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really, who had promised greatness even as an intern. He told stories so dense with kitchen jargon, they must have been comprehensible only to the culinary professionals. At one point his eyes became liquid and his voice broke. He shook his head, explaining that he was unable to go on, and lumbered down the steps. There was a leaden silence in the church, largely at the sight of both of the two living grand masters of French cuisine so moved.
    To the resonance of an enormous brass organ playing Fauré’s Requiem, the congregation shuffled out of the church. The black-draped coffin was wheeled out and carried down the steps by uniformed pallbearers. Outside, two news vans disgorged camera crews. Capucine recognized Lucien Folon scuttling down the sidewalk. She wondered if he had been at the back of the church or if he had simply stood outside during the service.
    The body was placed in a waiting mortuary van, and a hundred or so mourners squeezed into cars to follow it the short distance to the Montparnasse cemetery, where the same priest vaingloriously sprinkled holy water on the coffin with an elaborate silver ciborium. He grandiloquently proclaimed a few words, and what was left of Jean-Louis Brault was returned to the earth in the brilliant sunshine of a crisp autumn morning.
    After, a group of fifteen, mainly critics and chefs, gathered in nearby Diapason, a restaurant that had been demoted to two stars after Jean-Basile Labrousse sold it to a consortium of investors and exiled himself to New York. The new chef, Bruno Gautier, greeted them nervously at the door. It was the first time Labrousse had been back to his old restaurant, and Gautier was visibly intimidated.
    Even though Labrousse had never met Gautier, they hugged and patted backs as if they had been classmates at the école hôtelière. Labrousse smiled at the sight of the lustrous, undecorated African hardwood paneling, the chrome-legged tables and chairs, the gleaming white linen tablecloths, the enormously long-stemmed wine glasses.
    “You haven’t changed a thing,” Labrousse said.
    “The menu is completely different,” Gautier said. “And I’ve added one or two touches to the dining room. I don’t have your depth of understanding of vegetables, so meat is more important in my cuisine.” With his head he indicated an almost black ham held by the bone in a silver clamp attached to a walnut base.
    “Spanish jamón Serrano? ” Capucine asked, proud of her knowledge.
    Labrousse smiled at her and then at Gautier. “ Pas du tout, ma chérie. This is jamón ibérico de bellota, the king of all hams. It comes from the Dehesa oak forests between Spain and Portugal. Cerdo pigs, a breed unique to the region, gorge themselves on the acorns. Then the ham is cured for three years. It’s one of the things I miss most in America. The USDA has only allowed imports for a year or two, and the prices are beyond belief. Ham at three times the price of foie gras. Can you imagine!”
    Capucine looked abashed. Alexandre rubbed her back and kissed her ear.
    “Gautier,” Labrousse said, “you don’t know how lucky you are to have so much produce. I’ve had to add more meat to my menu, as well. The Americans are a nation of beef eaters.” Both chefs laughed heartily. “But I’ve just bought a small farm in Pennsylvania and started plowing with a horse. Next year we’ll see what we’ll see.”
    As the maître d’hôtel showed the group to its table, Gautier whispered earnestly to Alexandre, “I was at the church, but I skipped out on the burial. I know it was a grave faux pas, but I just had to be in my kitchen. Was it a terrible gaffe?”
    Alexandre shook his head. “Not at all. Brault would have done exactly the same thing. In fact, he wouldn’t even have gone to the church. He’s up there right now smiling at you.”
    Gautier wasn’t sure he wasn’t being kidded, and scuttled off to the kitchen where he would remain for the rest of the meal, with one