“Voilà,” said the waiter as he led them to a table and pulled out chairs for them both with a flourish. He handed each of them a double-sided laminated menu as they sat down, then whisked away, back to the front of the restaurant to help the young couple that had just entered.

“Have you been here before?” Liv asked, scanning the list of appetizers.

“Oui.” Her grandmother didn’t elaborate, but the color had drained from her face, and her hands were trembling.

“Are you sure you’re all right, Grandma Edith?”

She finally made eye contact. “Would you stop asking me that? I’m not about to keel over, if that’s what you’re concerned about.”

“You just seem”—Liv hesitated—“shaken. I’m worried about you.”

“Well, do not be.” Her grandmother returned to studying her menu.

“Okay,” Liv said slowly. “So, um, is there anything you recommend?”

“Don’t be foolish. I’m quite certain the menu has changed since I was here last.”

“Well, when was that?”

“Oh, seventy-five years ago, give or take.”

“Seventy-five—” Liv began to repeat, but she was interrupted by the arrival of another young waiter, clad all in black, who ran down a list of specials in rapid French that Liv couldn’t entirely follow, mostly because she was too busy trying to puzzle out what her grandmother had just said. Seventy-five years?

Grandma Edith ordered a coupe de champagne for each of them without consulting Liv and then excused herself to les toilettes as soon as the waiter hurried away. Liv watched her go before shaking her head and returning to the menu. She scanned the front—a list of tartares, a few salad options, a potato cream soup, a house terrine—and then turned the menu over. The back featured several main courses—seared tuna with sesame seeds, sea bream in pistachio oil, a burger with fries—and a specialty cocktail list. At the bottom of the page was an italicized paragraph entitled Histoire de la Brasserie.

Liv began to skim the restaurant’s history, translating the French as she went. She was impressed to read that it had been here since 1888, and as she read on, she learned that the original owner, Gilles Moulin, had passed the brasserie on to his son, Pierre Moulin, who had no children of his own and thus passed the brasserie on to his sister’s eldest son, Edouard Thierry, in 1936.

Liv stopped reading and looked up in the direction her grandmother had disappeared. Thierry was, of course, Grandma Edith’s last name and Liv’s maiden name. Grandma Edith still hadn’t emerged from the bathroom, so Liv turned her attention back to the menu, her curiosity piqued. Surely it wasn’t a coincidence that the older woman had chosen a restaurant whose past owner shared their family name, was it? She read on.

Soon after Champagne was occupied by the Nazis in the summer of 1940, Edouard and his wife became active in the French Résistance Along with a local network, they helped disrupt Nazi movements in and around the Marne, and ultimately provided Allied troops with information that proved crucial in battle. Edouard and his wife moved away at the end of the war, and the brasserie was passed to Edouard’s younger brother, Guillaume, who sold it to Humbert Bouchet, a young World War II veteran, in 1950. The Brasserie Moulin is today owned by Humbert’s grandson, Edouard Bouchet, who was named in honor of the proprietor who showed so much courage in the face of the Nazi Occupation.

When Liv looked up again, Grandma Edith was finally on her way back to the table, shuffling slowly and gazing around as if she’d seen a ghost.

“Have you decided on something to eat?” she asked once she’d settled, with some difficulty, back into her chair. The waiter arrived with two tulip glasses of champagne, and Grandma Edith held hers up and clinked it against Liv’s without missing a beat. She took a small sip and said, “I might be in the mood for a salade ni?oise. Or perhaps an omelette.”

“Are we related to the Thierrys who used to own this brasserie?” Liv asked instead of replying.

Grandma Edith set down her champagne and put a shaking hand to her forehead. “Pardon?”

Liv held up the menu and pointed. “It says that a man named Edouard Thierry owned this place during World War II.”

Grandma Edith glanced at the menu, and for an instant, her features melted into something soft, mournful, almost open. “Why, yes, Edouard,” she whispered.

“Grandma Edith, was he your husband?” Liv knew only that her own dad had never known his father. Grandma Edith never spoke of him. “Were you involved in the Resistance like Edouard was? Is that why you’ve never told me that you had a connection to Reims?”

Grandma Edith blinked at Liv. “It says that? That Edouard was involved with the Résistance?”

“Yes, but you haven’t answered my—”

“My God,” Grandma Edith murmured. “If he had lived to see his secret printed up on his own brasserie’s menus like—” She stopped abruptly, and Liv leaned forward, sure that her grandmother was about to reveal something.

But before she could continue, they were interrupted by the arrival of their waiter. “Bonjour mesdames, avez-vous fait votre choix?” he asked, utterly oblivious to his terrible timing.

Grandma Edith looked confused, and then she frowned and gestured to her champagne glass. “Je ne veux pas de cette coupe de champagne. Je veux un martini. Du Gordon’s, s’il vous pla?t, avec une olive.”