As Iris is spooning the last of the broth into her mouth, Monsieur Lalouette emerges from the kitchen, balancing three dinner plates expertly, one in his hand and two along the soft width of his arm. On two of the plates, arranged in neat triangles, a portion of rice, colorful chunks of roasted vegetables, a green salad, and meat. Some kind of bird, it looks like. A chicken perhaps? But no, it’s too small. And the meat is darker than chicken.

The rice, vegetables, and salad on the third plate are arranged in the same way, with a glaring space where the meat is not. It is this plate that he sets, with great ceremony, in front of me.

“Merci,” I say, and he nods curtly. From a decanter on the sideboard, he pours an inch of wine into a glass, swirls it, and offers it to Dad. “À goûter,” he says when Dad looks at him. Dad lifts the glass to his mouth, drains it, sets it back down on the table, nods at Monsieur Lalouette while pointing at his empty glass, which must be the universal sign for encore, because our host, while not delighted with Dad’s eschewing of ritual, goes ahead and pours more wine into the glass, filling it this time.

It’s too much wine, given the medication Dad takes every day. And Dad will not forget to drink all of it. I put it down to muscle memory.

When Monsieur Lalouette places the decanter on the sideboard, I pick up Dad’s glass and take a huge slug out of it, but I am not quick enough—I’d be the last person you’d need on your team in a drinking competition—because I am still at it when Monsieur Lalouette turns and witnesses my faux pas.

He stares at me, as still as the statue of Joan of Arc in his front garden. I lower the glass, wipe at the semicircle of lipstick I have left on the rim, and return the wine to my father, who lifts it and drains it while Iris tries not to laugh.

To distract him, I say “Are those vegetables from your garden?” in my halting French, pointing at my plate.

“Oui,” he says, and disappears into the kitchen, returning with two more plates. Madame Lalouette follows him. It appears they are joining us for the main course.

They sit at opposite ends of the table, tuck matching napkins into their collars, and pick up their cutlery. We follow suit.

I mix the vegetables into the rice. Artichokes and beetroot and carrots and asparagus. I butter more of the bread, drink wine, from my own glass.

I eat with gusto, and no, I don’t think I’ve ever had cause to use that word before.

I didn’t realize I was so hungry.

“This is très tasty,” Iris says. “What is it?” she asks in a French accent pointing to the meat with a quizzical expression.

“Pigeon,” says Monsieur Lalouette, using a corner of his linen napkin to pat at the edges of his mouth.