“I do,” he confirms. “But it’s more than that. I enjoy nothing better than a chance to restore a classic car back to its former glory.”
“What a cool hobby!” Uncle Dom lifts an impressed eyebrow. “Have you actually repaired an old auto?”
“Not alone, but yes. Classic cars are a joy to repair and to care for. When I wake up to a morning that I can spend at the garage fixing up a vintage Bu— erm, Beetle, the anticipation alone puts me in a terrific mood.”
“I feel that way on Sunday mornings when I have a fishing expedition planned with my buddies,” Uncle Dom comments.
Max nods. “I look forward to mending the scrapes and rips, swapping broken parts, putting on rust patches, painting, polishing… What can I say? Those are the best days. I wish there were more of them in my life.”
I find myself drinking in his words. His love of fixing old cars is infectious, but I detect something more. Something that reveals a depth, a gravitas I didn’t think he had. It unsettles me. For my safety and well-being, I need this friendly, tasty, studly man to remain shallow. By the time we get back to MINDFUCH, I need to like him less than I did before this trip—not more.
Then do something about it, Lucie!
“I pity you,” I say to Max. “You could’ve been an honorable mechanic in grimy coveralls, but instead you’re a white-collar bourgeois in a tax bracket that disqualifies you from admission into heaven.”
His expression switches from earnest to mischievous. “That sums up my tragedy rather neatly.”
“And diligently,” I add.
“Dinner’s served!” Aunt Violette hollers. “Please proceed to the dining room, everyone!”
As we sit down around the oval table, raindrops begin to ping off the windows. They’re too loud to be liquid. I think it’s hail.
Aunt Violette serves all my favorites as promised! She’s prepared artichoke hearts, grilled vegetables, steamed potatoes, crostini, and a Lyon specialty dip called, rather charmingly, “canut’s brains.”
In response to Max’s inquiry, Aunt Violette and I explain thatcanutswere the nineteenth-century Lyonnais silk weavers. There are two schools of thought—one optimistic and the other pessimistic—on why the dish is named after their brains.
The upbeat theory is that the dip was a delicacy that the working classcanutscould afford. A mixture offromage blanc, shallots, olive oil, garlic, thyme, parsley and walnut oil, it’s both delish and inexpensive to prepare. The more negative hypothesis holds that the city’s bourgeoisie came up with the name to show their contempt for the uncouth silk workers.
“You can eat it as a dip or a spread,” I say to Max, reaching for a steamed potato to top with some brains.
The main course is Aunt Violette’s incomparable hit, coq au vin. Even Mom doesn’t know the supersecret ingredient that she adds to the Burgundy wine sauce in which she cooks thecoq.
As we dig in, there’s a sharp crack of lightning outside the windows.
We hear a roll of thunder.
BAM!
The power goes out.
Aunt Violette lights a candle. “It’s just a fuse. Dominique will take care of it.”
Uncle Dom turns on the flashlight on his phone and rushes out the door. Three minutes later, the lights are backon. Uncle Dom returns carrying a bottle of Côtes du Rhône. It’ll be our third tonight. I nudge Max, who’s reaching for his glass.
“It’s almost ten,” I say aloud. “We should get started on those ledgers.”
Uncle Dom flaps a hand. “You’ll go through them in the morning.”
Max and I exchange panicked looks.
“Lucie, when is the last time you drove out here?” Aunt Violette asks.
“Um…”
“Last summer. Last summer!” She shakes her head ruefully. “I saw you in Lyon at Christmastime and that was it. You skipped Easter. That boyfriend of yours, Jerome, is it because of him? Is he keeping you from seeing your family?”
“He isn’t my boyfriend anymore,Tata.”
