Monsieur Pamplemousse (Monsieur Pamplemousse Series)

by Michael Bond

  Monsieur Pamplemousse

  Michael Bond

  Contents

  Title Page

  1 MONDAY EVENING

  2 TUESDAY MORNING

  3 TUESDAY EVENING

  4 TUESDAY NIGHT

  5 WEDNESDAY MORNING

  6 WEDNESDAY EVENING

  7 THURSDAY AFTERNOON

  8 FRIDAY MORNING

  9 FRIDAY AFTERNOON

  10 SATURDAY

  About the Author

  By Michael Bond

  Copyright

  1

  MONDAY EVENING

  Monsieur Pamplemousse dipped a little finger sur­reptitiously into the remains of some sauce Madère which had accompanied his Filet de Boeuf en Croûte and licked it reflectively before making a note on a small pad concealed beneath a flap in his right trouser leg.

  Repeating the first part of the operation, he held his hand momentarily below the level of the table-cloth and felt the familiar roughness of a warm and appreci­ative tongue reach up to lick it clean.

  A moment later there was a gentle stirring, followed by the padding of four large feet as Pommes Frites rose into view and made his way slowly across the floor of the restaurant.

  A loud lapping sound coming from the direction of a water bowl situated just inside the entrance doors con­firmed Monsieur Pamplemousse’s worst suspicions. He underlined the note he had just made and then returned the pen to an inside pocket.

  If Pommes Frites agreed that the sauce Madère was too salty, then too salty it was.

  Strange that it should be so in such a renowned establishment as the Hôtel-Restaurant La Langoustine. In all the years he had been visiting St. Castille such a thing had never happened before. It could mean only one of two things; either an inexperienced and over-generous hand had been at the salt cellar in the kitchen—which seemed unlikely—or Auguste Douard, the chef-patron, was ‘taking precautions’.

  Putting salt in the Madeira to prevent staff from imbibing too much on the sly was an old trick, but in this case, with La Langoustine already the proud possessor of two Red Stock Pots in Le Guide, and well on its way to the supreme accolade of a third, such a move seemed not only unwarranted but positively foolhardy. Unless … Monsieur Pamplemousse resolved to keep a watchful eye on the situation. Over-indulgence of liquor was a recognised occu­pational hazard in the culinary world, but it was a hazard which needed to be resisted at all costs if one wished to scale the heights of the profession. It would be a disaster of the first magnitude if Monsieur Douard himself were to succumb to the bottle at this stage in his career.

  Nevertheless, one had to be firm. There were stan­dards which, once set, had to be maintained and lived up to. Working for Le Guide had taught him one thing: never to relax, never to take things for granted, always to savour, to analyse and compare.

  The fillet of beef had been admirable; tender and lightly cooked beforehand to ensure that its juices were properly sealed within before being encased in its envelope of flaky pastry. As for the pastry, as ever it had been a miracle of lightness; the two together had made a magnificent, a heavenly combination. A slightly reckless choice for a first course, especially in view of what was to follow, but the journey had been a long one and there were two mouths to feed. Besides, it had been a very small portion—just enough to taste and report on. As things turned out he was glad he’d chosen it, for the accompanying sauce had definitely been below par.

  Having justified the matter in his mind, Monsieur Pamplemousse helped himself to a solitary olive, mentally deducting another point from the restaurant’s total for having failed to remove the plate when the first course arrived, and a further point from his own personal tally for being so weak.

  Choosing a moment when all the waiters had their backs to him, he poured a quick glass of wine from a bottle cradled in a large, carved wooden sabot standing nearby, then he slipped the cork under the table for Pommes Frites to examine.

  An approving sniff came from somewhere below the folds of the cloth. Given the choice, Pommes Frites much preferred Bordeaux, but he was no mean judge of Burgundy either. If it were possible to translate a sniff into oenological terms, then Pommes Frites’ verdict was: ‘If you must have a Côtes du Rhône instead of a decent Pauillac—and seeing we are more or less in the area, why not?—then what better than a ’73 Hermitage?’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse swirled the deep red liquid around in the glass, held it to his nose and sipped. The bouquet was superb, the taste complex and full of character. The vineyard must have escaped the late hail storms of that year. It promised well.

  Pushing aside the sabot, he tucked his napkin firmly inside his shirt collar in preparation for the next course, then turned his attention to his surroundings, reflecting as he did so that only in his beloved France could a restaurant combine all that was best in food with the worst excesses of interior design.

  La Langoustine had reached its present eminence largely on account of its food. That, and an attention to detail in the hotel itself which was beyond reproach. The freshly cut flowers and the confiseries placed in all the rooms to welcome the guests when they arrived, the bowl of fruit beside every bed and the assortment of soaps and perfumes and aftershave lotions in the bathrooms, more than made up for any deficiencies in the décor.

  But having said that, it had to be admitted that in other respects the hotel was a veritable monument to bad taste. Bad taste which had its roots in the days when wood was as plentiful and easy to come by as plastic is today.

  Like her forbears, Madame Sophie Douard was deeply into wood and she, too, had added to the general effect in no mean way. Apart from the sabots and a large collection of old fire bellows which adorned the heavily panelled walls, wood in all its possible shapes and sizes and colours filled the dining room. But even these decorations were dwarfed by a trolley of positively heroic dimensions which occupied a position of honour in the centre of the room. Mounted on a pair of old cartwheels, it made the serving of sweets a hazard to both diner and waiter alike.

  The Hôtel-Restaurant La Langoustine had stood in its present position for something like two hundred years. Founded by Madame Hortense Douard, who had won brief fame during the Revolution by delaying the approaching hordes by methods best left unreported, and whose memory was enshrined by a statue in the square outside, it had survived two world wars and between whiles prospered in its own quiet way.

  When Auguste, fresh from catering college, met and married Sophie, he changed his name by deed poll so as to preserve the continuity of the Douard family. After a period of several years away from St. Castille, during which time he served his apprenticeship with some of the great names in French cuisine, he returned to take command following the death of Sophie’s father, and from that day on La Langoustine had never looked back.

  As Auguste’s reputation spread far beyond boun­daries never dreamed of by its founder, it began to cater for a more cosmopolitan clientele, and a further sign of the changing times lay in the fact that Madame Hortense’s statue now boasted a fountain with twin jets which gushed forth from points neither nature nor its original creator had ever intended.

  Lately, in anticipation of receiving his third Stock Pot, Auguste had taken to dropping his Christian name in favour of plain Douard, and rumour had it that a cookery book—Cuisine Douard—was already in pre­paration, ready to be launched when the big moment arrived.

  Work had lately begun on modernising the hotel—converting cupboards into extra toilets and box-rooms into en suite bathrooms, and plans were under way for an extension to the building. Already cranes were poking their noses over the r
ooftop as a group of old outhouses at the rear was demolished to make way for the new.

  Perhaps, by the time he came again, the postcard which he sent home as always, marking his room with its view of the garden, would be redundant. Monsieur Pamplemousse hoped not. He had the resistance to change which came with middle age.

  The restaurant was beginning to fill up; a sprinkling of tourists—he was pleased to see an English couple deep in their copy of Le Guide, and at a table next to them two earnest American ladies, schoolteachers by their appearance, were busy working out where they had been on their gastronomic tour of Europe, and where they were going to next. For a moment he marvelled at the way such slender frames could emit such piercing voices and accommodate such vast quantities of food into the bargain. Perhaps the dissipa­tion of all that energy in talk and travel enabled them to burn up the excess calories gained en route? Several tables were occupied by prosperous-looking business­men, bemoaning the iniquities of governments past, present and future, and yet wearing their prosperity with accustomed ease; others by scientists from the nearby solar energy station. There was a courting couple who were paying more attention to each other than they were to the food. A young man at a crowded table in the middle of the room was making great play with his knowledge of wine—probably the son of a wealthy vigneron, for he spoke with authority.

  And in the far corner, partly cut off from the rest of the diners by a wooden screen, sat the blonde girl and her partner who had been responsible for the unpleasantness earlier in the evening.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse stole a quick glance at her. Tall and slim, her clothes bore the unmistakable air of quality which only the very wealthy as opposed to the merely well-off can afford.

  It had all been over in a matter of moments, but it had left a nasty taste in his Kir Royale. Certainly there was no trace of forgiveness in her pale blue eyes as they momentarily met his and held them. Eyes that matched her too impeccable accent; utterly without warmth. She looked as if she wished him anywhere but where he was sitting. He was unmoved.

  The visit to the Hôtel-Restaurant La Langoustine was, for Monsieur Pamplemousse, an annual event, a way of killing two birds with one stone. The combining of business with pleasure was normally frowned on by the powers that be at Le Guide. Strict and unbiassed anonymity was the rule. But Monsieur Pamplemousse had been visiting the hotel for many years, following the rise in its fortunes with a friendly eye and an appreciative stomach, and each year he combined a brief holiday with an up-to-date report. Others would have to follow on, of course, to confirm his findings, particularly now it was in line for a further Stock Pot. That would mean a visit or two from Monsieur le Directeur himself. But his annual stay there was acknowledged to be sacrosanct.

  He always occupied the same room, on the first floor at the back of the hotel, overlooking the garden and away from the noise of traffic in the main square.

  Pommes Frites had a space reserved for his inflatable kennel below the window—not a bone’s throw away from the kitchens, where he had many friends. Above all, they had their own special table in the restaurant. Monsieur Pamplemousse was a creature of habit; he needed certain parameters to which he could relate on his travels. It was the only way one could do the job and retain a degree of sanity and a healthy digestion.

  He liked his table in the corner. From it he could watch the goings on in the rest of the room and yet remain relatively unnoticed. He could observe the arrival and departure of the other guests and keep a watchful eye on the staff as they bustled to and fro between kitchen and dining room. Above all, he was close enough to the entrance to overhear snatches of conversation when people left; little titbits which were invaluable when it came to making out his report.

  All the more reason then, to feel deeply aggrieved when he came downstairs that evening and found the blonde girl engaged in a bitter argument with the maître d’hôtel on the subject of his table.

  Normally accommodating in such matters, Mon­sieur Pamplemousse had politely but firmly stood his ground.

  Fortunately Pommes Frites had taken the situation in at a glance and put an end to the discussion by settling himself down with such a proprietorial air it left no room for further argument.

  All the same, it had been very disturbing while it lasted. The girl had taken it with particularly bad grace, and if the look she’d flung at Monsieur Pamplemousse as she and her companion were ushered to another table could have been translated into deeds, a certain part of his anatomy would by now have been sizzling merrily away in the sauté pan, destined for the doubtful privilege of appearing on the menu under the heading ‘Dishes of the Day’.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse shifted uneasily in his chair at the thought. And yet … despite, or perhaps because of her ill-temper, which had brought a becoming flush to her cheeks and a disconcerting rise and fall to her breasts, she had a certain fascination which he was not alone in appreciating. He’d noticed others in the room casting curious glances in the direction of the screen from time to time, obviously in the hope of catching another glimpse.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse couldn’t resist taking another quick look himself. As he did so he gave a start. Until that moment he’d hardly given the girl’s companion more than a passing glance. He seemed a perfectly ordinary young man. Dark, possibly Italian from his looks; whereas he’d put the girl down as German or Scandinavian, her accent had been just a little too perfect. Discreetly dressed, obviously deeply embarrassed by the whole affair, he’d done his best to merge into the background, hardly uttering a word. Hands in his jacket pockets, he’d seemed only too anxious to escape behind the screen. Now Monsieur Pamplemousse could see why.

  As he watched, the young man reached across the table to hand a dish to the girl. Almost immediately there was a crack like a pistol shot and it broke in two. The reason was simple. In place of a normal hand he had what looked like a steel claw, not unlike the grab on one of the mechanical excavators outside.

  But there was worse to come. Brushing aside a waiter who rushed to his aid, the young man reached up with his other hand and revealed a second claw, identical to the first. Monsieur Pamplemousse drew in his breath with an involuntary gasp. Poor devil. What possible disaster could have been responsible for such a dreadful misfortune?

  To his surprise the girl hardly seemed to notice, let alone offer to help. Instead, she had her eyes firmly fixed on the door leading to the kitchen as it swung open and a waiter bearing a large silver dish covered by a matching silver top entered the room and headed towards Monsieur Pamplemousse, where he placed it reverentially on a serving table in front of him.

  The maître d’hôtel hurried forward.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse looked at him with con­cern, the couple in the corner forgotten for the moment. The man looked as white as a sheet.

  ‘Is anything the matter, Felix?’

  ‘No, Monsieur Pamplemousse … that is to say …’ Casting an anxious glance towards the kitchen, he wiped a bead of sweat from his brow. Then, seemingly reassured, he spread his hands out in the gesture of one whose fate is not of their choosing; a mixture of fatalistic acceptance of things past and apology for other events to come.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse resolved to ignore every­thing in favour of concentrating on the task in hand. Everyone had their problems and doubtless all would be revealed in due course. There were more important things to think about. Already he could feel a stirring at his feet as Pommes Frites’ nose inched its way out to investigate the arrival of the pièce de résistance.

  One of the specialities of La Langoustine, in fact it would be true to say the speciality, was Poularde de Bresse en Vessie Royale; a whole chicken from Bresse, the best in all France, specially reared for Monsieur Douard and marked with his personal number by a private breeder, corn fed to precise instructions from the moment it was hatched to the day on which it was ready for the table, at which point it was care­fully prepared with slices of truffle slipped beneath the skin and stuffed with seas
oned foie gras. Placed inside a freshly scraped pig’s bladder, which had been cleaned with salt and vinegar, it was then sewn up and cooked in a pot of chicken consommé for two and a half hours.

  A dish fit for a king. Indeed, Auguste Douard had first prepared it for a minor royal personage who had chanced on the hotel, and it had remained on the menu ever since.

  ‘Voilà, Monsieur!’ Felix removed the domed lid with a flourish and then stood back mopping his brow again.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse felt his mouth begin to water as the smell reached his nostrils. Pommes Frites gave a snuffle of anticipation, knowing full well that even his master couldn’t tackle the whole of a dish which was normally meant for two.

  The maître d’hôtel picked up a carving knife and a fork and stood with them poised, one in each hand. For some reason or other he seemed to have a strange reluctance to cut open the envelope where it had been sewn together. First he put the knife down, then he picked it up again, and each time he did so he gave a little moan.

  Finally, unable to contain himself a moment longer, Monsieur Pamplemousse jumped to his feet. ‘I do not know what has come over this restaurant tonight,’ he exclaimed. ‘Nor, at this stage, do I greatly care. Allow me. It is not going to bite you. At least, I sincerely hope not.’

  For some reason his words had a devastating effect on Felix and his voice when it came was a barely audible croak. ‘As you wish, Monsieur.’ He backed away and clutched at the sweet trolley for support.

  With the assurance of one who has seen it done a thousand times before, Monsieur Pamplemousse took the implements and with one deft movement pierced the bladder along its seam with the carving knife, at the same time pulling the gap apart with the fork. Then he stood back to admire his handiwork as the balloon-like outer casing collapsed on to the dish, revealing the contents for all to see.

  As he did so the blood drained from his face. For a brief moment there was silence and then a woman screamed.