Monsieur Pamplemousse on the Spot

by Michael Bond

  ‘I am sorry, Monsieur. The room maid should have told you. On Monsieur Parfait’s instructions we removed the second bottle. The wine should not have been withdrawn from the cellars in the first place.’ He picked up the carte des vins and opened it at a page near the back. A neat red line had been drawn through one of the entries. ‘As Monsieur will see, the ’45 is no longer listed.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse digested the fact with mounting irritation.

  ‘May I ask a simple question?’

  ‘Monsieur?’

  ‘If the ’45 is no longer listed, then how was it that the night before last I was given two bottles when I ordered them. It was also my understanding that they were not the last.’

  ‘There were three, Monsieur. Now there are only two. They were being held in reserve for a special customer. We will, of course, replace Monsieur’s second bottle with one from another year. Might I suggest the ’62? Monsieur will not be charged.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse fixed the man with a stare. There were times when he would have dearly loved to announce his identity; hand over a card bearing the escargot rampant, symbol of Le Guide. ‘I have another question. Would it not be true to say that in a restaurant such as Les Cinq Parfaits, a restaurant whose reputation is such that people come from all over the world to sample its cuisine, each and every guest should be considered special?’

  ‘I agree, Monsieur, but unfortunately some guests like to be considered more special than others. It is the way of the world.’ He allowed himself a brief glance at the table further along the room. ‘We have to humour them.’

  ‘Ah!’ The penny dropped.

  ‘He has a sweet tooth, Monsieur. The decision is not entirely ours.’

  ‘D’accord. I understand.’ It was the second time he’d heard mention of a ‘sweet tooth’. The phrase was beginning to grate.

  ‘Merci, Monsieur.’ The sommelier made to leave. ‘If Monsieur will forgive me?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse drained his Kir, helped himself to the remaining bonne bouche, then sank back in his seat while he awaited the arrival of the first course. It might be the way of the world, but there were times when the ways of the world didn’t suit him and this was one of them. In truth, the chance to compare the ’62 Château d’Yquem with its illustrious predecessor would not be without interest – he could hardly grumble. It was the principle, or lack of it, which irritated.

  Another ripple of laughter from the offending party did nothing to improve his mood. At least they were approaching the end of their meal. The cheese trolley had been and gone, the table cleared in readiness for the next course. He wondered what kind of reception would be accorded the Soufflé Surprise. No doubt, to add to his feeling of injustice, it would be washed down with ‘his’ wine. He resolved to look the other way.

  Seeing a flotilla of waiters approaching, their leader bearing a silver tray on which reposed the inevitable dome, he poured himself a glass of Evian and hastily cleansed his palate in readiness. At the same moment, through another door, the sommelier reappeared with his wine, reaching the table a moment before the others. The bottle presented, it was discreetly removed to a side table for opening and decanting. He sat up, preparing himself for the moment of truth, taste-buds springing to life with anticipation.

  The junior waiters stood back in attitudes of suitable reverence as the plate was placed in front of him and the dome removed, revealing a deep earthenware bowl capped and sealed with a mound of golden pastry, puffed up like a gigantic mushroom.

  Picking up a spoon, he pierced the top, breaking the flakes into small pieces so that they fell back into the bowl and released the smell. It was rich and woody, like nothing he had ever encountered before. A complex mixture; the result of combining a matignon of carrots, celery, onions, mushrooms, and unsalted butter with chicken consommé, foie gras and fresh truffles. A unique creation. No wonder Bocuse had been awarded the Légion d’Honneur. No wonder Monsieur Parfait spent so much on truffles every year. Both were fully justified.

  He tasted the wine. Like the soup, it had been made with love. It was a perfect marriage. Automatically he reached for the notebook he always carried concealed in his right trouser leg and laid it on his lap, out of sight below the edge of the tablecloth. It was an occasion to record; one which would have met with Pommes Frites’ wholehearted approval. He felt a momentary pang of guilt as he caught sight of the time on his watch. It was just after ten o’clock. By now Pommes Frites would have reached the autoroute, speeding on his supperless way to Paris. He made a mental note to ring Doucette as soon as dinner was over and remind her to put something out in readiness for his arrival.

  He leant over the bowl again. Whoever said that the bouquet was often better than the taste would have had to eat not only his words, but the most heavenly dish imaginable. Spoon halfway to his mouth, he paused yet again in order to savour the deliciousness of the smell, and as he did so a frown came over his face. Heading in his direction was one of the page-boys, holding aloft yet another silver tray. He watched as the boy threaded his way in and out of the tables. What was it now?

  He eyed a small sheaf of papers gloomily and, stifling his feelings, motioned for them to be left beside him. It was hardly the boy’s fault. He was only doing as he’d been told. It was more his own fault for not having called in at the reception desk for so long.

  Another spoonful of soup and he succumbed to temptation. There was a card from Doucette – a drawing of the Sacré Coeur – reminding him of someone’s birthday. He couldn’t make out the words in the muted lighting. Never mind, he would work it out later.

  The thought occurred to him that Pommes Frites might be good at hunting truffles. He had a nose for scents. Truffles might be just up his street. The ‘egregious tuberculum’ as Brillet-Savarin had called them; ‘a luxury of kept women’. Perhaps one day, if they found themselves in Périgord …

  There was a telex from the Director. The one he had spoken of on the telephone. Short and to the point, it said: CANCEL ORDER FOR SOUFFLÉ SURPRISE IMMEDIATELY. The girl in charge of the telex machine at Les Cinq Parfaits must be wondering what was going on. He hoped she hadn’t relayed it to the kitchen first by mistake.

  He picked up the envelope and opened it. It was a letter from Durelle. He skimmed through it quickly, then stopped halfway and began reading it again, much more slowly this time.

  Merde! It was not possible.

  His soupe aux truffes noires momentarily forgotten, Monsieur Pamplemousse read through the letter for a third time, still hardly able to believe his eyes.

  ‘Aristide, you old maquereau!’ it ran. ‘How did you know it was my fiftieth birthday? You really had me fooled. When your bottle arrived and I saw the label I thought it’s Aristide up to his tricks again. Trust Aristide to think of putting Pommes Frites’ specimen into a bottle labelled Château d’Yquem ’45. I even took it into the lab for analysis. Then when I opened it and discovered the truth I could hardly believe my eyes. Such wine! It was out of this world! If I had known I would have waited until you got back to Paris so that we could share it. I don’t know what I have done to deserve such riches, let alone how I can ever thank you, but I am working on the problem. Your friend, Raymonde.’

  Sapristi! He didn’t believe it. It had to be some kind of a joke.

  Picking up Doucette’s card he held it up to the candle and reread the message on the back. The words confirmed what Durelle had said. It had been his fiftieth birthday.

  He sat back in order to collect his scattered thoughts. He knew that he had taken the right bottle from the refrigerator. Or rather, to be pedantic (not to say Holmesian) about it, he knew he had taken the one which he’d thought was the correct bottle, simply because it was where he had put it the night before. In his haste he hadn’t examined it closely. The answer must be that in checking the contents, something she would do every morning as a matter of routine in order to see what had been consumed, the room maid must hav
e inadvertently swapped the bottles over.

  A second, more sobering thought struck him; one which caused a slow smile to spread across his face as it sank in. If Durelle had been sent a genuine bottle of the ’45, then Pommes Frites’ sample must have gone back into stock when the second bottle was withdrawn. And if it had gone back into stock and there was only one other bottle left, then it was a fifty-fifty chance it would arrive in the restaurant at any moment.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse’s smile grew wider. It would be rough justice if it did. He couldn’t think of a more suitable recipient than the odious character at present holding court. His only regret was that Pommes Frites wouldn’t be there to witness the event.

  Polishing off the remains of his soup, he dabbed at his mouth with a napkin, then leaned back in his chair, anxious not to miss a single moment. Mathematically it might not happen, but if there was any justice in the world then mathematics would fly out of the window.

  He wasn’t a moment too soon. He had hardly settled himself before the sommelier appeared. Carrying a cradled bottle reverentially in both hands, he made his way across the dining-room towards the V.I.P.’s table. The formalities completed, the bottle presented and inspected, the label read and its inscription confirmed, he stood back and reached into his apron pocket for a corkscrew while those around the table voiced appreciation of their host’s impeccably good taste.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse’s face fell again. He wished now he’d paid more attention to the remains of the soup instead of bolting it down without a moment’s thought. He’d been living in cloud-cuckoo-land. Even if the bottle did turn out to be the one containing Pommes Frites’ specimen, it wouldn’t get any further than the opening. One sniff of the cork would reveal all; the other bottle would be sent for immediately. On reflection, it was just as well. The scandal if it turned out that Les Cinq Parfaits had served pipi de chien to one of the guests in mistake for a Château d’Yquem would reverberate around the restaurants of France for years.

  Idly he watched the beginnings of a set and invariable routine he’d seen countless times before; the application of the corkscrew, its deft rotation, the swift but sure single leverage ensuring the clean removal of the cork, the passing of it under the nose …

  Suddenly he sat up and leaned across the table, concentrating all his attention on the scene in front of him. Before the sommelier had a chance to complete his task, almost before the cork had left the bottle, Albert Parfait appeared at his side. There was a brief exchange of words and then Monsieur Parfait himself took over, removing the cork from the screw and slipping it straight into the pocket of his apron without so much as a second glance.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse’s eyes narrowed as a thought entered his mind and then emerged almost immediately as an inescapable conclusion. It could only mean one of two things; either the patron didn’t trust his sommelier before such important guests, or there was something about the bottle of wine which might cause the V.I.P. to reject it. The former was so unlikely that he dismissed it, allowing his mind to race on ahead as he watched the wine being poured into a glass ready for tasting.

  Unable to stand it a moment longer, Monsieur Pamplemousse snapped his notebook shut and sprang to his feet. A joke was a joke, but he couldn’t allow it to happen. He must not allow it to happen. More than that, the evidence had to be destroyed. Albert Parfait was an idiot. Not only was the honour of Les Cinq Parfaits at stake, but also that of Le Guide, its contemporaries, even that of France itself.

  Ignoring those around him, his stiffness forgotten, scattering the waiters as he went, Monsieur Pamplemousse reached the table in a matter of seconds and removed the offending glass from Albert Parfait’s hand, placing it on a side table out of reach of the diners.

  Their eyes met briefly. Failure was written large on Albert’s face; failure and something else. Desperation? A mute cry for help? Whatever it was there could be no time for speculation.

  Before anyone had a chance to react, Monsieur Pamplemousse whisked the bottle from its cradle and upended it into a nearby plant container. The effect of his action was both immediate and impressive. He stared at the plant. Its leaves were turning yellow and wilting before his very eyes.

  Marvelling at the potency of Pommes Frites’ water, he turned towards the Grosse Légume and braced himself for the inevitable explosion. But hardly had he done so than there was a new diversion. Aware of a movement from behind, a movement which was followed almost immediately by a choking sound, Monsieur Pamplemousse spun round on his heels and was just in time to see a hand clutching an empty glass disappear from view on the other side of the table.

  Attention, which a moment before had been focused in his direction, suddenly switched as glass and silverware and china crashed to the floor, overriding the dull thud which preceded it.

  As those nearby craned their necks in alarm, an elderly man jumped to his feet and rushed to the rescue, bending over the figure on the floor with a professional air.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse hurried round the table to join him. ‘I think, Monsieur,’ he murmured as he crouched, ‘you will find it is only a temporary indisposition. The most it will require is the use of a stomach pump.’

  The man looked up at him. ‘On the contrary, Monsieur. I am a doctor and I think you will find on closer examination that Monsieur Parfait is beyond such aids. Monsieur Parfait, alas, is en route to the grande cuisine in the sky.’

  9

  APÉRITIFS WITH MADAME GRANTE

  ‘Pamplemousse.’ The Director held a sheaf of papers above his desk; heavily embossed notepaper, pink flimsies, yellow duplicates, sheets of memo paper. ‘Congratulations are being showered upon you. They arrive by the hour. I trust I may add mine?’ He released his grip and they fluttered down at varying speeds, like multi-coloured leaves in an autumn breeze.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse inclined his head non-committally, but warily.

  The Director salvaged one of the heavier pieces of paper. ‘This one is from the Minister himself. He would like to see you later today – at your convenience. Word has also reached me from the Elysée Palace. Your name has been recorded. Even the Grosse Légume has let it be known that he wishes to honour you with a decoration – the Grand Order of the Star of something or other. It is accompanied by an invitation to become his chief food taster.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse shuddered.

  ‘It carries a large salary commensurate with the post. The supply of wines would be without limit; the choice would be yours. Doubtless other pleasures would be at your command.’

  ‘I think not, Monsieur.’

  The Director breathed a visible sigh of relief. ‘We would miss you, Aristide. The appointment is pensionable, but I doubt if you would live to enjoy it. You would also have suffered opprobrium from on high. Relations between our two countries are somewhat strained at present.’

  ‘He has left France, Monsieur?’

  ‘At the highest possible speed. He and his entire entourage flew out last night on a specially chartered plane. The visit to Les Beaux Arbres has been postponed indefinitely. Outwardly he took diplomatic umbrage, but in reality he is a very frightened man. Like all bullies he is a coward at heart.

  ‘The soil in the pot-plant container at Les Cinq Parfaits is undergoing analysis. Preliminary reports suggest that there was enough poison in the bottle to kill a regiment. Whoever put it there was determined to make a good job of it.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse leant down and gave Pommes Frites’ ear an affectionate tweak. At least his worst fear hadn’t been realised. Responsibility for the contents of the bottle of Château d’Yquem rested elsewhere. He gave another half-suppressed shudder as the thought crossed his mind that he might well have tested the wine himself had he not been in such a hurry.

  ‘One almost regrets your act, Pamplemousse. I realise it was done with the best of intentions, but had the poison reached the person for whom it was intended few tears would have been shed. As it is, the world of haute cuisine has been
deprived of one of its most revered figures. The loss will be severe. It was a most unfortunate accident.’

  ‘Accident?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse closed his eyes for a brief moment while he pictured the scene in the restaurant. Albert Parfait’s appearance that evening – the haunted look in his eyes; the final air of desperation. ‘I do not think it was an accident, Monsieur.’

  ‘What are you suggesting, Pamplemousse? If it was not an accident, then …’

  ‘I am convinced he knew what the bottle contained. That was why he took over its serving, and that being so, one can only assume the drinking of it to have been a deliberate and final act on his part.’

  ‘Surely not. By then, according to your own account, he knew his son was safe. The Grosse Légume would soon be gone. He had everything to live for.’

  ‘Perhaps, Monsieur, “had” is the right word.’

  ‘Elucidate, Pamplemousse.’

  Resisting the very real temptation to say, ‘Elementary, my dear Watson’, Monsieur Pamplemousse racked his brains for the right words. Dishonour? Shame? Disgrace? Failure? Albert Parfait had probably known more of what was going on than most. If he’d known what the bottle contained then he must have been a party to its preparation, if only at arm’s length. No doubt, pressure had been brought to bear: pressure from faceless people in authority whose names would never be known, leaving him to face the music. He must have seen the writing on the wall. He was no fool.

  ‘I think he could see ruination staring him in the face. Not financial ruin. People would still flock to Les Cinq Parfaits whatever happened. What he couldn’t face was the loss of all the things for which he had worked so hard during his life; the things he knew would have made both his mother and his grandmother proud. He couldn’t bear the thought of losing face where it mattered most. His Stock Pots in Le Guide, his stars in Michelin, his toques in Gault Millau.’