That evening, we all headed off to a mechoui, a lamb roast in the town hall. Most of the village was there, some 150 citizens—although it seemed as if there were a thousand kids running all over. One happy local took me by the arm and told me that the whole town had accepted Dad as one of their own. He also told me that Dad kisses all the women, which I already knew. Dinner started with soupe paysanne, a broth full of carrot chunks and hunks of soggy stale bread. As we emptied our bowls, Dad suggested that we faire le chabrol—pour a little red wine into our almost empty vessels, swirl it around, and drink it down. Next came a magnificent roast duck, followed by a salade tiede de foie et gesiers d'oie—a warm salad of sliced goose liver and gizzards. After dinner everyone danced. A spry octogenarian named Germaine Cuisinier grabbed my arm and whirled me onto the dance floor. She spoke French a little too fast, but with an enthusiasm that reminded me of Dad's. ''Everyone here loves him,''she assured me. Then she told me with a twinkle that he kisses her, too.