled down to a regular vibration, and then they took off slowly.

  “So, tell me, Liliane, why do you have an old dangerous car? Are you suicidal?”

  Liliane laughed. “Of course not. But this old car is so much fun to drive! It belonged to my father who loved it. I kept it when he passed away, and I love taking care of it. This is a collector’s car, you know.”

  The light green Deudeuche moved forward on Brigadier Street, making a rattling noise like nails tumbling in a dryer, expelling black clouds through the exhaust pipe. The few pedestrians on the sidewalks didn’t seem to be bothered by it and kept walking as if everything were normal. But Amanda had serious doubts the crumbling Citroën would get them very far. She realized that she liked antiques, but not being driven in them.

  Sitting by one of the windows of the hotel room, Bronx meowed as he watched the car driving off. He was ecstatic. Ha ha! Good luck with that old junker!