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Gabrielle, my wife, Carolyn. And Professor Catherine de Firenze.” Both Gabrielle and Catherine were dressed entirely in black, and I remembered Carolyn remarking that French women seemed overfond of the color. “Professor Raymond Girard and his wife, Sylvie, my wife, Carolyn.” They were the youngest of the group, and the very tiny Sylvie was attired in a whirl of soft colors. Had she turned around, I’d have expected to see fairy wings sprouting from her shoulder blades.
    The introductions over, we all took our seats, I beside the intimidating Victoire, Carolyn beside Jacques Laurent, a man who rarely smiled, although a smile might not be noticeable beneath his great beak of a nose. God knows how Carolyn would get along with him. I looked at the menu and spotted several dishes that would not be to her taste, and in fact, she was studying her own menu and frowning, probably at the Saint-Cochon au Bistrot, which contained things like mustard-basted pig’s head and blood sausage—or the sheep’s trotters in remoulade. Even the beef dish contained diced calves’ trotters.
    “Tell me, Professor Laurent,” Carolyn asked, looking up from her menu, “why is it that Lyon is called the capital of gastronomy?”
    “A matter of placement,” he replied. “We are at the confluence of the Rhône and the Saône—”
    “And the Beaujolais,” Carolyn added, smiling. “I’m told it is the third river of Lyon.”
    “Indeed, a veritable river of that fine wine is drunk here, and all the ingredients of fine cooking are within our reach,” he continued. “Ah, here is the fondant de foie de volaille aux avocats et concassée de tomates. ”
    Two plates had been placed on the table containing black-spotted bread with bowls of red stuff. “I love avocados and tomatoes,” said Carolyn cheerfully, as Laurent pushed some decorative greens aside and piled the red material on bread.
    “Not only tomates and avocats , but also the fine addition of—mmm—liver of chicken, you would say, on bread of olive.”
    Carolyn had already taken a bite of hers when Laurent mentioned chicken liver. She echoed that ingredient, looking queasy. What in the world? I wondered. The woman loves pâté. Now suddenly the very mention turned her green. “Very tasty,” she murmured.
    “As I was saying,” continued the chairman. “We have Beaujolais from vineyards nearby, fine wines from the northern Rhône, delicious fruits and vegetables from the Rhône Valley, wonderful cheeses from the Lyonnais hills, game and mushrooms from our forests, and of course you will have heard of the tender, flavorful chicken of Bresse, the best in the world, not to mention the amazing beef from our Charolais cattle and the famous fish of the Dombes. Lyon has been the home of gourmands since the times of the Romans. Later, wealthy churchmen and rich merchants, for Lyon is a city of trade and manufacture, demanded the best.”
    “But we are not eating in a restaurant that caters to gourmands,” said Victoire. “In the bistro you will find the food of the poor and hungry, the parts of meat that gourmands scorn. No Charolais beef here or Bresse poultry. My advice is to order fish, unless you are fond of the feet and intestines of animals.”
    “And I’ve never understood the popularity of Beaujolais,” added Professor Doigne. “The gamay grape is inferior to anything grown in Burgundy and spreads like a weed. Centuries ago a duke of Burgundy ordered the gamay vines uprooted from all his lands.”
    Laurent scowled at both his wife and his Burgundian professor, then prepared Carolyn two more olive bread slices slathered with the tomato, avocado, and chicken-liver mixture. Actually I found it delicious, and evidently Carolyn liked it; she ate both slices as she studied her menu once more.
    “ This looks wonderful,” said Carolyn, passing up the chitterling sausage recommended by our host in favor of a dish of trout tartare wrapped in cured salmon and drizzled with