Monsieur Pamplemousse on the Spot

by Michael Bond

  It was far removed from the present building, which over the years had been extended, added to and improved beyond all recognition. Bead curtains had been exchanged for glass doors which opened and shut automatically at the slightest movement. Pommes Frites had caused chaos on their arrival by activating the invisible rays of the operating mechanism with his tail which was wagging furiously in anticipation of the pleasures hopefully awaited by his opposite end. The smiles in Reception had become fixed rather than welcoming.

  Monsieur Parfait read his thoughts. He pointed with his stick to the sepia photograph; in the centre stood an elderly woman with her arms folded. She bore a striking resemblance to him; there was the same dark, Italian-looking skin, the same nose. She was not one to stand any nonsense.

  ‘That was Grand-mère. The one in uniform was my father. He was killed only two months later – I hardly knew him. That was my mother, next to him. And that’ – he singled out a small figure between the two – ‘that was me. There have been many changes since those days.’ He gestured towards the kitchen. ‘Not the least in there. In my days it was all smoke and steam, heat and shouting. Now, it is more like a hospital. Everything is stainless steel and polished tiles and air-conditioning. There is no longer any need to shout in order to make yourself heard.’

  He pointed once again to the bottle on the table. ‘In my day I was like that pear; able to see the world outside, but never free to escape into it. I was a prisoner of circumstances.’ He spoke without any hint of rancour, and yet Monsieur Pamplemousse couldn’t help but wonder if the accompanying shrug implied regret.

  Again his thoughts were read. ‘Comme ci, comme ça. You win one, you lose another. Is it better? It has to be. In the old days chefs were looked down on as the lowest of the low. There were exceptions – Carême, Brillat-Savarin, Escoffier – but they were geniuses, on a par with royalty. Many of their lesser brethren deserved to be treated the way they were.

  ‘Nowadays, chefs are like film stars. People ask for their autographs. We have to be diplomats one moment, businessmen the next. We have to know about turnover and profit margins and cash flows. Cooking is only one of the arts we have to master.

  ‘I tell you, inside every chef these days there is an accountant trying to get out. Our own turnover is over ten million francs a year … but this year I have already spent nearly a quarter of a million francs on truffles alone. Fifty thousand has gone on flowers, two hundred thousand on laundry. Think of that! If my old grandmother knew I make more profit out of selling a signed copy of the menu than I do out of selling one of Jean-Claude’s soufflés she would turn in her grave. As for the helicopter landing-pad – she would see that as a sign of the devil.

  ‘Alors! One must move with the times. When I was small I spent all my spare moments in the kitchens. I could not have wished for better training. By the time I was fourteen I had done everything. Then I was lucky enough to be apprenticed to Fernand Point at Vienne. It was he who first inspired me to aim for the heights. For him nothing less would do; nothing was so perfect that it couldn’t be improved.

  ‘I married. My wife bore me four sons and we were blissfully happy. Then one day … pouf! … We were involved in a car crash.’ He reached down and tapped his leg. ‘I was lucky. I suffered nothing worse than this. But my wife was killed outright. Now I had to bring up the children. I was determined they should not only be as good as me, but better. When the time came for them to go out into the world I made sure that they, too, served their apprenticeship with a master.

  ‘We live in an age of specialisation. If I want to buy a house I go to one lawyer. If I want to make sure when I write a cook book that I am infringing no one else’s copyright, I go to another. So I sent my first son, Alain, to Barrier, where he learnt humility. It is not possible to have true greatness without a touch of humility. He is now the saucier. Edouard went to Bocuse, who was taught as I was, at the hands of Point. Edouard became the rôtisseur. Gilbert was taught by Chapel to use his imagination … he is now the poissonnier …’

  ‘And Jean-Claude?’

  ‘Ah! Jean-Claude!’ Monsieur Parfait raised his eyes heavenwards. ‘In life there is always an exception. Jean-Claude went his own way. He is the odd one out. He inherited his grandmother’s stubbornness and, like his mother, he was born with “the gift”. In his own way he is a genius, although I would not dream of telling him so – it would not be good for him. His brothers are exceptionally talented, but they have got where they are by dedication and hard work. With Jean-Claude it has always been there. He is a true “one-off” – a genuine creator. Without him we would have our three stars in Michelin, our toques and our Stock Pots … but with him … who knows? His strength is that when our guests are nearing the end of their meal and feel that nothing can surprise them any more, he surpasses all that has gone before.

  ‘One day he will take over – once he has settled down; he has the necessary qualities.

  ‘In many ways eating at a restaurant like Les Cinq Parfaits has to be like going to a concert or reading a great novel. The opening should catch your attention and make you want to carry on. The middle must give you a feeling of inner satisfaction. After that it is necessary to have an ending which not only leaves you feeling it was all worth while, but which makes you long to return.’

  ‘Like the Soufflé Surprise?’

  ‘Like the Soufflé Surprise. It is, to date, Jean-Claude’s greatest creation. Ask him how he does it and he will shrug his shoulders. Pursue the matter, demand to know what secret ingredient he uses, and he will most likely laugh and change the subject. He will say, “Listen, today must be Wednesday. How do I know? Because I can hear children playing in the distance. It is their half-day.” It is like asking Beethoven how he composed the Ninth Symphony when all he had in front of him was a piano and a blank sheet of paper.’ Albert Parfait tapped his head. ‘The “secret ingredient” is all up here.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse found himself reminded of another great restaurant – Pic of Valence. For a long time he had puzzled over the special flavour of their Kir, generously dispensed from a jug. In the end it had turned out to be nothing more complicated than an added dash of Dubonnet. Perhaps Jean-Claude’s “secret ingredient” was as simple. He decided to take the plunge.

  ‘It is because of the soufflé that I am here. Jean-Claude’s soufflé – or rather the lack of it – is the cause of worry in certain quarters.’

  Monsieur Parfait gave him a long, hard look. ‘So I am told. They are worried about their soufflé – I am worried about my son.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse returned the look in silence. Albert Parfait’s manner belied his words. They were not the actions of a worried man. Since they had met, the conversation had ranged far and wide. To say that the subject of the missing Jean-Claude had been skated around was to put it mildly. It was almost as though the other had been trying not to talk about it. If it wasn’t such a bizarre notion he would have suspected that for some reason or other Monsieur Parfait had been trying to gain time. But time for what? Being patron of Les Cinq Parfaits must have its headaches. By his own account the climb to the top had been long and arduous; but the higher you climb the harder you fall and it was something that could happen overnight. There were precedents.

  The only sign of anxiety had been in the initial handshake. It had been firm but unexpectedly moist. And the moisture had come from within rather than without. Like the rest of the building, Albert Parfait’s office was kept at an ambient temperature of 20°C.

  ‘If you will forgive my saying so, you do not seem unduly disturbed by the news of your son’s disappearance.’

  ‘Sometimes, Monsieur Pamplemousse, appearances are deceptive. Like you, I have spent a lifetime trying to perfect the art of concealing my true feelings.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse accepted the implied rebuke with equanimity. ‘You know, of course, why I am here?’

  Monsieur Parfait inclined his head. ‘I was informed this evening. We are very
fortunate. A happy chance of fate.’ He relaxed a little. ‘Now that we have met I recognise you, of course. I have seen your picture many times in the newspapers. I had thought you were no longer active …’

  ‘I am still called on from time to time.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse got the remark in quickly before the other had time to enlarge on the cause of his early retirement. It always left him feeling he’d been put at a slight disadvantage. The word ‘Follies’ seemed to bring out the worst in people; add to it evocative words like ‘chorus’ and ‘girls’ and there was no holding them. It was like trying to convince a collector of taxes of the need to research a handbook on refrigeration in the South of France. If he’d been caught dans le costume d’Adam in the Himalayas it would have been a nine-day wonder in the Bombay Times and then forgotten about. In the dressing-room of the Follies – never.

  ‘We thought at first you were from one of the guides. A man eating on his own at Les Cinq Parfaits is a rare occurrence. When we see him testing a little here … savouring a little there … choosing a table where he has a good view of all that is going on around him … we begin to wonder. Alain thought you were from Michelin, but then we found you had Pirelli tyres on your car, so that was out. Edouard was all for Gault Millau – especially when you called for a second helping of Omble. It was the dog that bothered me. It didn’t fit. No one from a guide, I reasoned, would bring a dog. Now I understand. He is your … assistant?’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse nodded. ‘We are rarely parted. He has been instrumental in helping me reach some of my most memorable decisions.’ In culinary terms it was true; it was hard to picture being without Pommes Frites. He wondered what Albert Parfait would say if he knew their true identity. That would give him cause to perspire.

  He’d had no idea he’d been the centre of so much attention. He must be more careful in future. Perhaps at the next quarterly meeting he would put forward the suggestion that all Inspectors should be accompanied by a suitable companion. There might even be a pool of ‘suitable companions’ for all occasions. That would bring a flush to Madame Grante’s cheeks.

  ‘If you need to bring him inside – if there are important trails to follow – please do. I rely on your discretion. It wouldn’t do for the other guests to think you are a favoured customer.’

  ‘Rest assured, Monsieur Parfait, neither Pommes Frites nor I will abuse your trust. As for trails, time alone will tell, but we will try and keep them to a minimum. I gather the local police have not yet been informed?’

  ‘Thankfully, no. We do not want their great boots tramping all over the hotel. It would be bad for the ambience. This way is much better. With luck, no one need ever know.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse forebore to say that without a large measure of good luck everyone would know. It would be in all the journaux.

  ‘When did you last see your son?’

  ‘This morning at around eight o’clock. When I returned from the market in Thonon. He said he was planning to visit a supplier up in the mountains. There is a monastery where they make Fruits du vieux garçon – the fruits of the confirmed bachelor. The name always appealed to Jean-Claude.’

  ‘He went by car? There have been no reports of an accident … a breakdown perhaps?’

  ‘He would have done – it is a long journey, but his car is still in the garage. He must have changed his mind.’

  ‘Then he can’t have gone far. Unless he went somewhere by train and got delayed. Where is the nearest station?’

  ‘Evian. I have enquired there. No one has seen him.’

  ‘Can you think of any reason why he would disappear? Anything that would take him away from home without telling anyone?’

  Again there was a slight, barely perceptible hesitation. ‘What reason could there possibly be?’

  He wasn’t answering the question, but Monsieur Pamplemousse decided to try another tack. ‘He lives on the premises?’

  ‘All my sons do. Alain, Edouard and Gilbert are married and they live in separate houses in the grounds. Jean-Claude and I both have apartments in the main building.’

  ‘And he had no worries?’

  ‘None that I know of. He is not one to talk about his problems anyway. Life for him is for living. He is always bouncing back for more.’

  ‘And it has never happened before?’

  ‘He has his work. He is a professional. He would not wish to let others down.’

  ‘May I see his apartment?’

  ‘If you think it will help.’

  ‘At this stage anything will help.’

  ‘I will have you shown there.’ Monsieur Parfait took a firm grasp of his stick and glanced at a clock on his desk. ‘If you will forgive me I will leave you to your own devices. In my profession one also has to be something of an actor. There is a performance to be put on every evening, not once, but several times over. The customers will be expecting me to make my rounds.’

  ‘I am told that later this week you have one of your more difficult audiences arriving,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.

  ‘Please do not remind me.’ Albert Parfait made a face. ‘It is not a task I relish. Already the advance guard are here. You may have seen their caravans beyond the wood. On Friday it will be the whole entourage. I cannot begin to describe the problems they bring with them. If I tell you that last year some members of the bodyguard were caught trying to roast a whole sheep in one of the chalets it will give you an inkling. Can you imagine – they stay at Les Cinq Parfaits and they want to do their own cooking!’

  ‘It is hard to picture.’ He wondered what sort of symbol they might concoct for Le Guide. An upside-down lamb on a spit, perhaps – with a red cross superimposed to show that it was interdit? Michelin would be in their element.

  ‘Would it not be possible one year to be complet?’

  Monsieur Parfait took an even tighter grasp of his stick and for a brief moment allowed his true feelings to surface. ‘It would be perfectly possible,’ he said bitterly. ‘It is also very tempting. But if you were to rephrase the question – if you were to ask me “would it be wise?”, then almost certainly the answer is no. There would be repercussions. Entre nous, it would offend too many people. People who have long memories. There are, shall we say, wheels within wheels.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse pondered the remark before answering. It was the second time that evening the point had been made.

  ‘And they require oiling?’

  ‘There are many things in life which are helped on their way by a little lubrication,’ said Monsieur Parfait simply. ‘And there are some that would grind to a halt without it. Oil has many uses. It helps make the world go round and it soothes troubled waters. Our own waters would become turbulent indeed if I chose to be difficult. Once upon a time I might have done, but now, if I am honest, I am too old to be bothered. Besides, I have the future of my sons to consider.’

  He reached for a bell-push. ‘Now, I must attend to work. I wish you – I wish all of us – bonne chance.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse drained the glass and then picked up his book and rose to join Parfait at the door. ‘I will do my best. I cannot do more.’

  ‘If you require anything – anything at all, please let me know.’

  The handshake accompanying the remark was as firm as it had been earlier. It was also perfectly dry. The moment critique, if there’d been one, had passed.

  There was a knock at the door.

  ‘Entrez.’ Monsieur Parfait issued his instructions briefly to one of the two coal-black Sudanese bell-boys who normally ministered to the needs of arriving guests, then relaxed his grip on Monsieur Pamplemousse’s hand. ‘A bientôt.’

  ‘A tout à l’heure.’

  As he followed the boy down a long, deeply carpeted corridor lined on either side with bowls of freshly cut flowers and hung with discreetly inoffensive paintings, Monsieur Pamplemousse was conscious of a pair of eyes boring into the back of his head. Under the pretext of blowing his nose, he paused and half-turned. H
e was just in time to catch Albert Parfait disappearing into his office. Clearly he had other matters to attend to before he began his tour of the dining-room.

  Was it his imagination or had there been something furtive about the way he moved? Furtiveness, along with some other element he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Alarm, perhaps? Guilt? He filed the episode away in the back of his mind for future reference.

  Outside, as they made their way along a short path which led past the restaurant towards the residential area in an adjoining building, he was aware of other eyes watching his progress. He wondered which of the diners had set off the alarm. He had an uneasy feeling that someone other than the patron of Les Cinq Parfaits had been responsible for passing on the news that Jean-Claude had gone missing. It was almost as if Albert Parfait would rather the fact hadn’t been made known. Perhaps the turbulent waters he’d spoken of earlier contained undercurrents not yet revealed; care would have to be taken if he was to avoid getting caught up in them.

  The air was heavy with the fragrance of late flowers; the beds on either side of the path were immaculately cared for. He could hear the soft swish, swish of a sprinkler somewhere close at hand. There was a louder splash from the direction of the pool. Someone must have decided to have an after-dinner swim. He hoped that whoever it was hadn’t eaten as well as he had. They might never surface again. Turning a corner, he found himself instinctively looking for Pommes Frites.

  The bell-boy, trained to anticipate everyone’s wishes before they were even voiced, pointed towards a wooded area behind the hotel. ‘He may be over there, Monsieur. I saw him heading that way earlier this evening.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse grunted. If Pommes Frites had gone ‘wooding’ there was no knowing when he would be back. Woods held a fatal fascination for Pommes Frites; probably because he spent most of his off-duty hours in Montmartre, where the nearest thing to a wood was the vineyard in rue Saint Vincent.