Self loves a writer with a good sense of humor.
The following conversation made her laugh out loud:
Setting: a Parisian parfumerie
Reine-Marie, Inspector Armand Gamache’s wife, is trying to help her husband find a murderer. Since this is Paris, the men wear cologne. (Although, if you were a murderer, wouldn’t you prefer to skip this step. Just sayin’)
“May I help you, madame?” a young man asked.
“I’m trying to find a cologne. I smelled it recently but don’t know the name,” Reine-Marie said.
Young Man: “Not to worry. I love this sort of thing. Now, are you sure it was a man’s cologne and not a woman’s?”
Reine-Marie: “Absolutely.”
Young Man: “Bon. That helps . . . Can you describe it? Was it earthy? Did it smell like moss or bark? Lots of men’s fragrances do. They think it’s masculine.”
Reine-Marie: “No. It was lighter than that.”
Young Man: “Fruity?”
Reine-Marie: “Non.”
Young Man: “Citrusy?”
Reine-Marie: “Yes.”
Young Man: “Good.”
Reine-Marie: “Maybe a little woody.”
Young Man: “Okay.”
Reine-Marie: “With a kind of chemical-y smell?”
Young Man: “Are you asking me?”
Reine-Marie: “Telling?”
Young Man: “It seems we’re looking for a lemon tree made out of plastic. It’s a good thing you’re not trying to sell fragrances, madame.”
