The Corsican Caper by Peter Mayle

it was a boisterous babble of thick local accents that greeted them as they pushed open the door. Although it was barely past noon, the restaurant was already almost full. A smiling Karine found them a corner table for two, gave them each a small menu, and recommended a carafe of
rosé
, as it was such a hot day.
    The long rectangular room was pleasant and uncluttered, devoid of the fussy touches of the interior decorator, with ambience and décor being provided by the customers. The tables and chairs were plain and functional, the tablecloths were paper, the wineglasses were sturdy tumblers. “My kind of place,” said Sam. “I’m sure a lot of these people are regulars—they all seem to know each other.”
    Elena poured their wine from a glazed jug, beaded with moisture. “I haven’t heard anyone speaking English,” she said. “Do you get the feeling we’re the only foreigners here?”
    Sam was nodding as he looked up from the menu. “This is
definitely
my kind of place. See? They have
veloutéd’asperges
—and this is the best time of year for asparagus. And then there’s roasted duck breast stuffed with green olives. That’s it for me.” He put down the menu, picked up his glass, and raised it to Elena. “Who needs a kitchen when there are places like this?”
    Elena smiled. Sam’s enthusiasm, when he was having one of his
bon viveur
moments, was infectious. “You sold me,” she said. “I’ll have the same.”
    With those vital decisions made, their conversation turned to Madame Verrine and her seemingly inexhaustible supply of properties. It only took a few minutes before Elena, somewhat hesitantly, leaned across the table to take Sam’s hand. “I hope this isn’t going to be a big disappointment,” she said, “but looking at all those houses on their own in the countryside suddenly made me realize something: I’m a city girl—I need people and streets and activity, the sounds of a city, the buzz. I don’t know if I could deal with all that peace and quiet. I know it’s beautiful, and I think it would be great for weekends, but …” She paused, squeezing Sam’s hand. “Well, you know what I mean.”
    Before Sam could reply, Uncle Joseph came with a basket of warm bread, the first course, and a murmured
bon appétit
as he placed two deep soup bowls in front of them. In fact, soup would have been too modest a word to describe the contents, subtly perfumed and visibly smooth, like pale-green velvet, decorated with a generous swirl of cream.
    “First things first,” said Sam, who didn’t look too surprisedby Elena’s confession. “Eat this while it’s warm, and then we’ll get back to real estate.” He bent his head over the bowl, inhaled, raised his eyes to heaven, stirred in the cream, and took his first spoonful. “Sublime. Not only sublime, but as this is your first taste of asparagus this year, you’re allowed to make a wish. Old Provençal tradition.”
    Elena was too busy to reply, and it wasn’t until their bowls were empty and the last drops wiped up with bread that she spoke. “You don’t
seem
too disappointed, Sam. Are you?”
    “No. No, I’m not. The way I look at it, Provence is the treat of a lifetime, but it has to be
our
treat. I’m fine in a city, as long as we can get out to places like this once in a while. So, how would you feel about an apartment in Marseille?”
    Elena’s expression was all the answer Sam needed, and for the rest of the meal—the admirable duck breast, the smooth, slightly moist goat cheese, the feather-light apple tart—Marseille was all they talked about. Or rather, Elena talked and Sam listened. The city, so she said, was perfectly placed: only an hour away from wonderful countryside, right next door to Cassis, which they both loved, not too far from Saint-Tropez and the Riviera if they felt like a dose of glamour and, as a huge bonus, Francis and Philippe were there to show them the ropes.
    With that settled, they drove back to