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criticism came from a peer, the only significant criticism came in print from a professional critic.
    Capucine and Alexandre did not get home until four in the afternoon. Alexandre closeted himself in his study to write a short piece on the funeral for the last edition of Le Monde, while Capucine sat in the living room, on the phone to her brigade, reviewing the incidents of the day.
    When Alexandre appeared an hour later with two flutes of champagne, Capucine grimaced and said, “I can’t face the thought of another meal. I’m stuffed with lunch and drained by the funeral. I feel like a sagging party balloon.”
    Alexandre smiled at her. “A little massage and you’ll be as good as new.”
    As was the way with connubial massages, one thing led to another, and the living room sofa led to the bedroom four-poster.
    Much later, Capucine shook Alexandre awake.
    “You know, I believe I actually am becoming a little peckish.”
    “Good,” Alexandre said into his pillow. And then, rising like a whale bursting through sea foam, he added, “I’m always hungry when it comes to you.”
    “No, no, I mean really hungry. Let’s eat something.”
    Alexandre pouted. “I suppose I could make us a light souper .”
    He paused for a moment, deep in thought.
    “Actually, there is a new recipe I’d like to try. I think it would be perfect.”
    He jumped up, shrugged into a red and gold kimono Capucine had given him for Christmas, and made off energetically for the kitchen as Capucine disappeared into the bathroom.
    A few minutes later, Capucine found a flute of champagne waiting for her on the long table in the kitchen and Alexandre chopping furiously with a long kitchen knife. It looked like salmon.
    “I’m making you a Japanese delicacy. Actually, it’s not Japanese at all, just a clever recipe by a Japanese chef, Aiko Kikuchi. She’s apprenticed in two three-star restaurants and is now looking for a place of her own.” He paused. “There, that’s the salmon,” he said, scraping the pink cubes off the cutting board onto a dish. “Now for the onion,” he said, attacking a large red onion. Next came a cucumber and finally an apple, all cubed identically.
    He placed the cubes in a big glass bowl, poured in a healthy dose of soy sauce, and topped it with sections of chives snipped with a pair of kitchen scissors. He cut a lime in half, squeezed the contents over the mixture, then mixed it all vigorously with a wooden spoon.
    “Voilà,” he said. “Salmon tartare à l’oriental.”
    “When do we get to eat it? I’m famished.”
    “It needs to chill for an hour, and I’m exhausted after all that chopping.” He mimed a sad, drooping Pierrot. “Please, oh, please, help me to my bed before I collapse right here.”
    An hour later they were back in the kitchen. The tartare was delicious, cold, salmony, crunchy from the apples, onions, and cucumbers, tangy with chives and soy and lime. More than enough to fill the palate with taste, but not bulk.
    When they finished the tartare, they took their thimble-sized glasses of Armagnac into the living room, collapsed onto the sofa, and turned on the eleven o’clock TV news, wondering if the funeral would be covered. Alexandre nibbled Capucine’s ear. Capucine kissed Alexandre’s nose. He kissed her neck at the sensitive spot where it joined her shoulder. Capucine reached for the remote to switch off the TV. As she looked up, she was astounded to see her face. She turned the volume up.
    A very pretty young lady was reading from the next morning’s press. The screen would flash the headline and then cut to the face of the young woman, who was smiling with provocative cynicism, making knowing comments.
    “And so, the burning question earlier today at three-star Chef Jean-Louis Brault’s funeral was . . .” The talking head paused to pout coquettishly at the camera. “Whether über–restaurant critic Lucien Folon really drove Brault to suicide with his merciless attacks in