Monsieur Pamplemousse Aloft (13 page)

‘It is a pity, Pamplemousse, that life cannot always be
croissants
and
café
.’

‘
Oui, Monsieur.
’

‘And circuses.’

‘
Oui, Monsieur.
’

A look of slight irritation flitted across the Director’s face as he realised that he was to get no help whatsoever. Draining his cup, he dabbed at his lips with a paper serviette and embarked on a different course.

‘Tell me, Aristide, in between bouts of …’ Monsieur Pamplemousse sat and listened respectfully while the Director broke into a series of whistles and grunts which were clearly meant to embrace a multitude of sins, most of which were impossible to put into words. ‘Did you … er, did you manage to give any thought to the matter in hand?’

Monsieur Pamplemousse breathed a sigh of relief. The assault he had feared was not about to materialise. ‘I thought of very little else,
Monsieur.
’

The Director looked at him uneasily, clearly wondering whether or not he had been misunderstood. ‘I suppose,’ he continued after a suitable pause, ‘that in time one gets a little blasé. What, may I ask, were your conclusions?’

Monsieur Pamplemousse placed the tips of his fingers together, forming a steeple with his hands which reflected that of the nearby parish church. He closed his eyes. The sun felt warm to his face, reminding him that he should take care.
He was not by nature a sun-worshipper.

‘If I may say so,
Monsieur,
your menu was a work of art.’

‘You think so, Aristide?’ The Director sounded better pleased.

‘
Oui
, Monsieur.
It was like a noble wine. It had …’ Monsieur Pamplemousse paused for a moment while he sought the right words. ‘It had completeness and roundness and fullness. It had flavour; rich without being cloying, it had finesse.’ He wondered for a moment if he was overdoing things, but the Director’s next words dispelled any such doubts.

‘Then you think we should go ahead, Aristide?’

‘
Non, Monsieur.
’ He braced himself. It was the
moment
critique.
‘With the greatest respect, I think the answer has to be
non.
It would, in its way, be too perfect.’ Another way of putting it would be that with such a weight of food on board, the dirigible would never leave the ground, but he resisted the temptation. It was a moment for tact.

‘Such a meal should be reserved for another, perhaps even greater, occasion: a State Banquet
par exemple.
It should not, indeed
must not
, be wasted. The great problem as I see it is that with so many other things to occupy their minds, the guests may not give it their undivided attention. They would be placed in a constant state of dilemma. It would be sacrilege to allow the
langouste
or the
canard
to grow cold, but supposing, just supposing at the very moment of their being served, the dirigible happened to be passing over somewhere like Josselin, with its magnificent castle, or crossing the Côte d’Emeraude … It would be a tragedy if in enjoying
Les Six
Gloires de la France Culinaire
they had to forgo some of the glories which lie beneath.’

He could tell by the silence that his point had gone home.

‘You are quite right, Pamplemousse. I must confess that in the excitement of composition that point had escaped me.’

There was another, even longer silence.

‘Do you have any suggestions, Aristide?’

‘I have been giving the matter a great deal of consideration.
Monsieur
.’ It was true. All the way down from the hotel he had thought of little else.

‘Given all that I have just said, and bearing in mind that space is strictly limited, I feel our keynote should be simplicity. That simplicity,
Monsieur,
which is synonymous with die quiet good taste and that dedication to perfection for perfection’s sake, which has always been a hallmark of
Le
Guide.

‘I suggest we start with some smoked salmon from Scotland.’

‘
Saumon
fumé
?’

‘
Oui
, Monsieur
.’

‘From
Ecosse
rather than from France?’

‘
Oui
, Monsieur
.’

The Director gave a snort. ‘Then one thing is certain, Pamplemousse. The view from the dirigible will not be wasted. I must say I am a little disappointed.’

‘
Monsieur,
again with respect, the eyes of the world will be upon us, and it will be seen as a gesture of good will, an example of that lack of chauvinism for which we French are renowned. That apart, in my humble opinion there is little to equal
saumon
which has been
fumé
over a peat fire in Scotland. It is their one great contribution to the world of
cuisine
and more than makes up for haggis.

‘It will, of course, need to be wild
saumon,
pink from feeding on shellfish and not from some chemical colouring agent in their food pellets. I am told much of the
saumon
we eat these days is farmed and that there are people who have never actually tasted the real thing. And with it, some lemon juice and a little fresh bread with butter from Normandy. The whole washed down with a suitable chilled champagne, perhaps a bottle or two of Gosset.’

‘And then?’

Detecting overtones of gathering interest in the Director’s voice, Monsieur Pamplemousse pressed home his advantage.

‘You mentioned Fauchon at one point in your letter,
Mon
sieur.
It was in connection with the dessert. May I ask how
many times you have tried to walk past their windows in the Place de la Madeleine and failed in the attempt, your attention caught by some exquisite arrangement of delicacies: a
tableau
of crabs and
pâtés
in one window,
terrines
and hams in another;
soufflés
juxtaposed with
fraises des bois
in a third? In short, all the ingredients for a picnic the like of which could not be assembled anywhere else in the world, and all of them but a telephone call away.’

‘A picnic, Aristide?’ Opening one eye, Monsieur Pamplemousse was just in time to catch the Director licking his lips. He had suspected as much. ‘That is an excellent idea. Simple, and yet so right; in keeping with the spirit of the enterprise itself. And you would finish the meal how?’

‘
Monsieur,
a good meal is like a well-written story. Interest has to be captured as early as possible, the main part should be satisfying, and the ending should be on a high note leaving the reader both happy and yet wishing for more. Replete, yet still hungry.’

‘One moment, Aristide. Before we go any further –’ The Director clicked his fingers for the waiter. ‘Another
pain au
sucre
? Or a
brioche?
I think I may indulge in a further
croissant
myself. All this talk of food is making me feel hungry. No doubt Pommes Frites could toy with a second
pain au chocolat
?’

‘He has never let me down yet,
Monsieur.
’

‘
Encore
!’ With a single grand gesture, the Director managed to embrace the whole of their erstwhile breakfast.

The fishing-boat was starting to unload its catch; baskets full of sea-bass and sole landed on the
quai,
others were filled with a mixture of oddities. A few gnarled faces gathered in a small group to watch. A nun on a
Vélocette
drew up outside the P.T.T. and went inside. A car with a sailing boat in tow went past and disappeared onto the beach. Far out to sea a small flotilla of boats from the sailing school lay becalmed, waiting with resignation for the wind to freshen. Nothing in life was perfect.

‘Now, Pamplemousse,’ the Director could hardly conceal
his impatience as the waiter disappeared again. ‘Tell me about your
pièce de résistance,
your
coup de maître
.’

‘It is a dish,
Monsieur,
which Madame Pamplemousse reserves for special occasions. It is called
Sabayon aux Pêches.
It is both simple and elegant and although it only requires the simplest of apparatus, there is a certain theatricality about its preparation which always heightens the effect.

‘First, fresh ripe peaches are cooked in water to which sugar and the juice of half a lemon has been added. When they are tender, the skin is removed and each peach is placed in a large Cognac balloon.

‘The
Sabayon
is made with a mixture of egg yolks and sugar, to which some liqueur have been added – Madame Pamplemousse always uses Marsala, but others prefer Grand Marnier or apricot brandy or even champagne. It should be whisked by hand in a
bain-marie
over a low heat until the mixture begins to ribbon, then left to simmer. At the appropriate moment it is reheated and whisked again until it fluffs up into the consistency of softly whipped cream. Then it is spooned over the peaches and served. The result, Monsieur, is pure ambrosia. It never fails to bring forth gasps of admiration, especially when accompanied by a glass of Sauternes. I would suggest a Château d’Yquem. It would, perhaps, be too much to hope for a 1904 – the year in which
entente cordiale
was born – but that was a great vintage and it would be a beautiful ending to the meal.’

‘Aristide,’ under the pretence of removing a speck of dust from his right eye, the Director wiped away the suspicion of a tear, ‘words fail me. I have to admit that when I first arrived down here I began to entertain severe doubts concerning the wisdom of entrusting you with this mission. I had almost decided to take charge of the operation myself. But all is forgiven. It is easy enough to strike a note when asked, but to hit exactly the right one at precisely the right moment is another matter entirely. It requires that touch of God-given genius which few of us are lucky enough to possess. Leave the wine to me. In the meantime I will send for Madame
Pamplemousse at once.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse gave a start. ‘I hardly think that will be necessary,
Monsieur
.’ The thought of Doucette arriving in Port St. Augustin filled him with alarm, especially while the circus was still in town. She might even want to be taken there. Innocent though his encounter with Madame Caoutchouc had been – a case of cause and effect – explanations would not be easy should it come to light.

‘Come, come, Aristide. You said yourself that the dish is one of her specialities. Simple though you make it sound, we cannot afford to have things go wrong. Eggs can curdle; pans can catch fire. To end on a low note would be little short of disaster. We must take no risks.’

‘I think,
Monsieur,
that if you send for Madame Pamplemousse you will be taking a very grave risk indeed. Curdled eggs could be the least of your problems. Madame Pamplemousse has never flown before and if she found herself in a dirigible cooking for Heads of State she might well go to pieces.’

‘Then whom do we ask, Pamplemousse? As I have already told you, Bocuse is in Japan, Vergé is in America. Time is not on our side.’

For the second time that morning Monsieur Pamplemousse closed his eyes as he sought inspiration, and once again luck did not desert him.

‘On my way down,
Monsieur
,’ he said, after a moment’s pause, ‘Pommes Frites and I made a small detour …’

The Director listened intently while Monsieur Pamplemousse described his meal, only occasionally interjecting over some technical detail or asking for elaboration of a particular dish.

‘I think,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, when he had finished describing his jam omelette for the fourth time, ‘to have such a person in charge of the
cuisine
will not only be a
plume
in our
chapeau
– for he is a name as yet undiscovered by our rivals – it will also be living proof of that great strength which is France; the miracle that right across our land, in the cities
and in the smallest villages, such talent exists as naturally and as unremarked as the fact that day follows night.’

‘Pamplemousse, I have said it all before. To repeat it would be an embarrassment, but if you are doing nothing for
déjeuner
today we could meet and you could tell me about it all over again.

‘There is also the matter of the circus. You may not wish to talk about it of course, and if so, I fully understand. I will respect your wishes to the full. But I must confess it kept me awake a good deal during the night. Images kept forming in my mind.

‘I have always considered myself a man of the world. Not, of course, as experienced as your good self in the more esoteric pursuits, but we all have different tastes. It would be a very dull place if we didn’t.

‘Tell me, Aristide, was she … er … was she very …
pneumatique
? Presumably she is not called
Madame Caout
chouc
for nothing.’

‘She is a little like a child’s india-rubber,
Monsieur.
She has both a hard and a soft side.’

The Director nodded. ‘And the crocodile?’

‘That too, was surprisingly pliable.’

‘How strange. It is a variation I had not heard of before. Visits to the zoo with my young nephew will never seem quite the same again.’

‘I doubt,
Monsieur,
if I shall ever look a crocodile straight in the eye again either.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse replied absentmindedly. Withdrawing the Leitz Trinovid binoculars from his jacket pocket, he trained them on a distant figure at the far end of the promenade. As the image came into sharp focus he jumped to his feet.

‘
Merde
!’

‘
Pardon,
Pamplemousse?’ The Director looked startled.

‘I am afraid,
Monsieur, déjeuner
will not be possible after all. There is work to be done. I must telephone Fauchon; also the chef I was telling you about. There is the printing of the
menu to be arranged. Facilities for the
cuisine
must be organised.’

‘The telephone in my car is at your disposal, Aristide.’ The Director felt in his pocket for the keys.