Orson Welles once pretended to lock me inside Jean-Pierre Melville’s shooting set in Paris, cackling in his most resonant Lamont Cranston voice about “the Cask of Amontillado,” a Poe story in which the hero is immured. Then we went to lunch at La Truite and he tried to order an almond soufflé although there wasn’t one on the menu. He did it all the time but hadn’t found one in many years.
I can’t tell you why the almond soufflé has slipped from view
