Monsieur Pamplemousse on the Spot (16 page)

‘A
grosse
légume
whose speed at acquiring untold wealth had not so far been matched by any show of finer feelings towards his fellow man.’

Behind the laughter there lurked corruption and decay. The black boy had said much the same on the journey up to the Institut. ‘He make Idi Amin look like guardian angel on church outing.’

Even as he watched there occurred an incident which, although comparatively minor, served to underline the boy’s words. One of the
com
mis-
waiters bearing a load of silver domes back to the kitchen passed perilously close to the great man’s elbow and in swerving to avoid a collision inadvertently allowed one of them to fall to the floor.

The
Grosse
Légume,
the flow of his conversation momentarily checked, half-rose and for a moment Monsieur Pamplemousse thought he was about to strike the waiter. The boy thought so too, and ducking in panic, he allowed the rest of the silverware to slide ignominiously off the tray.

The crash echoed round the room and for a moment there was a stunned silence. Then someone gave a nervous giggle in the way that people do in restaurants the world over at such moments and the tension was broken.

The
Grosse
Légume,
sat down again and a broad smile filled his face. But it was a smile without mirth and it left a long shadow. At another time and in another place, it seemed to say, your life would not be worth living. The man was a
salaud.
Un
salaud
de
première
classe.

‘
Vous
avez
choisi,
Monsieur?
’ The maître d’hôtel appeared at his side, pad and pencil at the ready.

Monsieur Pamplemousse came down to earth. He had already decided against a repeat of the
menu
 
gastro
nomique
.
It would be like trying to recapture the delights of his experience on the mountainside. On the other hand it was an occasion for a mini-celebration of some kind. What would Holmes have chosen? Oysters and a brace of pheasants, probably, followed by cheddar cheese and syllabub. He corrected himself, the latter two courses would have been in the reverse order in the English manner. He scanned the menu. All four items were conspicuous by their absence.

Running his eye down the
entrées
he had a sudden thought. Amongst those listed he noticed a starred dish –
soupe
aux
truffes
noires
— the one that Bocuse had created specially for President Giscard d’Estaing‘s famous
Légion
d’Honneur
lunch at the Elysée Palace in 1975. He had always wanted to try it. He glanced across at the list of
poissons.
At the time, Bocuse had called on other chefs to contribute to the menu. Sure enough, the Troisgros Brothers’
escalope
de
saumon
à
 
l’oseille
– a creation based on a happy thought by Pierre Troisgros’ mother-in-law, was also listed and starred. He felt a growing excitement. There were more delights – roast duck Claude Jolly. He remembered that in the original lunch they had followed duck with cheese, then the first wild strawberries of the year. Jean-Claude’s
Soufflé
Surprise
probably hadn’t seen the light of day then – but he could make do with some more of the
framboises.

The maître d’hôtel nodded approvingly. ‘
Monsieur
is not in a hurry?’

‘I have nowhere to go,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse simply. ‘I have all the time in the world.’ It wasn’t strictly true, of course. But tomorrow was another day.

He picked up his copy of
The
Hound
of
the
Baskervilles
and was about to open it where he’d left off, when Albert Parfait hobbled into view.

Monsieur Pamplemousse looked up at the slowly approaching figure with a genuine sense of shock. In the
space of a few days the
patron
of Les Cinq Parfaits seemed to have added another ten years to his age. There was a stoop which he hadn’t noticed previously, and his limp seemed more pronounced. But as he drew near he saw it was mostly in the eyes. The eyes were those of a man who had suddenly grown tired of life.

‘What news?’

‘Your son is safe.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse felt a tremble in the other’s hand as he took it, then the grip tightened.

‘
Merci.
I was almost beginning to give up hope.’

‘I’m sorry I didn’t tell you straight away. Time did not allow it.’

Even as he spoke the words, Monsieur Pamplemousse knew that they had a hollow ring to them. It was an excuse rather than a reason. An excuse for an inexcusable omission. Deep down he had been avoiding the moment and he wondered why. It left him with a strange feeling; one which he couldn’t entirely rationalise.

‘I understand.’ Albert Parfait relaxed momentarily, allowed himself a brief smile, then the tiredness returned to his face. It was almost as though he had been undergoing some kind of inner battle, the outcome of which had already been decided. ‘When can I see him?’

‘He is on his way to Paris for a few days. He has been heavily sedated, but he is young and fit – the effects will soon wear off. He will be back here as quickly as possible, but for the time being it is as well if he is not around.’

‘And the girl?’

‘The girl is travelling with him. She will be staying with Madame Pamplemousse. Pommes Frites is accompanying them on the journey. They will be quite safe.’

He didn’t mention Fräulein Brünnhilde. It was
unnecessary
. There would be the girl’s parents to tell too. His heart sank at the prospect.

‘I am very grateful. Later tonight we will drink to the occasion.’ Once again there was a distinct tremble in the hand. ‘In the meantime, I will leave you to your reading and to your meal.
Bon
appetit
.’

Left to his own devices, Monsieur Pamplemousse picked
up his book again and gazed at it unseeingly, focusing his thoughts not on the jumble of words but on the scene around him and on Albert Parfait in particular. He had a strange sense of foreboding. Monsieur Parfait did not look a happy man. The news of his son’s safety had revived his spirits momentarily, but it had been only the briefest of moments. Perhaps he was suffering the responsibility of success and wealth. It must have been a difficult week for him. First the disappearance of Jean-Claude, then the arrival of the V.I.P., whose presence he could hardly have welcomed at such a time. It must be a far cry from the comparatively modest hopes and ambitions he’d nursed when he’d first helped out in his
grand-mère
’s kitchen. He couldn’t have dreamed in those far-off times that one day he would be hobnobbing with royalty, cooking for Presidents, playing host to the V.I.P.s of the world. All the same, it hardly accounted for his doom-laden manner.

Once again his thoughts were interrupted. This time by the wine waiter. He picked up the
carte
des
vins
and opted for a Hermitage – a bottle of Gérard Chave, one of the most meticulous of
vignerons,
whose land was so sheer the grape-filled
bennes
had to be hauled up to the top by a winch at harvest time.

Again his order met with evident approval. Then, having duly recorded it, the
sommelier
hovered for a moment, fingering his
tastevin
hesitantly. Clearly, he had something on his mind. Monsieur Pamplemousse raised his eyebrows enquiringly.

‘I am sorry about the Château d’Yquem,
Monsieur
.’

‘Sorry?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse gazed at the man in amazement. ‘But it was delicious. Sheer perfection. An unforgettable experience. I cannot wait to repeat it.’

‘Ah!’ A look of unhappiness crossed the
sommelier
’s normally dead-pan features. It was the kind of expression he must reserve for those rare occasions when he sniffed a cork and detected signs of the dreaded weevil bug. ‘
Monsieur
has not been to his refrigerator since this morning?’

Monsieur Pamplemousse thought for a moment. ‘I have, but only briefly. I have been out all day.’ It was true. He’d
arrived back so late he’d even resisted the temptation of allowing himself the luxury of a drink with his bath. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘I am sorry,
Monsieur.
The room maid should have told you. On Monsieur Parfait’s instructions we removed the second bottle. The wine should not have been withdrawn from the cellars in the first place.’ He picked up the
carte
des
vins
and opened it at a page near the back. A neat red line had been drawn through one of the entries. ‘As
Monsieur
will see, the ’45 is no longer listed.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse digested the fact with mounting irritation.

‘May I ask a simple question?’

‘
Monsieur?
’

‘If the ’45 is no longer listed, then how was it that the night before last I was given two bottles when I ordered them. It was also my understanding that they were not the last.’

‘There were three,
Monsieur.
Now there are only two. They were being held in reserve for a special customer. We will, of course, replace
Monsieur’
s
second bottle with one from another year. Might I suggest the ’62?
Monsieur
will not be charged.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse fixed the man with a stare. There were times when he would have dearly loved to announce his identity; hand over a card bearing the
escargot
rampant,
symbol of
Le
Guide.
‘I have another question. Would it not be true to say that in a restaurant such as Les Cinq Parfaits, a restaurant whose reputation is such that people come from all over the world to sample its
cuisine,
each and every guest should be considered special?’

‘I agree,
Monsieur,
but unfortunately some guests like to be considered more special than others. It is the way of the world.’ He allowed himself a brief glance at the table further along the room. ‘We have to humour them.’

‘Ah!’ The penny dropped.

‘He has a sweet tooth,
Monsieur.
The decision is not entirely ours.’

‘
D’accord
.
I understand.’ It was the second time he’d
heard mention of a ‘sweet tooth’. The phrase was beginning to grate.

‘
Merci,
Monsieur.
’ The
sommelier
made to leave. ‘If
Monsieur
will forgive me?’

‘Of course.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse drained his Kir, helped himself to the remaining
bonne
bouche,
then sank back in his seat while he awaited the arrival of the first course. It might be the way of the world, but there were times when the ways of the world didn’t suit him and this was one of them. In truth, the chance to compare the ’62 Château d’Yquem with its illustrious predecessor would not be without interest – he could hardly grumble. It was the principle, or lack of it, which irritated.

Another ripple of laughter from the offending party did nothing to improve his mood. At least they were approaching the end of their meal. The cheese trolley had been and gone, the table cleared in readiness for the next course. He wondered what kind of reception would be accorded the
Soufflé
Surprise.
No doubt, to add to his feeling of injustice, it would be washed down with ‘his’ wine. He resolved to look the other way.

Seeing a flotilla of waiters approaching, their leader bearing a silver tray on which reposed the inevitable dome, he poured himself a glass of Evian and hastily cleansed his palate in readiness. At the same moment, through another door, the
sommelier
reappeared with his wine, reaching the table a moment before the others. The bottle presented, it was discreetly removed to a side table for opening and decanting. He sat up, preparing himself for the moment of truth, taste-buds springing to life with anticipation.

The junior waiters stood back in attitudes of suitable reverence as the plate was placed in front of him and the dome removed, revealing a deep earthenware bowl capped and sealed with a mound of golden pastry, puffed up like a gigantic mushroom.

Picking up a spoon, he pierced the top, breaking the flakes into small pieces so that they fell back into the bowl and released the smell. It was rich and woody, like nothing he had ever encountered before. A complex mixture; the
result of combining a
matignon
of carrots, celery, onions, mushrooms, and unsalted butter with chicken
consommé,
foie
gras
and fresh truffles. A unique creation. No wonder Bocuse had been awarded the
Légion
d’Honneur.
No wonder Monsieur Parfait spent so much on truffles every year. Both were fully justified.

He tasted the wine. Like the soup, it had been made with love. It was a perfect marriage. Automatically he reached for the notebook he always carried concealed in his right trouser leg and laid it on his lap, out of sight below the edge of the tablecloth. It was an occasion to record; one which would have met with Pommes Frites’ wholehearted approval. He felt a momentary pang of guilt as he caught sight of the time on his watch. It was just after ten o’clock. By now Pommes Frites would have reached the
autoroute,
speeding on his supperless way to Paris. He made a mental note to ring Doucette as soon as dinner was over and remind her to put something out in readiness for his arrival.

He leant over the bowl again. Whoever said that the
bouquet
was often better than the taste would have had to eat not only his words, but the most heavenly dish imaginable. Spoon halfway to his mouth, he paused yet again in order to savour the deliciousness of the smell, and as he did so a frown came over his face. Heading in his direction was one of the page-boys, holding aloft yet another silver tray. He watched as the boy threaded his way in and out of the tables. What was it now?

He eyed a small sheaf of papers gloomily and, stifling his feelings, motioned for them to be left beside him. It was hardly the boy’s fault. He was only doing as he’d been told. It was more his own fault for not having called in at the reception desk for so long.