by Michael Bond
Feeling inside his jacket he removed a long white envelope which bore, on the back flap, an embossed reproduction of Le Guide’s symbol – two crossed escargots rampant. It contained the letter the Director had given him before he left, outlining his own plans for the inaugural flight.
Knowing how long-winded the Director could be when he got his hands on a dictating machine, Monsieur Pamplemousse had put off reading it for as long as possible. The Director was inclined to write as he spoke; brevity was not his strong point.
He skipped the first two pages, which were mostly a repeat of all that had been said in his office the day before. It read as though he had been interrupted in mid-sentence by the telephone, not once, but several times. It wasn’t until the middle of page three that he got to the heart of the matter.
‘… in short, Pamplemousse, my suggestion, and it is only a suggestion, but a good one, I think, nonetheless, is that we should confine ourselves to no more than six courses; simple peasant dishes of the kind one might find in any little café or bistro in the area over which the dirigible will be flying. Dishes that reveal the true glory of France – its food. If there is sufficient time, we might even produce a special souvenir carte on the cover of which, inscribed in gold leaf, are those very words: Les Six Gloires de la France. Underneath one could add the symbol of Le Guide; two escargots rampant. There is no reason why we should not profit from the occasion.
‘Now, to start with, one might have some of those little pastry delicacies – their correct name escapes me – but they are stuffed with foie gras and served alongside raw oysters. The two go particularly well together, especially when accompanied by a glass of very cold Château d’Yquem – I would suggest the ’66. You may if you wish, leave that to me. I have a particularly good source.
‘After that, how about some Oeufs Pochés aux Moules? Eggs poached in the juice in which some mussels have been cooked. I had it the other evening. The eggs and the mussels should be served with Hollandaise sauce. I am told that for the dish to be at its best the eggs should be as fresh as possible …’
Suddenly aware that a gust of wind was blowing them sideways, Monsieur Pamplemousse looked out of the window. They were now flying inland. It was hard to make out where they were. He peered at the scene through his binoculars and immediately wished he hadn’t. All he could see was endless fields of artichokes. They looked rather sad, as though they, too, felt they had seen the best of the day. He wondered when the Director had last eaten in a simple Breton bistro. The menu might also account for his being on a diet; a sad state of affairs for the editor of the most prestigious of France’s many food guides. It sounded as though he was mentally trying to make up for lost meals.
‘… lobster, of course – or a Langouste – perhaps à la crème, followed by a roast duck from Nantes. As I am sure you know, it is at its best when cooked in a sauce made from butter, cream and eau-de-vie de Muscadet. I will leave the choice of wine to you.
‘By that time they should be over Normandy where cream really comes into its own. I believe les Anglais often prefer to have their cheese at the end of a meal – a habit they most certainly didn’t acquire from the Normans. However, ours is not to reason why. That being so, we could continue the theme of simplicity with some of those delicious tartlets made with eggs and almonds and cream which are a speciality of the area. I believe they are known as Mirlitons …’
Monsieur Pamplemousse had some difficulty focusing on the next page as the airship hit a pocket of air and fell rapidly before rising, nose-up again. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the hostess buckling herself into a seat. He thought she looked rather white.
‘… then, Pamplemousse …’ Monsieur Pamplemousse could almost sense from the writing – the way the letters were slanted, that the Director was about to produce one of his masterstrokes, ‘… then, Camembert should be served – preferably a non-pasteurised example from the Pays d’Ange. Although the season is almost over, I have a special reason for suggesting it rather than, say, a Pont-l’Evêque or a Brillat-Savarin. Legend has it that when Napoleon first tasted Camembert he kissed the waitress who had the honour of serving him. So, who knows? With the exercise of a little tact, one might arrange matters …
‘Once again, Pamplemousse, I leave it to your good judgement. You have so much more experience in these affairs than I.
‘To round things off, for by that time they should be on the last leg of their epic journey and nearing Londres, in deference to our English guests, I suggest that with the café we serve, instead of petits fours, one of their own specialities. There is one I am thinking of which they call “trifle”. I have looked it up in one of their recipe books – a slim volume – it was left behind by an English girl we had staying with us a few years ago. You may remember her – a blonde girl with a predilection for a dish called “Spotted Dick”. For some reason my wife took a dislike to her and she had to go, but she was something of an expert on what the English call “puddings”. I believe that before she left England for France she had been a member of a well-known pudding club.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse closed his eyes. He did indeed remember the Director’s au pair, Elsie had been her name. An unusually well-endowed girl, she had given a whole new meaning to the words ‘au pair’. He wasn’t in the slightest bit surprised she had been told to leave. Puddings were probably not the only thing she was expert at.
‘It seems to be a concoction which is made by emptying the contents of a can of tinned fruit over what are known as “sponge-fingers”, which have themselves been previously steeped in sherry. The whole is then immersed in something they call “bird’s custard”. I cannot imagine what that is, nor what it tastes like – I have enquired at Fauchon and they have promised to telephone me back, but they have yet to do so – however, it appears to be very popular. The dish is then topped by a layer of thick cream …
‘I am not sure what would go with it; the combination might prove altogether too rich, but if there is any of the Château d’Yquem left –’
The airship gave a lurch. Monsieur Pamplemousse suddenly felt extremely sick. Several things were abundantly clear. Not only was the Director sadly out of touch with the eating habits of both the English and the peasants of Brittany, he had never been up in a balloon either. Speaking for himself, he had never felt less like eating in his life. The crêpe he’d consumed at breakfast had been a ghastly mistake; the croissants a cardinal error; as for the chocolat …
Regardless of the sign warning him to keep his seat-belt fastened, Monsieur Pamplemousse released the clip and staggered towards the rear of the airship. He beat the stewardess by a short head, but he pretended not to have seen her. Never had the word TOILETTES looked so welcoming, nor a basin coming up to greet him so inviting. Pushing the door shut behind him with his foot, he slid the catch home all in one movement. It was no time for old-fashioned gallantry, more a case of every homme for himself. Not the most engaging girl he had ever met. No doubt she was prone to headaches.
Like the sign on the bulkhead above the flight-deck, the word OCCUPÉ above the toilet door stayed illuminated for the rest of the flight. Monsieur Pamplemousse was not in a mood to receive other callers. His head was spinning. His stomach ached – it felt as though it had been wrenched out at the roots. He was alternately bathed in sweat and shivering with cold. He hadn’t felt quite so ill since the time just after the war when he’d crossed La Manche during mid-winter on a visit to England. Death would have come as a welcome relief. He wasn’t even aware they had landed until he heard a familiar scratching noise on the other side of the door and realised that the engines had been turned off.
Pommes Frites’ relief at his master’s safe return was tempered with an understanding that all was not well. His welcome was suitably muted. In any case he seemed to have other things on his mind. Once he’d exchanged greetings and bestowed a welcoming lick, he disappeared outside again. There was a thoughtful expression on his face which, under normal circumstanc
es, his master would have registered immediately and wondered at. As it was, Monsieur Pamplemousse still had problems of his own.
He began gathering up his belongings, some of which had fallen to the floor. Fortunately that didn’t include the Leica, which was still on the table where he had left it. The stewardess was nowhere to be seen. She must have beaten Pommes Frites to the steps.
‘Sorry about that.’ Commander Winters climbed out of his seat. ‘We wouldn’t normally have gone up on a day like today, but your boss was most insistent when I telephoned him this morning to try and call it off. He said it was absolute top priority. Nothing must stop us. I hope you got what you wanted.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse had a mental picture of the Director sitting in his office, totally oblivious to the plight of others. He made a mental note to get his own back one day should the opportunity arise.
‘Er, I wonder if you’d mind doing something about your dog? I think he is about to attack one of our chaps.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse joined Commander Winters at the cabin door and was staggered to see Pommes Frites at the foot of the steps, fangs bared, apparently engaged in a tug-of-war with one of the ground staff over a bag of ballast. The man appeared petrified, as well he might in the circumstances. When he felt like it, Pommes Frites could look extremely menacing. His plaster had disappeared and he was positively quivering with excitement as he dug his paws into the ground, absolutely refusing to let go of his end. The accompanying sound effects boded ill for anyone rash enough to try and thwart him.
‘Sacrebleu!’ Monsieur Pamplemousse clambered down the steps as fast as he could go. ‘Asseyez-vous!’ The command, rapped out with all the authority he could muster, had an immediate effect.
Looking suitably ashamed, Pommes Frites let go of his end and sat to attention. If a flicker of surprise entered his eyes that his master should take the other man’s part, it was only momentary. He was too well trained to protest out loud.
‘Never mind. I expect he’s glad to see you back.’ Commander Winters stifled Monsieur Pamplemousse’s apologies. ‘Who’s a good boy, then?’ He bent down to pat Pommes Frites and then thought better of it. Instead, he picked up the bag. ‘Perhaps you’d like to keep this as a souvenir?’
‘Merci – you are very kind.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse would have been hard put to think of anything he wanted less as a souvenir than a ten kilogram bag of ballast. He tried to look suitably grateful as he took it, but he could see why the Commander had made the gesture. It was wet from Pommes Frites’ saliva.
Leflaix clattered down the steps, his expression grieved. Perhaps he felt disappointed at having been let down by a fellow-countryman.
‘You should always face the airship as you leave,’ he reminded Pamplemousse stiffly. ‘Otherwise it may take you by surprise.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse looked at his watch. It was mid-day. They had been up for less than an hour, but it could have been ten times as long. The last twenty minutes had seemed like forever. He said goodbye to the others and made his way unsteadily towards his car.
Throwing the bag in the back of the car, he started the engine and drove off.
‘Don’t forget to face the airship!’ The words were permanently engraved on Monsieur Pamplemousse’s mind as he acknowledged the salute from the man on duty at the gate and headed back towards Port St. Augustin. At that moment in time he felt as though he never wanted to look an airship in the face again. All he wanted to do was lie down somewhere and rest. But the grass at the side of the road looked damp and uninviting and the prospect of going back to the Ty Coz was not a happy one.
After a kilometre or so he opened the window to let in a welcome draught of cold air and almost at once started to feel better. He wondered if he should try his luck at the Hôtel du Port. A digestif of some kind might help, and if that did the trick, in the fullness of time he might even attempt an omelette; plain, of course, but with a salade de tomates and a slice or two of baguette. After that, he could explore the possibility of their having a room vacant. Whoever said ‘man cannot think on an empty stomach’ had a point. One way and another he had a lot to brood over.
Monsieur Pamplemousse wasn’t the only one with things on his mind. Pommes Frites had remained unusually quiet during the journey, putting two and two together, first one way and then another, and each time coming up with another answer. His schooling had been based on the computer-like principle that black is black and white is white. The possibility of there being various shades of grey in between had not been introduced to his curriculum in case it led to confusion. Besides, he knew what he knew. The fact that his master didn’t seem at all interested in knowing about it, he put down to a temporary lapse brought on, not unsurprisingly in his view, by the previous evening’s meal followed by going up in a balloon. A lethal combination.
What, in Pommes Frites’ humble opinion, his master needed most in order to restore him to good health was some grass. In fact, he fully expected him to pull in to the side of the road at any moment so that he could gather some.
Pommes Frites’ training was also based on a system which recognised good work when it saw it and rewarded it accordingly – usually with a suitable tit-bit from the boucherie. So far that reward had not been forthcoming. Neither, for that matter, had there been much in the way of recompense for the unwarranted attack on his nose.
It was with these thoughts uppermost in his mind that he followed his master into the bar of the Hôtel du Port, and shortly afterwards outside again onto the terrace.
The bad weather had driven most of the people off the beach and into the cafés, restaurants and crêperies around the harbour. Monsieur Pamplemousse had to squeeze his way through a maze of beach-bags, sunshades and other impedimenta to reach the one remaining table in the corner nearest the sea. A smell of damp clothes filled the air. He felt sorry for all those who’d been looking forward to a sun-drenched holiday; even more sorry for the waitresses who were struggling to serve them.
Corks popped, plates clattered. Orders shouted over the heads of the diners were repeated by a disembodied voice from somewhere inside the hotel. Cries of ‘un Muscadet’ echoed from all sides, and were repeated as bottles were plunged into buckets of ice.
He wondered if any of the old staff were still there. Most of them had probably got married by now, or forsaken Brittany for the promise of a better life in Paris. The fourteenth arrondissement was full of girls who had left home in search of fame and fortune but who had got no further than the area around the Gare Montparnasse. The girl who took his order looked as though she would have happily settled for that with no questions asked. Her coiffe was not at its best, her matching lace apron looked decidedly ruffled.
A large and juicy steak was deposited on a nearby serving table by another waitress while she went off for the rest of her order. Monsieur Pamplemousse studiously averted his gaze. Steak was not what he fancied most at that moment. Despite his musings the night before, it was not high on his list of choices when he was staying in an area noted for its seafood, and in his present state of health it had very low priority indeed.
However, at that moment there occurred a strange and unexpected diversion which totally took his mind off his surroundings and made even Pommes Frites sit up and take notice.
Making her way slowly along the deserted promenade there appeared an elderly female of such bizarre appearance it almost took the breath away. The whole restaurant went quiet at the same instant. One moment it had been all noise and chatter, the next moment silence descended as everybody stopped eating and turned to watch her progress towards them.
In his time, when mingling among the down-and-outs under the bridges of the Seine had been all part of a night’s work, Monsieur Pamplemousse thought he had seen everything. But even the bell which once upon a time rang at the old Les Halles vegetable market, signalling the end of trading for the day and the moment when the clochards could take their pick of the leftovers, had never brought forth such a tru
ly wretched specimen of humanity.
Two nuns came round a corner, crossed themselves, and then disappeared back the way they had come. A gendarme suddenly discovered he was needed urgently elsewhere and followed suit.
As she loomed nearer, the old woman looked, if possible, even more malodorous. Her putty-coloured hair hung in great knots down her back. The several layers of cardigan covering her upper half were topped by a scarf so matted it looked as though it must have been glued in place. Her feet, partially encased in a pair of ancient carpet slippers held together by string, were black with the dirt of ages. A slit up one side of a grey skirt revealed the top of an even greyer stocking held in place by yet another piece of string. String, in fact, seemed to play an important part in the old woman’s attire. It looked as though anyone foolish enough – or drunk enough – to pull one of the ends would have caused the whole ensemble to collapse.
Much to Monsieur Pamplemousse’s dismay she came to a halt almost directly opposite his table. Waving a battered parasol with one hand and brandishing an empty wine bottle above her head with the other, she began screaming in a shrill voice for the patron.
Monsieur Pamplemousse eyed her uneasily, uncomfortably aware that his was the only table on the terrace with a spare seat. The possibility of sharing a meal with such an object was not a happy one. He prayed that his omelette wouldn’t arrive. It had been a mistake to ask for it baveuse; it could be as overdone as they liked. It could be left to cook for another ten minutes if need be.
He did his best to avoid the old crone’s gaze as she swayed closer and closer, leaning back in his chair as she thrust the empty wine bottle in his face.
Fortunately, he was saved the ultimate embarrassment by the arrival of the Madame. She was closely followed by the chef brandishing a large kitchen knife.