Monsieur Pamplemousse on Probation

Monsieur Henri Leclercq, Director of
Le Guide
, the oldest and most respected culinary bible in the whole of France, turned away from the window of his seventh-floor office as Monsieur Pamplemousse entered the room. Swivelling his chair in what was clearly a well-rehearsed movement, he came to rest in a position which ensured that his face was in deep shadow.

As he leant back and flicked an imaginary speck of dust from his dark blue pinstripe André Bardot tailored suit, a deep sigh filled the room. It was hard to tell if it was a hiss of escaping air emanating from within the luxurious folds of the black leather upholstery or whether it came from somewhere deep inside Monsieur Leclercq himself. It might even have been a mixture of the two, for it was a sound which exuded both opulence and long suffering.

He nodded towards a chair of rather less generous dimensions positioned in front of his desk. ‘Please be seated, Pamplemousse.’

Another nod embraced a waiting figure at Monsieur Pamplemousse’s side. ‘Pommes Frites, too.’

Pommes Frites beat his master to it by a short head. After noisily slaking his thirst from a bowl of water someone, presumably Véronique, the Director’s secretary, had put out for his benefit, he leapt up, settled himself down in a patch of sun, and closed his eyes. He knew the signs; they pointed to a long session of questions and answers. Monsieur Leclercq would be asking the questions, and with luck his master would be providing the answers. It was a good opportunity to catch up on lost sleep.

‘Excusez-moi, Monsieur.
The last few days have been very tiring for him.’ Apologising for his companion’s unseemly behaviour, Monsieur Pamplemousse gave Pommes Frites a nudge and pointed to the floor. ‘
Asseyez-vous
.’

Taking advantage of the momentary distraction, he stole a quick glance around the room, taking in as he did so other signs which, in his haste, Pommes Frites had failed to spot. The door to the drinks cabinet was firmly shut. Clearly, hospitality was not the order of the day, although he did note in passing an empty brandy glass on the Director’s
desk; a desk which although normally clear, was positively littered with the day’s
journaux.
Not to put too fine a point on matters, it looked for all the world like a newsagent’s kiosk at delivery time. He also noted that the right-hand lapel of Monsieur Leclercq’s jacket bore the insignia of the
Légion d’honneur,
yet another pointer to the seriousness of the occasion.

Having changed places with his friend and mentor, Monsieur Pamplemousse shifted uneasily as he tried to make himself comfortable. In his haste, Pommes Frites had been less than meticulous in conserving his intake of water. But unlike the Director’s executive chair, his own seat remained stationary. It had been set at a carefully calculated angle which ensured that the rays of the morning sun, deflected by the golden dome of the Hôtel des Invalides some four hundred metres away, those same rays that had so attracted Pommes Frites, landed fairly and squarely across his face. The signs were not auspicious.

The message summoning him to Headquarters had arrived at his home by special delivery late the previous evening. He had taken Doucette to the cinema, and the note had been in his mail box to greet him on their return. Short and to the point, it bade him report to the Director’s office at nine o’clock sharp the following morning.

Interrupting Monsieur Pamplemousse’s thoughts, the Director riffled through the pile of papers in front of him.

‘I take it, Pamplemousse, you have seen the news.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse shook his head. ‘No,
Monsieur
. I left early so that I could be here on time as you requested. The traffic in Montmartre is normally bad at this time of day …’ He broke off, shielding his eyes as the Director held a copy of
Figaro
aloft. For a split second he could have sworn he saw a photograph of himself on the front page. A strangely distorted reproduction to be true, but the likeness was there nevertheless, as indeed was the location.

His heart sank as he was at last able to see the drift of the Director’s line of questioning.

In recent weeks Monsieur Leclercq had been on one of his leadership kicks. It often happened when he returned from a business trip to the United States, where they were very keen on such things. His latest visit was no exception and
Le Guide
had since suffered accordingly. Memos couched in unfamiliar jargon appeared on the canteen notice board. Addressed TO ALL STAFF, they contained subheadings calculated to spread alarm and despondency around the building; phrases like ‘Survival Courses’, ‘Maximising One’s Potential’, and the need to be ‘Fully Stretched’ were bandied about willy-nilly.

One by one staff had been plucked from their hiding places and dispatched to various parts of France, there to take part in assault courses the like of which they had only previously read about in books on the Gulf War. Rumour had it that there was even a photograph in circulation which showed Madame Grante, Head of the Accounts Department, wading through a salt marsh in the Camargue dressed in combat outfit and clutching a Kalashnikov assault rifle above her head, but since no one could lay claim to having actually seen a copy, it could have been one of Bernard’s flights of fancy. Bernard was a dab hand at spreading rumours.

The sickness rate had risen to unprecedented heights. Applications for
bisques
, leave granted at a moment’s notice without any reason having to be given (three days per annum max.), proliferated. And when those were used up, hitherto unmentioned relatives materialised out of the blue, only to drop dead within a matter of days.

Monsieur Pamplemousse, no stranger to the tricks of the trade, had managed to avoid his stint by one devious means or another, but in the end life finally caught up with him and from one of the remaining short straws he had drawn a week’s survival course at a naval base in Boulogne.

There he had run foul of a fitness freak of the very worst kind, an ex-member of an elite undercover
brigade who he was sure must retire to bed at night wearing a wetsuit and goggles rather than pyjamas. One way and another it had been a disastrous few days. Parts of him hadn’t felt so stretched in years, and it had culminated in his being sent home early in disgrace.

Monsieur Leclercq rapped the offending item with the knuckles of his other hand before tossing it to one side.

‘Explanations, Pamplemousse.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse decided to play for time. ‘Shall I begin at the beginning,
Monsieur
?’

‘If you must,’ said the Director wearily.

‘I simply suggest that in deference to your family motto,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘
Ab
ovo usque ad mala.
From the beginning to the end.’

‘I am well acquainted with the meaning of our family motto, Pamplemousse,’ said the Director huffily. ‘Please get on with it. I do not have all day.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse took a deep breath.

‘It was very cold,
Monsieur
. Even colder than is usual for the time of year.’

‘Survival courses, Pamplemousse,’ said the Director sternly, ‘take no account of climatic conditions. That is the whole point of them. The same qualities of leadership required for leading troops into battle in the Sahara desert during the
blazing heat of summer are equally necessary on a February day in Boulogne.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse decided he wasn’t going down without a fight. ‘With respect,
Monsieur
, I venture to suggest that leadership under fire is hardly one of the major qualities needed by an Inspector for
Le Guide.
A good sense of direction, yes. A knowledge of map-reading, the ability to work alone for long hours at a time, an analytical mind, taste buds honed to perfection, a good digestive system; all these things are necessary. But entries in
Le Guide
for both the Sahara desert and Boulogne are remarkably thin on the ground at any time of the year.’

The Director chose to ignore the interruption. Searching among the
journaux
he picked up a manila folder and opened it at a previously marked page.

‘Your report makes unhappy reading, Pamplemousse. You not only failed to achieve the fifty per cent pass rate in any of the subjects covered by the course, in some areas you were actually given a minus mark, and Pommes Frites fared no better.

‘
Par exemple,
it says here when your course instructor commanded you to jump into the harbour, instead of obeying orders you stood back and said
“Après vous.”’

‘That is true,
Monsieur
.’

‘The poor man took you at your word and after swimming about fifty metres he looked over his shoulder and you were still standing on the quay. It is no wonder he was in a bad mood.’

‘There was one basic problem,
Monsieur
.’

‘Which was?’

‘I cannot swim.’

‘Why did you not tell him?’

‘Swimming is his chosen profession,
Monsieur
. It is certainly not mine. Besides, he did not ask me.’

The Director clucked impatiently. ‘That is a very negative attitude, Pamplemousse. Hardly what one might have expected from an ex-member of the Paris
Sûreté
, and certainly not up to the standards set by our illustrious founder.’ Here Monsieur Leclercq paused to allow Monsieur Pamplemousse time in which to glance over his shoulder at a large oil painting hanging on the wall to his left.

As always, the subject’s steely gaze provided no crumbs of comfort. Monsieur Pamplemousse sometimes wondered what pleasure, if any, Monsieur Hippolyte Duval had got out of life. As with
Michelin, Le Guide
had started off as a
vade mecum
for travellers, although unlike the former, and being first in the field by a small margin, it had been aimed at the cycling fraternity rather than those who were fortunate enough to own a motor car. Bernard always maintained Monsieur Duval looked
as though he suffered from chronic indigestion, but perhaps he had simply been permanently saddle sore.

‘At the time,
Monsieur
, it seemed a very positive attitude. Boulogne harbour is not the most salubrious place at the best of times. People do not go there to “take” the water, but rather to throw things into it. It struck me that while awaiting the outgoing tide the harbour had managed to accumulate rather more than its fair share of the world’s detritus, much of which one would hesitate to give a name to in polite society, especially since
les Anglaises
took to descending
en masse
in order to do their shopping in the local
supermarchés
.

‘He then expected me to swim out to a vessel at anchor some twenty metres away, dive under it, and with luck emerge on the other side. In no way was I going to risk life and limb on what seemed to me to be an exceedingly hazardous, not to say pointless exercise. There were a number of perfectly good rowing boats to hand.’

‘And what was Pommes Frites’ excuse?’ Despite his impatience at the direction the conversation was taking, Monsieur Leclercq’s interest was obviously roused and he allowed himself a momentary digression. ‘I see here he also refused to obey a twice-uttered command.’

‘That happened when the Instructor, a man
of undoubted physical prowess but limited imagination, removed from Pommes Frites’ mouth what he mistakenly assumed to be a lump of wood. He then threw it into the water so that it could be fetched. Doubtless, he was hoping to encourage both of us to dive in after it, but in the event we were not tempted. The object sank like a stone. I suspect that when Pommes Frites looked over the side of the jetty he reached much the same conclusion about the state of the water as I did.’

‘And?’

‘That was when he bit the Instructor,
Monsieur
. The “stick” happened to be a frozen
boudin noir.
He was warming it up in his mouth and not unnaturally took umbrage at seeing it thrown into the ocean instead of being served up in a bowl with some
pommes purée,
as he doubtless expected it would be.’

‘Hmm.’ The Director’s eyes glazed over. ‘This may sound a silly question, Pamplemousse, but may I ask what Pommes Frites was doing standing on a quayside in Boulogne in midwinter with a frozen
boudin noir
in his mouth?’

‘I imagine he was looking for somewhere to bury it for safe keeping,
Monsieur
. After all, it was his birthday … but surrounded as he was by acres of concrete and cobblestones, suitable hiding places were few and far between.’

‘Pommes Frites’ birthday?’ repeated the Director. ‘Why was I not informed? It should be on file. Had I known I would have sent him a card.’ Reaching out, he pressed a key and dictated a short note to his secretary.

Monsieur Pamplemousse acknowledged the compliment on behalf of his friend. ‘I took the
boudin
with me to mark the occasion,
Monsieur
. It came from Coesnon in the rue Dauphine. They make them fresh every Tuesday and Thursday.’

‘Aah!’ In spite of himself, the Director gave a deep sigh. This time there was no mistaking the source. ‘Coesnon. I know it well. Tell me, does Pommes Frites favour the chestnut flavoured variety or the ones with raisins?’

‘He has Catholic tastes,
Monsieur
. As a special treat I bought him a selection. However, if pressed I would say he is particularly partial to the
boudin de campagne
. I noticed that after a cursory sniff he disposed of that one first and it is not in his nature to save the best until last; rather the reverse. He ate most of the others for breakfast; all except for one which he was saving for later and I have no idea which flavour that was. Now, we shall none of us ever know. I think if it ever surfaces it will be given a wide berth.’

‘Saving his last
boudin
until later!’ The Director gazed in awe at the recumbent figure lying next
to Monsieur Pamplemousse, then he drew a line through an entry on a form in front of him. ‘Would that we all had such strength of character, Pamplemousse,’ he added meaningly. ‘Such iron will to resist temptation when the occasion demands.