Monsieur Pamplemousse on Probation (10 page)

On his return to Pouligny, Dulac had taken over from his father at the old Hôtel Moderne and in no time at all had come the award of a Stock Pot. The following year he had gained a second and his future was mapped out. The third Stock Pot had been only a matter of time – time and money. The capital investment must have been horrendous; the day to day running costs didn’t bear thinking about.

Proof of the latter came only a moment later when the
maître d’hôtel
presented a wicker basket, lifting the lid for inspection. There must have been at least 10,000 francs worth of truffles inside it. The earthy smell helped Monsieur Pamplemousse with his first decision.

Black Périgord truffles were at their best and most flavoursome towards the end of February, when the frosts were over. Consulting the menu again he ordered
truffes sous la cendre
– truffles cooked in the embers.

‘It will take three-quarters of an hour,
Monsieur
.’

‘I am sure it will be worth the wait.’

‘Ensuite, Monsieur?
’

Monsieur Pamplemousse hesitated. In the normal course of events he would have been expected to comment on at least one of the three specialities recommended in
Le Guide
, but then his visit wasn’t exactly normal. Besides, Lafarge had it stuck in his mind that André Dulac’s attacker had been someone from outside the hotel. It occurred to Monsieur Pamplemousse that it could just as easily have been someone from inside; possibly even a member of Dulac’s own staff. With the underground heating keeping the pathways clear of snow there would be no means of knowing. Tempers flared in the best of kitchens; potentially lethal weapons were to hand. He was no lip-reader, and behind the plate glass window who could tell what was being said? It might be worthwhile testing the system.

‘Then …’ It went slightly against the grain given all the other temptations at his disposal; he ordered an
entrecôte
steak, rare, with
pommes purée
and a green salad.

‘
Parfait, Monsieur.
’ The
maître d’hôtel
made it sound as though he couldn’t have made a wiser choice himself; the best he’d heard that evening.

The sommelier arrived and Monsieur Pamplemousse turned his attention to a voluminous wine list.
Although not unsurprisingly orientated towards nearby Burgundy and the Rhône Valley, it did at least recognise other regions existed, unlike some restaurants he could have named, and it was sufficiently catholic to cater for most tastes and pockets. He happily settled for a Volnay-Santenots-du-Millieu 1991 from Dominic Lafon. His choice received a professional nod of approval followed by the award of a second
parfait
.

The business of ordering disposed of, Monsieur Pamplemousse turned his attention to his fellow diners.

It wasn’t all glitz and glitter. At the far end of the room a party of some seven or eight locals were tucking into their food with gusto; gales of laughter punctuated their conversation.

Seated round one of the centre tables were what he took to be four members of a pop group. Despite the low ambient lighting, they were all wearing dark glasses so that they wouldn’t be recognised. Not that most of the other diners would have done so anyway.

An American couple entered the restaurant and were shown to a nearby table. The man looked short of breath, as though making the journey from his room to the restaurant had been something of a marathon. His companion, an oversized blonde wearing a dress not only off her shoulder, but off
nearly everything else as well, attended to her make-up while he slipped a note to the
maître d’hôtel
, with an injunction to ‘look after them’. It was an essay in sleight of hand. They were shown to a table for four by the window. Two place settings were discreetly removed and shortly afterwards a bottle of Krug arrived and was presented.

At another table in the window he spotted the two businessmen he’d seen in reception when he had arrived. His gaze lingered on them. There was a third man present, but he had his back to Monsieur Pamplemousse. Even so, he looked vaguely familiar. And was it his imagination or were they being given slightly less attention than those at the surrounding tables?

The truffle, when it arrived, had been prepared and cooked in the classic Escoffier manner: cleaned, but unpeeled, lightly salted and basted with a little champagne brandy, before being wrapped in a thin slice of fresh pork fat followed by a double piece of buttered waxed paper and then buried in the hot cinders of a charcoal fire. It was served with
beurre d’Échiré
, than which there was no better.

He hadn’t expected anything less, but with everyone doing their own thing these days you never knew. It merited all the praise lavished on it over the centuries.

The Volnay was a treat; rich and fragrant, a product of love, knowledge and dedication. Against the snow-white tablecloth the colour was ruby red.

He made a mental note to award extra points to the sommelier for waiting until his glass was nearly empty before refilling it. There was only one thing worse than having an empty glass; that was having it constantly refilled so that you lost track of how much you had drunk and became unable to pace yourself.

Going back to the three men in the window. All three struck a slightly discordant note. Once again he found himself wondering if the first two were bankers. If all the rumours about strange goings-on at Dulac were true they could be getting worried about their investment. He wondered if they knew about the latest attack.

The
entrecôte
steak was unbelievably tender and tasted as though it had been grilled over a bed of vine shoots. Beef marrow must have been added when it was turned, and the criss-cross pattern on the top had been made the old-fashioned way with a hot skewer. A
soupçon
of
Bordelaise
sauce acted as a glaze and it was served with a melting of parsley and shallot butter.

The
pommes purée
were the equal of Robuchon’s in Paris, than which there was no higher praise; another lesson, if one were needed, that the simplest
dishes cooked to perfection often require the most attention to detail. The potatoes would have been of uniform size, scrubbed and then simmered in salted water to retain the flavour until soft and ready for peeling. Passed through a fine food mill and vigorously stirred with a wooden spoon over a slow heat until dry; only then would chilled unsalted butter have been added, a little at a time, followed by milk brought almost to the boil. After which it would be passed through a fine-meshed drum sieve. The whole thing was so labour intensive it was small wonder only those at the very top of their profession could even contemplate doing it.

The green salad was a simple mixture of dandelion leaves, lamb’s lettuce,
radicchio
, served with an equally simple
vinaigrette
made with a blend of virgin olive oil and sunflower oil, with lemon juice to which a little Dijon mustard had been added, rather than vinegar. There was a hint of basil.

The sheer ergonomics of running a three Stock Pot restaurant were mind-boggling. The sourcing of supplies for a start. Not for Dulac any of the tricks of the trade: tomatoes packed while they were still green and given doses of ethylene while
en route
to make them unnaturally red; but always, without fail, the freshest that could possibly be found. The basil was a case in point. Here it was, the middle of winter, and yet he could have sworn the leaves had
been freshly picked, torn rather than cut so that they would give off their full flavour.

It was no wonder Guilot had been taken aback at finding a stale lettuce leaf in his salad. As for Loudier’s worm: that was something else again.

Monsieur Pamplemousse was left with no regrets whatsoever regarding his own choice, and interestingly, the steak knife was a Laguiole without a serrated edge, which answered his earlier unspoken question.

Resisting the blandishments of the cheese waiter with difficulty – it was the wrong time of the year for many of the local varieties made with cow’s milk, and he wasn’t prepared to accept the pasteurised factory version – Monsieur Pamplemousse ended up choosing the
bleu d’Auvergne
. It must have been at the end of its curing period, but was none the worse for that. It was served with a small glass of Sauternes.

For
dessert
he had a tarte
fine aux pommes
, the thinly sliced Golden Delicious apples cut into crescents, overlapping each other like petals and moistened with lemon juice. It was served with
crème Chantilly
.

The whole had been as much a marriage made in heaven as anything that might appear on the other menu.

The service had been hard to fault. If he had a criticism it was that, at times, apart from the
sommelier, it had been a little too good, slightly manic in fact, with waiters suddenly springing into action for no apparent reason as far as he could see.

Monsieur Pamplemousse dabbed at his lips with the napkin before slowly rising to his feet. It was time to spring into action himself and repair to his room in order to get it all down on the computer before lethargy set in and it was too late.

The American with the blonde already looked as though he might not make it in any sense of the word.

Pommes Frites looked as though he had also dined not wisely, but too well. Tucked up on a spare blanket at the foot of his master’s bed, he could barely summon the strength to wag a greeting. A large plate beside him had been licked clean. The shutters were down and his Wellington boots, clean and dry, were by the patio door ready for when he needed them next.

Monsieur Pamplemousse picked up the plate and carried it to the serving trolley which was standing near the door to the corridor. He lifted the domes, half expecting to find a note but there was nothing. Perhaps Pommes Frites had eaten that too? Anyway, Shinko was sticking her neck out on their behalf enough already. Leaving notes for clients would be putting her job on the line if anyone found out.

Feeling strangely lonely, Monsieur Pamplemousse switched on his word processor, called up the appropriate spreadsheet and began entering a few brief notes; key words which he hoped would jog his memory in the morning, rather than complete sentences.

There were over five hundred basic questions on the main sheet, covering practically everything it was possible to think of, but they were mostly of the yes/no variety for feeding into the main computer back at Headquarters where they could be put on file for future reference. It was the individual reports that mattered and required the most thought.

The job completed, he decided to retire early, a task which he performed in rather less time than it had taken him to get ready earlier in the evening.

Reposing on one of the pillows was an arrangement of
véritables praline;
grilled almonds covered in caramelised sugar. Wondering if the room maid or Shinko had been responsible, he tried one before climbing into bed. It had to be from Mazet; the best in all France, as they had been for over three hundred years. The remainder disappeared rapidly. Yet more bonus points for Dulac. He wished him well.

Luxuriating between the soft sheets and the unaccustomed vastness of the space on either side of him, Monsieur Pamplemousse closed his eyes and
contemplated his lot. Truly, it had been a memorable meal. A demonstration, if one were needed, of the fact that the simple things in life were often the hardest to get right, but when done to perfection, as they had been that evening, unbeatable.

Apart from that there had been no messages awaiting him in his room. He wondered if he should have rung Doucette. On the other hand the telephone was a two-way thing and if she was staying with her sister she was probably still trying to get a word in edgeways.

There was nothing from the Director. No news of the so-called ‘Plan B’, whatever that might turn out to be.

As for Dulac, it would have to be a case of wait and see. He would phone through in the morning and report on events so far; the ‘accident’ in the gymnasium; the business with Monsieur Dulac himself. As for the latter, it would certainly put paid, at least for the time being, to any possibility of the restaurant being awarded a golden lid to its Stock Pots, so in a sense his mission was rendered a bit redundant. And on that unhappy note, Monsieur Pamplemousse fell into a deep, if somewhat troubled sleep.

Pommes Frites heard it first; a tapping from somewhere outside the apartment. He was up and out of the bedroom in a flash. Monsieur Pamplemousse forced himself awake, took a moment or two getting
adjusted to the strange geography of the room, then followed on behind.

The sound was coming from the other side of the shutter in the lounge area.

Operating the control button to raise it slowly revealed a figure on the other side of the glass. The light from the room picked out a white face. Silhouetted against the black background beyond, it imparted a strange ghostlike effect.

As soon as the shutter had reached the end of its run Monsieur Pamplemousse unlocked the door and flung it open.

‘What on earth are you doing here?’

The girl looked over her shoulder before entering, as though expecting someone else to follow on behind. She wore a leather jacket over a flowered cotton dress. Traces of snow on her black hair were already starting to melt.

‘You must be freezing.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse took her hand. ‘You
are
freezing. Why didn’t you come through the hotel?’

‘It is late. People would ask questions.’

He glanced at his watch. It showed a little after midnight.

‘I wanted to talk to you, but it hasn’t been possible. It is about the car.’

‘The Twingo?’

‘The one standing outside. I haven’t been able to
tell you before, but I wonder if it is meant for me?’

Monsieur Pamplemousse stared at her. ‘Would you mind saying that again?’

‘It is the colour. I was supposed to pick up a yellow Twingo in Roanne two days ago. I went over there specially but something went wrong with the arrangement. I don’t know, perhaps it was me. Then, when you turned up here I began to wonder …’