“I see there's a choice for the fish course: turbot with lobster sauce, or sole à la Normandie." She paused. "I'm not familiar with the latter."
Mr. Ravenel answered readily, "White sole filets marinated in cider, sautéed in butter, and covered with crème fraîche. It's light, with a tang of apples."
It had been a long time since Phoebe had thought of a meal as anything other than a perfunctory ritual. She had not only lost her appetite after Henry died, she'd also lost her sense of taste. Only a few things still had flavor. Strong tea, lemon, cinnamon.”