by Peter King
“T’cha—it is nothing. Charles will escort you back to your table.”
Francine glanced up as I returned to my seat then did a double take.
“Did something happen? You look pale.”
“I’m okay.”
“It’s not the food, is it?”
I just shook my head.
When the waiter came around again, I persuaded Francine to have the chocolate cake with almonds and chocolate butter cream. I watched her eat it while I drank a cup of coffee. She looked surprised when the waiter brought two liqueurs and said, “Compliments of the restaurant.”
“They must know me,” I said quickly in order to forestall more questions.
The taxi ride back was quiet. My head stopped aching but I was in no mood to satisfy Francine’s curiosity although she was clearly bursting with it. She however was determined not to ask and so, at her door, I gave her a kiss on the cheek, thanked her for her company and said we must do it again sometime. She smiled automatically and thanked me for a nice evening.
A PI’s lot is not always a happy one.
Back on the beat again next morning, Amy greeted me like an old friend.
“Not found that blockage yet? Hey, you gonna be so healthy from all this good coffee of ours you drinking, you ain’t gonna notice smells down there.”
“Takes days to find blockages sometimes,” I told her. “How’s the tea today?”
Amy tittered. “Take my advice. Stick to the coffee.”
The day was a wearisome repeat but I listed three more delivery vans and doggedly stuck it out till after six o’clock. That made me just in time for rush hour on the tube. I could have put it on Raymond’s expense account and taken a taxi but that would take longer.
At home, I poured a glass of champagne and put on a CD of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons. It was the version by the Academy of St Martin-in-the-Fields, an orchestra which surely interprets the work of “the red priest” better than any other.
I am a firm believer in the coupling of food and wine with music. Every food and every drink goes perfectly with some piece of music—at least, that’s my contention. I keep a continual list of the “compatibles” and am constantly experimenting so that I can add to it. It’s not easy to find ideal matches but even the failures yield something satisfying. A complete lack of success is rare and Vivaldi and champagne rated high marks, I thought, making a suitable note.
Whether this was entitled to be called champagne was a matter for the language purists rather than the wine-drinkers in my opinion. The latter tend to be a stuffy lot on some issues. This beverage was a Brut Cuvée Royale from the Gloria Ferrer Caves in California. It is produced by the méthode champenoise and the vineyard is now owned by the Freixenet house in Spain. I had done a job for them recently and they had sent me a case as a bonus.
As a stimulant after a tiring day, a morale booster after a depressing day or a pick-me-up when the mind is stagnating—champagne has no equal. Dom Perignon and the widow Clicquot deserve all the homage we can pay them and I can’t accept that either of them would have been so petty as to criticise this excellent libation just because it didn’t come from the Marne valley. Certainly, their eyebrows would have been raised by the revelation that this one came from the New World but both must have been far-sighted enough to recognise that wine (in their future) would expand its horizons around the globe.
I poured another glass—clearly the spell was working. The orchestra swept into Opus 3 of the Concerto for Four Violins and I made a note to determine if the categories of champagne and Vivaldi could be further sub-divided. The bassoon, flute and trumpet passages might be better with a fuller, richer brand … clearly, there was a lot of research to be done.
I put together a Caesar Salad and ate it to the accompaniment of an Oscar Peterson track. There were some lamb’s kidneys in my larder and I first tossed them in baking soda to tenderise them and neutralise their acidity, then rinsed them off and tossed them in vinegar and salt. This would give them a clean, fresh taste before stir-frying them in garlic, chilli, soya sauce and rice wine. With a garnish of spring onions, I chose as a musical balance Smetana’s “Die Moldau” played by the Berlin Philharmonic. Chinese food is always difficult to accompany and I am always trying different possibilities.
After a cup of Colombian coffee, I was ready to go to work. “Ready” is perhaps an over-statement as I wasn’t looking forward at all to this part of the investigation but it was essential and at about midnight, I walked to the tube station.
When I reached the vicinity of Le Trouquet d’Or, I strolled round for a while. Some of the streets still had late-nighters but the alley behind the restaurant was already quiet. None the less, I waited till nearly three o’clock when it was dark and deserted. I pulled on a pair of rubber gloves. Adjacent to the back door was an alcove with about a dozen trash barrels. I went to work on them, one by one.
You can learn a lot from trash barrels. After all, that’s how Watergate started and the CIA have a training course in how to draw conclusions from the things you find in them. Part-way through the third barrel, I heard footsteps coming down the alley. I slipped into the shadows and listened. The footsteps sounded erratic—a drunk, most likely. I waited until his irregular clip-clop passed and then continued.
I don’t know what was in the next barrel but it was a horrific combination and had been in there too long. The smell would have bowled over a full-grown water-buffalo. I breathed as shallow as was concordant with survival and kept going, stopping only to scribble on a note pad with a pencil flashlight.
A sudden hissing noise froze my blood then, after a few paralysing seconds, a cat stalked across the alley, barely visible in the darkness. I was on the last barrel when the back door of Le Trouquet d’Or slammed open and light poured out in a flood.
A figure was silhouetted in the doorway, massive shoulders, bullet head, long arms. He could crush me like an empty cigarette packet. My hand crept inside my jacket pocket—I had come prepared for such emergencies. I didn’t think he could see me but I stayed still, hardly breathing. He spat, yawned, stretched. The seconds were eternal, time didn’t exist.
Then he turned back inside and the door banged shut. The darkness was intense by contrast. I waited a few more moments then slowly let go of the wallet in my pocket, thankful I hadn’t been forced to use it. I completed my inventory of the last barrel and hurried off, a bath for once higher on my priority list than food or drink.
When Raymond came into my office, it was exactly one week after his first visit. I had looked the chair over and it seemed capable of its task. It groaned only gently as Raymond sank into it.
“You say you have the answers for me,” he stated without formality.
I handed him several hand-written sheets. “I assumed you wouldn’t want a typist to see these.”
He grunted, reading quickly. When he had finished, he grunted again. “Let’s go through this.”
“All right.”
“First, you say François uses ortolans.”
“Yes. I thought it was ortolan from the Landes when I tasted it. But his are from Piedmont—they’re plumper even than quail.”
“How do you know where they’re from?”
“I saw the airway bill when they were delivered.”
“You say he marinates in vinegar, lemon grass and saffron…”
“I smelled the marinade and I saw the jars in the kitchen.”
I thought a brief look of surprise flitted across his face when he heard me mention being in the kitchen but then it was gone. He looked at the sheets again.
“He glazes with honey before roasting?”
“Not ordinary old honey though. It’s from Crete—has that extraordinary amber colour.”
“You saw that in the kitchen too?”
I had seen the jars in the garbage barrel but I wasn’t going to tell Raymond that. PI’s have to have some secrets. I moved my head in a motion which he was free to interpret as a nod.
“Rocambole, the Spanish garlic. It’s milder, as you know. He gets this from Valencia.” I had seen the labels in the garbage barrel too.
He read again in silence, his mind re-creating each step in the preparation and the cooking. I could see him searching for errors in judgement or mistakes in identification.
“They roast at 230 degrees, you say?”
“Yes and if you look at the menu list there, you’ll see that this is logical,” I said. “Take the chicken dishes first. The Demi-Deuil and the Fedora are both poached while the Anette, Bordelaise and Perigourdine are all sautéed.”
He nodded and I continued. “The Paupiettes de Veau are braised, the veal chops and the lamb are casseroled. The Andouillettes and the Pig’s Leg Zampino are boiled. The fish dishes are all grilled or meuniered.
“There are three ovens in the kitchen. One was cold, two were operating. There are only three beef dishes on the menu and all would require temperatures well below 200 degrees. That means that the third oven—which was set at 230 degrees—must be used for the ortolans. Besides, as it is the house speciality and such a delicacy, François would use one oven for that dish alone so as not to pick up any aromas or flavours.”
Raymond said nothing. He read through all the sheets again. He tapped all the sheets neatly together, handed them to me and reached into his pocket and took out his cheque book.
“Expenses?” he asked.
I had the list on my desk. I handed it over. He paused at the item showing the meal at Le Trouquet d’Or.
“Is that what he charges?”
“It is.”
“H’m,” he commented. He opened the cheque book and wrote out another fine-looking piece of paper for the full amount—the thousand pound balance, seven days’ work plus expenses.
“You did a good job,” he said. Coming from a man who clearly didn’t pass out many compliments, that was quite an admission.
“Good enough to earn a bonus?” I asked.
He looked at me, questioning.
“A meal at your restaurant when you cook Oiseau Royal,” I said.
His look turned to one of mild astonishment.
“But that will never be on the menu at my restaurant.”
“Well, you’ll change the name, of course—”
“I will never cook it.”
It was my turn to be astonished. “But after all this—the work, the money—”
Raymond’s large, sad face showed a hint of contempt. “A creative cook doesn’t copy, he originates.”
“Then why?” I asked perplexed. “Why did you hire me?”
He looked at me, almost pitying. “He—” he said and I knew he meant François—“originates too. I wanted to know how original he is.”
I felt deflated. I had done a good job—and for what? The cheque helped to take the edge off the disappointment but I found myself a little baffled by the convolutions of the creative culinary mind.
We shook hands and I let him out. I went back to my desk and picked up the sheets that marked the end of a case. I wrote “Raymond” on a folder, made a few notes on another sheet and filed the whole thing.
Now I could get back to routine. The first item in the morning mail had been an invitation to a blind tasting of eight vintages of Mouton Rothschild from 1971 to 1983. How could I say “no” to that! I wrote an acceptance for Mary Chen to type.
Then there was a letter from the Aluminium Producers’ Association. Would I be willing to be a member of a panel to make an impartial examination of the evidence relating to aluminium in food? This looked like a tricky one. How impartial did they want me to be?
Aluminium is a potentially lethal metal which is leached out of the soil by acid rain. In high acid-rain fall-out areas, aluminium exists in high concentrations in both surface and ground water. Fish are affected first naturally but the alarming news for humans is that aluminium is implicated in most neurological disorders—particularly Parkinson’s Disease and Alzheimer’s Disease. People still cook with aluminium pots and pans, use aluminium foil and cans and other sources of aluminium include baking powder, spices, food additives, antacids … What would the aluminium producers expect me to say? No prizes for the answer to that—maybe I should stay clear of the whole thing.
On the other hand, I was on a couple of committees which watched out for any elements which could be present in food and might be considered harmful. If I did my duty to these committees, I had a duty to speak out. Joining this panel would furnish a lot of useful data—would it be considered treacherous to obtain such information in such a way when I knew I would use it against aluminium? Another dilemma to ponder over.
I was still working my way through the pile of correspondence when the outside door bell rang. I glanced at my desk calendar. It confirmed what I was already sure of—I had no appointments. I pushed the button to release the door and went to open the door to my office.
A man was standing there. He looked like he might once have been a boxer. His nose was slightly awry, his face was scarred. His eyes though were piercing and alert and his voice was clipped and strong.
“You’re the Gourmet Detective?”
“Right. Do we have an appointment?”
“No,” he said and pushed past me. I barely had time to wave him to the chair when he was sitting in it. He moved with an agile stride and he eased an athletic body into the chair as he said:
“I want to talk to you about a very serious matter,” and my mouth went as dry as if I had just ingested a box of croutons and a sack of salted peanuts.
I was trying to gather my thoughts so as to explain everything. I had no doubt that some very good explanations were going to be necessary—some very good explanations indeed because I recognised my unannounced visitor as François Duquesne, the owner and proprietor of Le Trouquet d’Or.
Chapter Five
I HAD DONE NOTHING illegal. That was the thought that kept racing through my brain. I just hoped I could convince François of that. Had I done anything unethical? Well, I had unveiled a secret recipe but I had done it by ingenuity, experience and intelligence, not by stealth or lying. I hoped I could convince François of that too.
Recollections of a magazine interview came flooding back. François not only looked like he might have been a boxer—he had been a boxer. Struggling to accumulate enough money to open his first restaurant, he had done some prizefighting among other things. I couldn’t remember what those other things were and it might be better if I didn’t try. Prizefighting was bad enough—the others might be even more terrifying.
The alert eyes had me transfixed. He had still said nothing so I decided to take the initiative—whatever it might be. It turned out to be a pretty feeble initiative.
“This—er, serious matter…” was the best I could summon and even then I had to clear my throat to continue. “Perhaps, well perhaps it’s not that serious…”
François moved his position slightly. The chair made no protest. “Oh but it is,” he said softly. “Very serious indeed.”
I would have groaned but my parched throat wouldn’t have allowed it. I swallowed so that I could speak.
“But you’re a great chef—you have conceived so many great dishes—”
“You know who I am?” He sounded more pleased than surprised. I was relieved—even the most important people respond to a little flattery and I needed all the help I could get.
“Of course,” I assured him. “Everyone knows you.” I was laying it on a little thick but the exaggeration was pardonable under the circumstances. He nodded, not with pride but rather with the confidence that comes from the recognition that one’s talents are known and appreciated.
“I have been told that you are the man I should talk to,” he said and even those chilling words didn’t prevent me from noting that his English was without accent. Nevertheless, my body temperature dropped several degrees because I had another irre
levant thought. I had just remembered the other job he had had besides prizefighting. He had been a butcher.
“My business has been a little slow lately,” I pleaded. “When a good assignment comes up, I take it. I mean, I have to, I can’t afford to say no.”
“I hope you’re not going to say no to me.” His slightly gravelly voice was softer yet. Was it with menace? I tried not to shiver.
“Things are picking up now though,” I told him hurriedly. “I’m getting quite busy. Anyway, you’re not concerned about the past, it’s over and done with. It doesn’t matter who or what—”
He cut in smoothly. “Let me tell you why I am here and then you can judge whether you really want to say no to me.”
I was getting desperate. His cool calm manner was infinitely more terrifying than any threats.
“Some activities of a detective—well, any kind of detective really—are not always evident to the outsider,” I rushed to explain. “What may seem like trickery and deception may be merely observation and deduction. No puzzle can be devised but that someone can’t find the answer. No code can be invented that can’t be broken—” I broke off. He was looking at me strangely. I plunged on anyway, “—and no recipe has ever been created that can’t be re-created.”
“Re-created?” he said as though baffled. He went on in a firmer tone. “Someone is trying to put me out of business.”
“Surely you’re mistaken!” It was fatuous but it simply blurted out. How could one recipe put him out of business?
He shook his head again, very firmly. His eyes were grim and his mouth was tight and determined. That pugnacious chin jutted out as he said, “No. I’m not mistaken. Someone is trying to put me out of business.”
I was really in trouble and I knew it. Worse, I didn’t have a clue on how I was going to get out of it. But how had he found out? Had one of the staff recognised me? A customer even? Perhaps Raymond had been seen leaving my office? Otherwise, how …
François was speaking again. “Let me tell you what has happened at Le Trouquet d’Or during the past few weeks. Shipments of food items have been diverted—always vital ingredients for certain popular dishes. Mice were found in the kitchen the morning of a visit by a food inspector. VAT records disappeared and were never found.” His voice was bitter and I found I was holding my breath. We looked at each other. Neither spoke. Then I asked in a croaky voice “Anything else?”