Being the well-informed man that he was, Schroeder was aware that Sam had retired from a life of crime and was now fully on the legal side of the law. Not surprisingly, this tended to inhibit their conversation. For several minutes it was as if the two men were playing invisible poker, dealing pleasantries back and forth while Schroeder waited for Sam to show his hand.
“This isn’t like you, Axel,” Sam said. “We’ve been chatting for ten minutes and you haven’t even asked me what I’m doing over here.”
Schroeder sipped his champagne before replying. “You know me, Sam. I never like to pry. Curiosity can be very unhealthy.” He took a silk handkerchief from his breast pocket and dabbed his lips. “But since you mention it-what does bring you to Paris? Shopping? A girl? A decent meal after all those cheeseburgers?”
Sam gave Schroeder an account of the robbery, watching him closely for any change of expression, but there was nothing. The old man stayed silent, nodding from time to time, his face inscrutable. When Sam tried to establish exactly what, if anything, Schroeder knew, even his most oblique questions were met with smiling nonanswers. A frustrating half hour passed before Sam was ready to call it a day. As they got up to leave, he tried one last long shot.
“Axel, we go back a long way. You can trust me to keep you out of it. Who hired you?”
Schroeder’s face was a study in baffled innocence. He frowned and shook his head. “My dear boy, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You always say that.”
“Yes, I always say that.” He grinned, and clapped Sam on the shoulder. “But for old times’ sake, I’ll make a few inquiries. I’ll let you know if anything turns up.”
Sam watched through the window as Schroeder ducked into the back of a waiting Mercedes. As the car pulled away, Sam could see that he had his cell phone to his ear. Was the old rogue pretending to know nothing? Or was he pretending to know a lot more than he was prepared to reveal? There would be plenty of time to think about that over dinner.
As the final indulgence of his day off, Sam was going to the Cigale Récamier for an early dinner, and he was going to dine alone. This was for him another small pleasure, summed up by a phrase he had first encountered while he was taking the wine course at Suze-la-Rousse. It had originated with the financier Nubar Gulbenkian, whose firm belief was that the ideal number for dinner is two: “Myself and the sommelier.” (The sommelier was Sam’s personal variation. Gulbenkian had specified a headwaiter.)
In today’s gregarious world, the solitary diner is a misunderstood figure. He might even be the object of some pity, since popular opinion finds it hard to accept that anyone would choose to sit alone in a crowded restaurant. And yet, for those who are comfortable in their own company, there is a lot to be said for a table for one. Without the distraction of a companion, food and wine can be given the attention they deserve. Eavesdropping is often rewarded by the fascinating indiscretions that drift across from neighboring tables. And, of course, a keen observer can enjoy the sideshow provided by the other diners, essential viewing for anyone amused and intrigued by the ever-changing mosaic of human behavior.
The Cigale Récamier, a five-minute stroll from the hotel, was one of Sam’s favorite stops in Paris. Hidden away at the end of a cul-de-sac off the Rue de Sèvres, it had all the qualities he liked in a restaurant. It was simple, unpretentious, and highly professional. The waiters had been there forever; they knew their métier to a fault and the wine list by heart. The clientele was an interesting mixture-Sam had seen government ministers, top international tennis players, and movie actors among the Parisian regulars. And then there were the soufflés, airy and delicate, savory and sweet. If these were your particular weakness, you could make an entire meal out of them.
Sam was shown to a small table in front of the wide pillar that took up part of the center of the room. Seated with his back to the pillar, he was facing a row of tables set against a wall that was mostly mirror. Thus he could see the comings and goings behind him as well as his fellow diners across the way. A perfect spot for the restaurant voyeur.
His waiter brought a glass of Chablis and the menu, and pointed out the blackboard listing the specials of the day. Sam chose lamb chops-simple, honest, rosy, perfectly cooked lamb chops, to be followed by a little cheese and then a caramel soufflé. The choice of wine he left to the waiter, knowing that he was in good hands. With a small sigh of satisfaction, he leaned back in his chair as his thoughts turned to the last dinner he had eaten before leaving Los Angeles.
It had been one of his regular outings with Bookman. They had decided to try a wildly fashionable restaurant in Santa Monica, a temple dedicated to the extremes of fusion cuisine and daring culinary experimentation. It was, according to one breathless restaurant review, a gastronomic laboratory. They should have known better. There were multiple tiny courses-some of which arrived perched on a teaspoon, others contained in a glass eyedropper. Sauces were served in a syringe, and precise instructions were given, by a rather precious waiter, as to exactly how to eat each course. As the meal tiptoed from one edible bijou to the next, Bookman became increasingly morose. He asked for bread, only to be told that the chef didn’t approve of bread with his cooking. Bookman’s patience was finally exhausted when the waiter went into raptures about the dessert du jour, which was bacon-and-egg ice cream. That did it for both of them. They left and went off to find something to eat.
The tables around Sam were beginning to fill up, and his eye was caught by the couple sitting side by side at a table opposite him. The man was middle-aged, nicely dressed, and seemed to be well known by the waiters. His companion was an exquisite girl of perhaps eighteen, with a face like a young Jeanne Moreau. She was listening intently to what the man was saying. They sat very close to one another, sharing the same menu. Sam realized that he was staring.
“Elle est mignonne, eh?” said Sam’s waiter, cocking an eyebrow toward the girl as he arrived with the lamb chops. Sam nodded, and the waiter lowered his voice. “Monsieur is an old client of ours, and the girl is his daughter. He is teaching her how to have dinner with a man.” Only in France, Sam thought. Only in France.
Later, as he took a turn around the side streets on the way back to the hotel, Sam reflected on his off-duty day. From Manet and Monet to the lamb chops and the memorable caramel soufflé, it had been a voyage of rediscovery mixed with frequent twinges of nostalgia. Despite the absence of leaves on the trees, Paris looked ravishing. The Parisians, who seemed to be in danger of losing their reputation for arrogance and froideur, had been affable. The music of the French language spoken around him, the warm whiff of freshly baked bread from the boulangeries, the steel-gray glint of the Seine-it was all as he remembered it. And yet, somehow, it felt new. Paris does that to you.
It had been a day well spent. Pleasantly weary, he soaked the jet lag out of his bones in a hot tub and slept like a stone.