“But you do not understand. She is promised since birth to make wed with my uncle Desgranges' boy, Tristan.”
“Tris will have to go elsewhere.”
“His lawyer, a maître de requestes, soon to be a chef du cabinet, has written to me. There is a dot of fifty thousand francs I promised with the girl. He wants his money.”
“But the girl is engaged elsewhere,” said Rif. “I am a romantic … how can he demand the cash if the girl is elsewhere?”
Our landlord groaned. “He is ready to buy a business—the making of ivory chessmen out of old beef bones. The cash—il s'en faut de beaucoup. Not only will he sue, but the man who owns the old bone chess factory. He too was to move with his ailing wife to a spring in the valley … and now he is suing me … my uncle Desgranges, and his son Tristan. And my wife, she is not speaking to me. I am sad. La bonne loague!”
“This is very bad,” said Rif, “and the fault is ours for letting him in.”
“You understand I love America. And some Americans.”
“Let us find Big Boy.” I said.
We got our hats and went out, M. de Salignacs still carrying the flowers. “They cost so much … it is a shame we should toss them away. We will give them to a passing nun.”
“A fine thought,” said Rif.
‘“Money does not grow on trees as your Henry Rockefeller so well put it. I admire your methods so much. Such Fords!”
“But what about You?” I asked.
The father said, “Women have no principles. It is good manners for them to be above such sort of nonsense.”
“You mean she will give up Big Boy, if we can talk him out of it?”
“Some women,” said Rif sadly, “would rather inspire love than feel it … but not You. I have faith in love.”
“Faith,” said de Salignacs, “has never taught anyone anything about life.”
So we went to look for Big Boy, but couldn't find him. We hunted his usual haunts in Paris; the famous Flea Market where he traded in secondhand stamps, Honey Chile Club where he went to eat buttered corn on the cob, the American Express office which served as his bankers, and the little nest furnished in old Middle-Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer (each stick of furniture, he claimed, signed by Louie Mayer) and many clocks, where he hid and practiced his cooking, carried on his affairs of the heart, and kept his stamp albums. He was not to be found.
So we went sadly back to the house and then de Salignacs got the brilliant idea that we should come with him to see his uncle Desgranges (and his boy Tristan) and explain to them what had happened and why they should not expect the dot of fifty thousand francs to put into the beef-bone chessmen factory.
We went to a small eating place called En Brochette. It seemed that Uncle Desgranges was a wine merchant and sold wine there. Uncle Desgranges looked like a character gnawed by mice. His nose and ears were made for a larger man, but as he explained, noses will always be fashionable. “Everybody seems to wear one.”
We agreed he had something there, and asked him what to order.
“That you must leave to me. We will talk trouble later. But to table with an empty mind and stomach is best, non?”
“We shall have,” said the uncle, “kidneys American.”
As no American I have ever met has ever heard of kidneys American, here is how to make them. (I found out because they are very good indeed, good enough for Americans, as the French say.)
Lamb kidneys are best. Clean and cut them in half the long way. Rub with pepper and salt, and fry them in sweet butter. While they fry, boil down a half pint of good champagne (this will do for four big kidneys), add a quarter pint of melted meat aspic, two tablespoons of butter, and bring to a fast boil.
Put your fried kidneys on long white crackers and pour the sauce over it. Oh, the last trick before serving is to spread the crackers with orange jam. It really helps.
The uncle was a lover of the dish. “Ah, you Americans … you eat well. This every day for breakfast.”
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