by Nan Lyons
The upsetting thing is that Achille is rather busy and couldn’t spend as much time with me as he had wanted. I’ve decided therefore to hang around for another day before heading for Paris. I don’t want there to be any loose ends in London. (God, how I hate traveling around like this.)
About Paris. If for some reason I can’t nail Louis—and I’ll even stay another day to try to—I have no doubt that we can do well with any one of half a dozen French cooks I know who would sauté their mothers if it meant more money.
Tell Brian OEUF-OEUF is too cutesy for the Paris operation. Is he certain that Humpty Dumpty is not in any French nursery-rhyme books? Tell him also to check in Italian because NUOVO UOVO is just as bad.
Now about the enclosed report. It’s brilliant. You don’t even have to read it. Just make copies and circulate it. You’ll probably get some flack from BIG WHITE CHEF, but I do insist that eggs not be opened until the moment they’re to be used. The cooks will have to make this concession, although they prefer having everything premixed. Since we’re just using fresh eggs, there’s no reason to have a mix standing around getting tired and dirty when nature has provided us with the perfect “crack pack.” Aside from this, I don’t think there should be any problem. The whole thing is so goddamn right, it can’t miss.
O.K. I’ll be at the Plaza in Paris. You can reach me there. I’m off now for a little well-earned R&R. The pigeons in Trafalgar Square await!
Max
HAND DELIVER TO CONNAUGHT HOTEL—MS. NATASHA O’BRIEN
Nat—
For old times’ sake? I won’t leave my room till I hear from you. I miss you, babe. Even though.
Millie
Chapter 4
Natasha and Louis lay together in his bed. Naked and asleep.
Louis Kohner’s flat was a one-room studio near Cheyne Place on the embankment opposite Battersea Park. After his separation from Hildegarde, Louis sought the Battersea area because it reminded him of Brighton. From his windows he could see the reflection of the amusement-park lights, and even hear an occasional strain from the carrousel. Brighton had been a happy place. There had been good cooking and good loving.
Three floor-to-ceiling windows covered one end of Louis’ rectangular studio. In front of the windows, as a painter would position his easel, Louis had commissioned a huge circular cooking area—sink, stove, oven, refrigerator, and generous work space. Above the circular butcher-block work surface was a round brass-and-copper pot rack from which hung a complete catalog of pots and pans. To one side of the island was a small alcove lined with over a hundred huge cork-topped test tubes filled with spices of every color and texture. The opposite alcove was filled with cookbooks, piles of newspaper clippings, menus, and notebooks.
The other walls were hung with prints and original oil paintings, all still lifes—fruit, game, vegetables, fish. A well-worn rectangular table with eight armchairs stood in front of the cooking area. The only other furniture in the room was a gleaming ornate brass bed that was angled in a comer.
It was morning. Louis had sensed it even without opening his eyes. “Tasha,” he murmured to reassure himself. He turned to lie on his stomach, careful to position himself so that his genitals rested on the open palm of her outstretched hand. He opened his eyes to find her mouth, and as they kissed, her fingers involuntarily tightened around the stiffening pressure on her palm. They kissed again, their eyes open.
“I do so love to be wakened by a cock growing,” she said.
“You’re hurting,” he said, pulling back slightly, as she released her grip.
“I’m sorry, Liebchen.” She raised herself and bent forward to kiss his penis. Then she stretched out, her head resting on his leg as she began to lick and caress the wounded area. Louis arched his back and moved his head so that he pressed his nose between her legs. She felt his tongue start to search inside her.
“You know,” she said as she began licking the length of his penis, “you could stand a little salt, darling.”
Louis raised his head, breathing hard. He used the back of his hand to wipe the moisture from his lips. “Had the recipe been mine, I would have added tarragon.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, love,” she said, catching her breath as she took the head of his penis from her mouth, “you never knew the right use for tarragon.” She cupped her hands around his testicles. “For example, that salad in Rouen …”
Louis narrowed his eyes while his fingers continued exploring deep inside her. “And what was wrong with my salad in Rouen?”
“Oh,” she moaned in response to the strength in his hand. “I told you, love, it was the tarragon that was all wrong.”
“It was a superb…” He winced sharply. “Don’t bite,” he said. “It was a superb salad.”
“No, darling,” she answered, breathing heavily, “I’m sorry, but I didn’t mean to bite that hard. The salad was a disaster. You just can’t add tarragon to endive without making the endive schizophrenic. Oh, that’s marvelous,” she whispered.
Louis was on top of her. Her arms closed tightly around him. He began to penetrate. Slowly, slowly, slowly as he asked her, “And what did you think of my Pigeonneaux last night?”
Natasha pressed her fingers into his back. “Ach, mein Führer, the only thing better than your cooking is your fucking.”
…
Louis was taking a shower, and Natasha sat up in bed with the sheet pulled around her waist. If only they loved one another, she thought. Really loved one another. With passion and need, rather than affection and guilt. It was Louis who had taken her in as a child after her mother died. In truth, Louis and Hildegarde. They fed and clothed her, taught her a trade, got her a job as apprentice at Demel’s. Natasha had never known her own father, and Louis was “Papa Louis” to her, at least until her late teens, when she and Papa Louis would make love while Hildegarde was in the shop baking Schwarzwälder Kirschtorten.
Perhaps the problem was they had already known each other too well and cared for each other too much when they first became lovers. They were never emotionally insecure together, never sexual competitors. They were one, closer than she had ever been with Max. But she had felt more of a woman with Max.
Louis opened the door to the bathroom and a cloud of steam escaped, announcing his entrance. He was naked, still dripping from the shower and drying himself with a towel. “So, now that you are divorced, why did you ever marry him?”
“I don’t know. He detested oral sex.”
“I never liked him.”
“Who would you have liked for me, Papa Louis?”
“Don’t call me that.” He turned and walked into the bathroom.
“Hey, Louis,” she called.
“Yes?”
“You still got the world’s cutest ass.”
She remained in bed while he dressed. It was 6:00 A.M. and Louis was already late for his morning marketing at Covent Garden. She remembered the first time she had gone there with him, horrified at seeing the transition from lover to Gestapo agent (“Where are you hiding the good eggs? Don’t lie to me about these raspberries, I am not a fool. You will get me the flour I require. Would you wish to see your relatives eat these carrots?”) The second time, she followed behind him, listening and watching as he made unyielding demands upon the tradesmen. He sometimes spent half an hour selecting onions. Often he changed his day’s menu if the carrots were not good enough for the garni, if the veal was not pink enough for the pâté. Natasha would remain, at a safe distance, in embarrassment and in awe. But she always went, following behind him because it was at the market that she really learned to be a cook.
“Who’s in the kitchen at Arnaud’s?” she asked.
“Tuesday? Marco is off. It must be Mercuric.”
“Ugh. Is Franco still at Le Gigot?”
“No. He was fired for spitting in the soup. He went back to Lyons. They have some Greek refugee now who puts feta cheese in his Béarnaise.”
“Well, then where shall we eat?
”
“I am thinking,” he said, putting on his coat “Chinese is the least aggravating. Lee is still on Frith Street.”
“I’ll see you there at eight.”
He walked to the door. “What will you do all day?”
“I have to see Achille later.”
“That pig. Do you go to bed with him?”
“Why, Louis.” She smiled teasingly. “That would be like sleeping with my father.” He slammed the door.
It was after seven when Natasha walked into the lobby of the Connaught. She had her room key and went right upstairs without stopping at the desk.
At eleven she was awakened by someone knocking on the door. “What is it?” she asked, putting on her robe. “I hope for your sake it’s a fire.”
The knocking continued and she opened the door.
“Good day, miss. Are you Natasha O’Brien?” A tall, pinkish, balding man with steel-rimmed glasses looked at her.
“What do you want?”
“Are you Miss O’Brien?”
“Yes, I are. Who are you?”
“I am Detective Inspector Carmody of New Scotland Yard.”
“Oh, not about that business at the airport…”
“May I come in?”
“Why? What do you want?”
“Do you know Louis Kohner?”
“Yes. Why? Has something happened?”
“May I come in?”
“What is it? What’s happened?”
Detective Inspector Carmody walked past Natasha into her room. She closed the door and followed him.
“When was the last time you saw Mr. Kohner?”
“What the hell is it? Was he in a fight at the market?”
“Mr. Kohner is dead.”
“Oh, my God. No.” She sat on the bed. “There must be a mistake.”
“I’m sorry.”
“What… what happened?”
“I’m afraid he was murdered, miss.”
“Murdered?”
“I’m sorry.”
“Is this a joke? Did Max Ogden send you here?”
“Louis Kohner is dead.”
“Murdered?”
“Yes.”
“By whom?”
“We don’t know.”
She began crying. “But I just saw him. We … how?”
Detective Inspector Carmody cleared his throat. He looked directly into Natasha’s eyes. “He was baked.”
PIGEONNEAUX EN CROÛTE
4 pigeons serve 12
Only to be made in autumn
1. Wood pigeons from E. Nevins, 42B Covent Garden. In emergency, can use passenger pigeons from Mrs. Fortesque.
2. Rabbit—Harley’s farm in Surrey. Also bacon (tell him “special fed”).
3. Fresh truffles—Mr. Mimms. (Not big)
4. Pâte ordinaire—make dough 12-18 hours ahead
5. Espagnole demi-glace (arrowroot not potato flour)
6. Game aspic (tarragon vinegar)
Forcemeat
livers—quail, partridge, pheasant, hare, roebuck, choose 3. 250 grams mixed,
pork belly 125 grams
rabbit 250 grams
foie gras 50 grams (add cognac and pistachios if “tinny”)
butter 25 grams
egg yolks 3 (4, if small)
espagnole
mushroom peelings 75 grams
chopped shallots 40 grams
salt 20 grams
pepper 5 grams
cloves 2 grams
thyme sprig
bayleaf half
Madeira
1. grind forcemeat, add truffle ends.
2. bone pigeons.
3. stuff pigeons with forcemeat.
4. wrap each pigeon in bacon, sit one hour.
5. roll rectangular pieces of dough.
6. layer on dough: bacon, forcemeat, truffle, arrange pigeons, cover pigeons with layers of forcemeat, bacon, dough, shape rectangular.
7. seal edges, bake upside down, moderate heat.
8. cool, pour in game aspic jelly, sit one hour.
9. cut away crust on sides, shape.
10. turn over, cover top with chopped aspic, garni sides (cress).
As a first course, serve with champagne. Otherwise, a Romanée.
Chapter 5
“I did not kill him, Dummkopf.”
Detective Inspector Carmody rose from his chair. He pulled a tissue from the box on his desk and handed it to the sobbing woman sitting opposite him. She took the tissue and threw it angrily to the floor. She opened her purse and put a scarlet handkerchief to her eyes.
“For real tears, a real Taschentuch.”
Hildegarde Kohner had been contacted at eight that morning by Detective Inspector Carmody. She was deep into braiding the dough for the luncheon rolls when Miss Penreddy, manager of the Bit O’Bavaria Tearoom, called her to the phone. On hearing that Louis was dead, she began crying hysterically until Inspector Carmody told her Louis had been murdered. She stopped crying at once and said he deserved to be killed and that Gerechtigkeit had been served. Carmody arranged for a young officer to accompany Hildegarde on the train from Brighton to London. Before leaving, however, Hildegarde put her rolls in the oven, and assured Miss Penreddy that Frau Muller, Hildegarde’s landlady, would supervise the Pinkelwurst mit Kartoffeln planned for lunch.
Hildegarde walked with Young Officer Doyle to the railway station, and sat silently beside him on the trip to London while she vigorously sewed a black armband onto the sleeve of her suit jacket She refused to ride in the police car that was waiting for them at Victoria Station. “I am not a Verbrecher, she said. “I will not ride in that. I will take the bus.” Young Officer Doyle convinced her that the police car was there as a courtesy and not because she was considered a criminal.
Hildegarde was a small woman, under five feet, and still proud of her figure because it offered a public display of her private discipline. Her very orange hair, as intricately braided as her luncheon rolls, was piled high atop her head. She used herbal pastes on her skin and drank herbal teas but never used cosmetics, depilatories, or deodorants. Her body pleased her, not because it pleased others, but because it pleased her that she was healthy and clean and did not look as though she were fifty-eight
“Certainly, Mrs. Kohner, I did not mean to imply that you are a suspect in the death of your husband.” Hildegarde blew her nose. She used a tissue. “I realize, Mrs. Kohner, how difficult all this is for you. And I hope you realize that I’m merely doing my job.”
“You are doing your job, because you like your job. You, like all Polizei, enjoy death and crying and making people feel afraid.”
“Mrs. Kohner…”
“How did he die?”
Inspector Carmody cleared his throat and picked up a piece of paper from his desk. It gave him a place to put his eyes. “The coroner’s report shows that the deceased was struck on the back of the head and knocked unconscious. Then his body was put into an oven and incinerated.”
“You mean,” she began loudly, and then began laughing uncontrollably, “that someone baked him? Oh, no. That is not possible. Oh, God forgive me.” She stopped laughing. “That is not funny.”
“The body was found at seven-thirty this morning when a Mr. Sacristedes …”
“Frank?”
“You know him?”
“Of course I know him. He was Louis’ rechte Hand. Poor Frank.”
“He’s under sedation at Sister Mercy Hospital.”
“Frank knew from the smell?”
“He knew something was wrong from the smell. Of course, we’ve closed the Savoy kitchen until further notice.”
“Oh, my God,” she said, for the first time in genuine horror, “you’ve closed the Savoy kitchen?”
“At the insistence of the Health Service. It appears there are rather strict regulations …”
“So what will they do? Did they close the Grill as well as the embankment side?”
“1 don’t know for cert
ain.”
“So what will they do? They could use the stoves for cooking, at least?” she asked belligerently.
“Mrs. Kohner, we are searching the kitchen for clues as to who might have done such a thing to your husband.”
“But it’s perfectly clear who killed him.”
“Who?”
“Someone who hated him. A thief would kill him with a gun or a knife. No, Inspector, this murder is a special one.”
“I agree, Mrs. Kohner. But who had a motive?”
She looked at Inspector Carmody. “First, I would check Albert Grives, 45 Kensington Gardens; he was Louis’ assistant at the Savoy and I never liked him. I told Louis that Albert would one day kill him to get his job. Then, Seresh Jamba. He lives in Golders Green. Louis fired him to give the job to Albert Seresh could never get work again and became an alcoholic. He made friends with a bartender and they opened a restaurant called Hurry Curry but it burned down the night it opened. And Jackson, Campbell, Hatney … all the fruiterers at Covent Garden. They would have killed him without a second thought You must check a waiter named Harry Snape, who works in Brighton at the Farthing and Pence. He was the maître at Le Poulet Rouge when Louis was there. Harry was caught stealing truffles and vowed he would kill Louis. I don’t know where Adamawitz is working, Lester Adamawitz. He lives in Surrey, with his sister who is crazy. Lester borrowed some money from Louis to have his gall bladder removed, he said. But he only wanted to buy a cart for the Rugby games on Sunday, where he could sell sandwiches he made on Saturday night using the food from the restaurant Louis and I had a fight late one Saturday night, so Louis went back to the restaurant to roll some dough and found Lester stealing the supplies. Then you should find Rita Macedonia, who was a hostess at the casino in Brighton. She wanted Louis to sleep with her. But my Louis would never. This Rita Macedonia had already been in prison, I heard, for cutting the fingers off her lover. Rollo Ungt was the manager of Le Poisson d’Or in Kent, and Louis went to work there after leaving Brighton. Louis tried, but it was impossible. Ungt wanted only to serve fish that was frozen. Louis told him unless he put a tank in the kitchen to keep fresh fish, he would quit. Ungt promised that he would. Then he went to Woolworth’s and bought a goldfish in a bowl and gave it to Louis. Louis served the goldfish to Mrs. Ungt for lunch. She had a heart attack and died in the dining room. Then there was Casimir Fenouiel. He was a writer of cookbooks who stole one of Louis’ recipes. He published it as his own. Everyone knew it was Louis’ dish, and whenever Casimir went to a restaurant, the chefs refused to cook for him. For almost a year, this Casimir thief would have to put on a disguise every time he went into a restaurant. Then, there is …”