LITMIR.BIZ

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      “Initially, it may be costly. But, if you expect to corner a lucrative market, you have to promote your product. I’ll have my assistant return your stencil and a list of advertisements and the costs I negotiate. I’ll take this pot to show prospective buyers. Of course, if you feel the start up costs will be more than you can afford, I’m sure I could secure a silent partner to cover these costs for a percentage of the profits.”

      “Oh no,” Lefèbvre blurted out. “We can handle the costs.”

      After Mme. Lefèbvre handed me the stencil, I put it and the bear grease pot in my satchel and wished them a pleasant day.

      My next stop was my cubby hole of an office at the back of a wholesale pharmaceutical store. Sophie Benson, the saleswoman for the shop, smiled sweetly and informed me that my new assistant had dropped by and would return shortly. I showed Sophie the bear’s grease pot with the paper label. She opened the top and extracted a small sample on her finger and teased it between two fingers, then smelled the sample. “It’s very nice. As good or better than the imported ones. The label’s nice, but not nearly as attractive as the blue and white transfers on the French pots. But, the low price should assure it will sell well.”

      While waiting for Gino, I added text for the ad bills and broadsheets to the bear’s grease stencil and drew a list of newspapers to place the ad in the classified section where most merchants advertised. When Gino arrived, I sent him off to the printer and charged him with placing the ads and arranging for the distribution of the ad bills and broadsheets once we had printed copies. That would keep him busy for a couple of days while I prepared instructions for how to sort and distribute the bags of French miners’ mail starting to fill up my small office. I worked on this unpleasant task until Gino returned from the printer. I showed him how to match letters to the passenger lists of French ships provided by the consulate.

      I left Gino to work alone while I returned to our ship. Gino and his uncle would dine with us this evening and I wanted to give Manon a helping hand in the preparation. Teri and Giselle were packing up their stands after another successful day selling Manon’s food and our wines and spirits. Giselle’s dog, Fido, a piebald terrier and excellent rat killer, eyed me suspiciously from behind Giselle’s skirts. He was prepared to die in battle to protect his mistress and he constantly growled lowly and bared his teeth when male clients got too close to Giselle. Her cat, Gamelle Boy, eyed me absently from the top of the gangway. He waited on his daily perch for Giselle to fill his bowl with scraps from the food trays.

      Manon was delighted to see me return early and without the smell of wine or liquor on my breath and the telltale signs of having dined in someone else’s restaurant while she labored in our kitchen preparing meals for tomorrow’s clients and guests tonight.

      “So Chéri, did you remember to chill the white wine for dinner?”

      “Not yet. But the buckets are ready to be lowered into the bay.” Everything will be ready for our apéro.” I picked up a wooden spoon and tried to sample the delicious concoction bubbling in a large casserole.

      “Ah, no sneak preview for the naughty waiter,” as she grabbed my spoon and shook it to scold me. “Big boy has a lot of work to do before he samples any of Manon’s wares,” she said with a pixyish look full of innuendo that suggested a special treat might be in store after our dinner party if all went well.

      “Oui, oui, mon capitaine, I shall follow your orders to the letter right into bed,” I gave her a smart-alecky salute, then scooted out of the galley before she could shoo me out with her spoon.

      Manon’s menu for the soirée was a secret, but my short foray in the galley tipped her hand that she was preparing a special New Orleans gumbo for the main course. Giselle’s selection of white wines and champagnes from her ex-husband’s stock guaranteed it would be a memorable evening as Manon sought to impress her potential Italian associate.

      With the table set, the wine chilled and dining table arranged with little name tags on plates for seating, Teri and Giselle disappeared to their cabins to dress for dinner. I almost dropped my jaw when they returned. Giselle had eschewed a traditional matron’s dress billowed out with petticoats or hoops in favor of a slinky, form-fitting, long-sleeved satin dress that emphasized her ample curves and whose bodice gave brief, but tantalizing glimpses of her ample bosom when she leaned forward. She’d done her deep auburn hair with red highlights in a lose chignon that allowed curly tendrils to escape to both sides of her face. She looked stunning. She would have outshone even Empress Joséphine at a royal ball.

      Not to be outdone, Teri appeared in her high-neck, fiery-red Argentine dress with slits on both sides that hugged her body and showcased her delectable coppery legs and thighs when she walked or crossed her legs. She wore her golden tresses loose to her back and sported a white carnation behind her left ear. My, oh my, what a treat for the Italians. I was relieved that we dined aboard and not in town where these two ladies would cause a riot even in a respectable restaurant.

      Our guests were right on time. Salterini carried two bottles—one of Italian sparkling wine and the other a vintage Barolo. His nephew’s arms were full of red roses for Manon. Manon introduced her two associates to her guests. Salterini’s eyes glowed large with surprise and satisfaction as he kissed first Giselle’s and then Teri’s hand. “Che Belle Donne,” he muttered to himself. Gino Lamberti coolly assessed the charms of the two single women and following his uncle’s lead, bowed and brought each woman’s hand to his lips. After holding Teri’s hand just a tad too long, he snatched a single red rose from Manon’s bouquet, clipped the stem with his Bowie knife and replaced Teri’s white carnation with the rose. It was clear Gino was making a statement of interest, but given Teri’s recent castigation of all would-be admirers, I was surprised to see her reward him with a gracious smile and little curtsey.

      The scene was not lost on Manon, who quickly reshuffled the seating chart to allow Gino and Teri to sit face-to-face at the dinner table. She placed Giselle at one end of the table between me and Salterini and she sat next to Teri on the side nearest the galley. While both Italians spoke conversational French, Gino realized that Teri spoke haltingly and immediately switched to Spanish when addressing her.

      For starters, Manon served savory crab cakes made with fresh, local Dungeness crab which we washed down with a vintage Chablis wine. The main course was Manon’s surprise New Orleans Creole gumbo that she was preparing when I intruded in her kitchen.

      “Mama mia” exulted Salterini after a couple of mouthfuls. “I can taste the parsley, pepper, bay leaf and thyme, but there’s something else I never taste before. So good. What is it?”

      Manon laughed. “It’s the secret of a real New Orleans gumbo. It’s called “file.” The Choctaw Indians in Louisiana grind leaves from the sassafras tree and make this special spice that flavors the gumbo. The French Canadian Creoles who settled the mouth of the Mississippi River learned the secret of the spice from the Choctaws. As there are lots of shrimp, crayfish and other shellfish in the warm waters of the Gulf of Mexico, they devised special ways to prepare gumbos as they called their shellfish dishes and stews.”

      “How can we get some of this secret “file” for our cooking?” Salterini asked hastily.

      “Manon shook her finger at him as if he were a naughty boy. “You only get secrets if we work together, non?” She replied with a twinkle in her eye.

      “How can an Italian gentleman resist the charms of la futura mamma. Especially, when she’s such a good cook. Your bambini are going to grow up in paradiso.” Looking at me, Salterini uncorked his bottle of Italian sparkling wine, filled our glasses and proposed a toast. “To the future of our Franco-Italiano alliance. May we prosper as associates and enjoy the fruits of our labors together as friends.”

      We clinked glasses and attacked the scrumptious gumbo in earnest. During the toast, Gino’s eyes never left Teri’s, who reacted with raised eyebrows and an enigmatic smile that suggested she would not be adverse to courtship, but would be no easy conquest. Based on my knowledge of her treatment by her ex-Chilean boyfriend, he would have to take it slow and

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