Death of a Chef (Capucine Culinary Mystery)
“These were solitary hours for David, the only resident of the hotel above the café. Still, between rumination and pecking at his laptop, he found them satisfying. At six fifteen, Casimir, the owner, would serve David a large pastis and retreat to his quarters. At around seven thirty, Casimir would return, serve David another drink, put a plate of whatever his wife had cooked in front of him on the bar, and set a half-bottle flask of wine next to it. It never even crossed David’s mind to questio...n why he was never invited to sit at Casimir’s dinner table. This was the Midi.
That evening’s dinner was particularly satisfying, a bourride—fish soup—this one made with clams and monkfish, the broth made rich with spoonfuls of aïoli, the seafood so fresh, it must have come up from Cassis that morning.
At eight thirty Casimir returned to clear David’s plate and immerse himself in his manic polishing of glasses. David looked over his laptop screen, contemplating the closed box on the wall shielding Fanny’s virtue.MoreLess
That evening’s dinner was particularly satisfying, a bourride—fish soup—this one made with clams and monkfish, the broth made rich with spoonfuls of aïoli, the seafood so fresh, it must have come up from Cassis that morning.
At eight thirty Casimir returned to clear David’s plate and immerse himself in his manic polishing of glasses. David looked over his laptop screen, contemplating the closed box on the wall shielding Fanny’s virtue.MoreLess
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