Page 133 - WINE DINE AND TRAVEL SUMMER 2019 PORTUGAL

in infancy. To make up for it, I sitting on one of the red-velvet
sprinkled some of her ashes padded chairs that Blanche had no
over Fannely's disintegrating doubt sat on when she and Prosper
headstone, and sought comfort, were married in the same space. My
sobbing, on Janie's shoulder, mind was in a whirl, imagining my
sobbing, as Bruno stood dis- great-grandparents' signing their
creetly on the sidelines. The marriage license in the same muted
light drizzle mingled with my atmosphere of centuries past. But
tears as we walked through the Bruno was eager to show us a his-
wet grass and sticky mud on toric marble plaque inscribed in gold
the way back to his car. On the letters with the thanks of the French
road again we were headed for people to the unknown soldier and
another family landmark Pros- the American liberators of Châlons.
per and Blanche's home on Allées Paul
Doumer, formerly Allées St Jean, in the
The skies had cleared the next morning
1920s. A watercolor of the blooming rose bush when we followed Bruno's suggestion: "Why
shading the entrance in 1918 was a fixture in don't you get your bearing and take a walk
my mother's living room, and now hung in my
around town," he advised. "You'll see many
own bedroom. of the places your family used to frequent."
"Look up to the chimney," exclaimed Bruno A few minutes' away found us at the en-
when we stopped on Rue Carnot. "See the ini- trance to LE PETIT JARD, the small public
tials?" The letters L/N stood out on the bricks. garden my mother used to mention wistfully
Bruno continued: "The initials stand for Lévy-
Neymarck telling us that Prosper had the
house built by a well-known local architect."
Once upon a time, a century ago, I informed
Bruno, a rose bush curved over the front door.
Grey skies parted when Bruno dropped us at
our B and B and informed us that our evening
would conclude at Les Sarments, a popular lo-
cal restaurant on the main square. The day's
emotions helped build our appetites, and we
feasted on oversized marrow bones worthy of
Tom Jones, scallops in a light curry sauce and
practiced the local custom of dipping pink la-
dyfingers, what the French called langues-de-
chat (cats' tongues), into a glass of cham-
pagne. Janie, who was just discovering her
French roots savored every bite of the soaked
cookie. "I feel more like a Châlonnaise every
minute," she declared, popping another drip-
ping langue-de-chat into her mouth.
Bruno had planned a busy program for us for
the next day. First, we would visit to the
mairie, City Hall, and have a private viewing of
the mayor's office. In a daze, I found myself

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