Part 11 (1/2)
Sure enough, Charlotte and I heard footsteps behind us. A tired, bored-looking man in a guard's uniform approached us, shaking his head in disgust.
”I'm so sorry!” I cried. ”We ran back for my friend's camera, and when we came back, the gates were locked.”
The man ignored me, pulling a key from a large chain he wore around his waist.
”We told them to just climb over it,” called Chaz or Bud.
The guard hesitated, squinting through the gate and sizing up the Football Twins.
”Climbing ees streectly forbeeden,” he said, scowling. ”Ees for to go to jail.”
”We never intended to climb,” Charlotte said.
”They're something of a pair of dunderheads,” I added.
The guard unlocked the gate and opened it enough for Charlotte and me to scamper through. We all began saying thank you at the same time. Janet, I'm sorry to say, was the only one with both the presence of mind and the elementary good breeding to say it in French.
”Merci bien, monsieur!” she practically cooed.
The guard paused and looked at Janet.
”Il n'ya pas de quoi, pet.i.te demoiselle. J'espere que ta voyage est bien agreable.”
”Oh, merci bien!” cried Janet. The guard walked slowly and sadly, a bit like Eyeore from Winnie the Pooh, back to whatever office he'd magically appeared from.
”We'd better move if we're going to get back to the VEI on time,” I said.
”Does anyone know where we're supposed to have dinner?” asked Tim.
”I think we're supposed to pick. Madame Chavotte said it was our last night here, so we could have the kind of meal we wanted.”
”Italian,” said Tim.
”Burgers,” said Bud (or Chaz).
”Sus.h.i.+,” said Bonnie.
”Jah-nay is the hero of the hour,” I said. ”I think she ought to pick where we're going to eat.”
Janet practically quivered with happiness.
”Oh, Lily, that's so agreable of you. I do know a place. I know just the place.”
This time I would be sure to write down both the name and address of the restaurant we were going to beforehand. Just in case. And I had of course drummed into my memory banks the location of the VEI. It was, with the Perfection of the Universe's Touch, located on the Rue Charlot.
Looked like Charlotte Street to me.
Eleven.
True to her Francophilian form, Janet had found us a restaurant that looked directly onto the Eiffel Tower. It was a nice little place with outdoor tables, one of which had been set for ten people-especially for us.
”Who's the tenth?” I asked. ”There are eight of us, plus Madame Chavotte, if she ever gets here, which makes nine.”
I had a brief, surreal flash of hope that Lindy Sloane would be joining us.
”Maybe the spirit of Jim Morrison followed us, and the seat is for him,” said Bonnie, sitting down in one of the chairs next to me and folding her legs into her customary lotus dining position.
Charlotte took a seat on my right, and I noticed that she didn't object when I waved Lewis over to sit on her other side.
”No, this is all wrong!” cried Janet. ”It has to be garcon-fille, garcon-fille.”
My opinion of Janet had, in fact, improved, but not enough to agree that during our final dinner in France we were required to sit boy-girl, boy-girl.
A dapper-looking man dressed all in white appeared with a stack of menus, which he handed to each of us. Glancing at mine, I felt suddenly as if I had been asked to provide an accurate translation of the glyphs on the Rosetta Stone.
Well, this was French food. Presumably, everything would be good. Abats a l'etouffee, for example, sounded exciting.
”Do you know what abats is?” I asked Charlotte.
Charlotte had a miniature French-English dictionary, which she produced from her purse.
”Organ meats,” she said.
Ew.
I was feeling adventurous, but I didn't want to eat anything's liver or spleen, no matter how much mouth-watering sauce it was covered in. I scanned the menu for another interesting word.
”What about civelles?” I asked. This one took Charlotte longer to find.
”Baby eel,” she replied.
Heaven forfend! Didn't they have anything made by Chef Boyardee?
”Look for boeuf, poulet, and poisson,” Charlotte said with confidence.
”Because...”
”Because they are beef, chicken, and fish,” Charlotte replied.
Now we were talking! Though I might stay away from the chicken, having acquired a new affection for all things poulette.
Lewis leaned around Charlotte and tapped me on the shoulder.
”What do you usually like, Lily?” he asked. ”I found a French cuisine translation site on my Sidekick.”
”Well...,” I said. ”Do the French make tacos?”