Monsieur Pamplemousse and the Carbon Footprint

by Michael Bond

  ‘There is nothing like diving in at the deep end.’

  ‘It was a steep learning curve,’ said Amber. ‘But it looks good on my CV. I learnt a lot from both of them and I’m very grateful, but waiting at tables wasn’t my scene. Looks don’t always help – especially if you’re female. Too many men think they are God’s gift and won’t take “No” for an answer.

  ‘Besides, I still wanted to dance. So I set sail for America – land of the free. At least in New York chorus lines they don’t treat you as a failed ballerina. Very much the reverse.’

  She sat back as the next course arrived.

  ‘Bernard’s recommendation,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, when they were on their own again. ‘Poulet Vallée d’Auge. It combines all the typically good things about Norman cuisine in the way of local produce: apples, cider, butter, crème fraiche, mushrooms. Gastronomically, the area we are in now – the Pays d’Auge – is the richest in the whole of Normandy. This bird itself is as plump as they come.

  ‘The crème fraiche will be from Isigny-sur-Mer. Why there in particular? Because it is the only one in all France to be awarded AOC status. Crème fraiche is important to Norman recipes because it is produced naturally and it doesn’t curdle when used in cooking, because despite current regulations about having to use pasteurised milk in the making, they have managed to preserve its original flavour by introducing a small amount of lactic ferment at a later stage.

  ‘Forgive me.’ He broke off. ‘I am getting caught up in the technicalities again. With your background, and now working for Corby, you probably know these things already.’

  Amber stared at him. ‘You must be joking.’

  ‘It stands to reason some of it must have brushed off on you.’

  ‘Dream on,’ said Amber. ‘With Jay you are on your own. His method of working when he goes into a restaurant is to announce why he is there, followed by, “Better make it good – or else!”’

  ‘With Le Guide,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘that would be equivalent to signing our own death warrant. Anonymity is one of our key words.’

  ‘I doubt if Jay knows the meaning of the word,’ said Amber.

  ‘But what about his books? Aren’t they on the bestseller lists?’

  ‘By chance Jay discovered he had a talent for writing the kind of things people like to read. In short, he perfected the art of digging up the dirt and cloaking it in the respectability of a guide to restaurants. It’s a sad fact, but it is a rich seam. The vast mass of people would much rather read about the bad things in life than the good. Having discovered that basic fact, he never looked back.

  ‘He leavens his reviews with a few good ones, of course, but he doesn’t write those himself. That’s another reason how I got to work for him. Jay knows as much about food as my Auntie Zoë did, and she was a born-again vegan who stayed that way until the day she died.

  ‘I bet Pommes Frites knows more about gastronomy. All Jay knows is a good steak when he sees one. He likes nothing better than Sparks Steakhouse on 46th street, between 2nd and 3rd. He goes there so often he even gets a smile out of the waiters, which is saying something.’

  ‘You don’t approve?’

  ‘I have nothing whatsoever against Sparks. If you want a great prime sirloin that’s the place to go. It’s well hung, for a start. And they have one of the best wine lists in New York. Not that that means anything to Jay. He sticks to Coca Cola.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse remembered the glass Corby had been clutching at the party.

  ‘They’re good on quality control,’ he admitted. ‘It’s the one drink you can guarantee will be the same anywhere in the world. I’m amazed the Director had it in stock.’

  ‘Jay would have brought his own. He doesn’t take any chances. He even carries his own swizzlestick.’

  ‘Swizzlestick?’ repeated Monsieur Pamplemousse.

  ‘Swizzle is an old English term for mixing alcoholic drinks,’ said Amber. ‘Don’t ask me why. A swizzlestick is what you use to make them froth up. You can also use it to get rid of the bubbles in champagne and Coca Cola.’

  ‘The first sounds like sacrilege,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘I have no views about the second.’

  ‘Jay swears by its medicinal properties. It’s supposed to cure major dehydration, but to take full advantage of it you have to remove the carbon dioxide. End of lesson.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse gazed at her curiously. ‘So what is his problem?’

  ‘He is like a lot of present-day food critics. He uses his column to air his views about anything other than food. In his case, there is also a sadistic streak at work. He likes nothing better than to find a restaurant he can really get his teeth into and do a hatchet job on it. Unfortunately, he did it once too often.

  ‘What your boss fails to realise is that he only agreed to his invitation at the last minute because he saw it is a means of going into hiding.’

  Looking round to make certain the Madame was nowhere around and they couldn’t be overheard, Amber lowered her voice.

  ‘He gave such a bad review to a restaurant it had to close down.’

  ‘There’s nothing new in that, surely?’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘It happens from time to time.’

  ‘This one was in Las Vegas,’ said Amber. ‘And it happened to be Mafia territory. It was home from home to some of the big names in the local family.’

  ‘Surely whoever it belonged to, they won’t follow him over here?’

  ‘Don’t you believe it. You don’t do that kind of thing with the Mafia and get away with it. Word has gone out. Currently, Jay is trying to put clear water between him and the Mob and that won’t be easy. They have long arms and even longer memories.’

  The clearing of the table and the arrival of a large bowl interrupted her story.

  ‘Teurgoule,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse briefly.

  ‘It looks like rice pudding to me,’ whispered Amber.

  ‘But made with cream and flavoured with cinnamon,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘The brioche that comes with it is a local delicacy. It’s a mixture of syrup and yeast.’

  ‘Do you think the Madame will be very upset if I don’t have any?’ asked Amber.

  ‘Mortified,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘But I daresay Pommes Frites will help out if you ask him nicely.’

  ‘So what happened?’ he asked, when order had been restored.

  ‘What happened was …’ continued Amber, ‘I had been away from the office for a couple of days, and when I arrived back I smelt emptiness the moment I opened the door. You know how it is …’

  ‘There is a difference between someone being out of a room and their having gone for good,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.

  ‘Exactly! On Jay’s desk there was an unopened box. It was supposedly from some gourmet meat suppliers, but I guess it had been made up specially. It was labelled in big letters: FOR THE MAN WHO HAS EVERYTHING. The s on “HAS” had been crossed out and a d inserted.

  ‘Inside the plastic window in the top of the box you could see various goodies, like a heart, liver and other odd bits and pieces, including what looked like a bull’s ding dong and its associated items, which had already been detached.

  ‘Alongside the box, attached to a bloodstained Japanese degutting knife, was a hand-written note in block letters saying “ANY DAY NOW ALL THIS COULD BE YOURS”.

  ‘Surprise, surprise! There was no sign of Jay.

  ‘He’d been sitting on your director’s invitation for quite a while, holding out for more money, I guess. The latest happening made up his mind for him on the spot.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse couldn’t help thinking the Director must have been holding his breath too. It was no wonder he had been a bit cagey.

  ‘In case you didn’t notice, everything at your party was OK until the press moved in after the show and one of them started trying to take pictures of Jay. That’s why he went bananas. He would have seen it as a dead giveaway, with the accent on dead. Had
any of the pictures hit the front page, as well they might given his penchant for publicity and the fact that it’s the flat season news-wise, the Mafia would be on to him like a shot.

  ‘Jay isn’t a great one for heroics at the best of times. He’s like a lot of bullies. Underneath it all he wouldn’t be capable of setting a mouse trap in case the mouse turned on him.’

  ‘All that being so,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse thoughtfully, ‘this isn’t necessarily the best place to be. Wherever there is a casino, crime isn’t far away, and Deauville is probably no exception. It acts like a magnet. Given that it also has two race-courses …’

  ‘So you think he may move on?’

  ‘If he has any sense he will.’

  ‘What are the options?’

  ‘If his aim is to disappear, his best bet would be to lie low in a city, the bigger the better. Any departure from the norm in the country stands out like a sore thumb and is a matter for comment. City people are mostly only interested in themselves and their immediate surroundings.’

  ‘Any suggestions on that score?’ asked Amber. ‘I mean, what would be the best route out?’

  ‘In theory,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘he has a wide choice: by land, sea or air. On land, he could hire a car …’

  ‘Jay can’t drive.’

  ‘In that case there is a bus service linking Deauville with Caen and Le Havre …’

  Amber looked dubious. ‘Somehow I can’t picture it.’

  ‘Another possibility would be to take a taxi. But taxi drivers have a habit of talking amongst themselves …

  ‘As for the sea, there are plenty of private yachts in the harbour … but I have no idea if there is anything larger. We could check in the morning. I daresay it wouldn’t be difficult to hire a boat to take him along the coast. It would be less conspicuous than any other way.’

  ‘How about flying?’

  ‘There is an airport at St-Gatien-des-Bois, eight kilometers out of Deauville, but it is comparatively small and seasonal. Again, as far as I recall it caters mostly for the extremely well-heeled: charter planes, helicopters, high-level poker players, millionaires flying in from places like Marrakech and Athens for the yearling horse sales in August, that kind of thing.

  ‘The downside is that almost certainly the paparazzi will be hanging around on the lookout for familiar faces. It will be ten times worse in a few weeks’ time when La Saison is in full swing and the boardwalk becomes a catwalk.

  ‘In short, it is nowhere near as easy as it might sound. To get somewhere major he would need to a take a train inland as far as Lisieux and pick up an express to wherever. At this time of night I doubt if there is much choice, if any.’

  ‘So you think it would be safe to leave things until the morning?’

  ‘That would be my instinct.’

  Amber eyed her empty plate. ‘That was a delicious meal. Everything you said it would be. But I can’t eat another thing.’

  ‘No cheese?’ asked Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘I’m sure Madame has a wonderful selection …’

  Amber gave a mock shudder. ‘No cheese, nothing …’

  ‘Brillat-Savarin once said, “A dessert without cheese is like a beautiful woman with only one eye.”’

  ‘Well, Brillat-Savarin probably hadn’t travelled overnight from New York,’ said Amber. ‘And both my eyes are telling me it’s time for bed.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse had to confess he was feeling much the same way. It could be the sea air. ‘But first,’ he said, looking down at the recumbent figure on the floor, ‘certain of us are probably in need of a constitutional.’

  Goodnights exchanged, and having tendered their apologies to the Madame, he set out shortly afterwards with Pommes Frites.

  Both were lost in thought. Pommes Frites was still wondering where he had gone wrong with his master’s present, and Monsieur Pamplemousse was turning over in his mind the ramifications behind the news about Corby. There was still one card he could play.

  A turn around the block sufficed for both of them. The streets were empty. The lights from the seafront and the casino, just a glow in the sky. Amber was right. It was time for bed.

  On their return, they were creeping as quietly as possible back to his room when her door opened. She was wearing a silk nightdress of such minute proportions it did rather less than nothing to hide her figure, and once again he was aware of her perfume.

  ‘I have been thinking,’ said Amber. ‘I take your point about being better off in a city rather than somewhere in the country, but seeing this is the holiday season, wouldn’t Jay do just as well sticking to this part of the world for the time being? I don’t mean here in Deauville necessarily. That’s a bit too obvious. But somewhere else that attracts the crowds.’

  ‘You could be right,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.

  ‘May I claim my reward?’ said Amber.

  Compared with the moment in the changing room her goodnight kiss was somewhere off the top of the Richter scale. Pommes Frites’ tail went rigid on his master’s behalf.

  ‘I have also been thinking,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, when he came back down to earth. ‘Were you with Ducasse when he threw that enormous party in Versailles to celebrate Paul Bocuse’s eightieth birthday? Over three hundred guests.’

  Amber shook her head. ‘It was a little before my time.’

  ‘Pity. It must have been a mammoth task for one chef.’

  ‘That’s Ducasse for you. They still talked about it when I was there.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse couldn’t help but notice the bed in the background. A grand lit, no less, its cover turned invitingly back.

  ‘It is very large for one person,’ said Amber, following his eyes. ‘Large but lonely.’

  ‘Sometimes,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘a bed can be the loneliest place in the world. Besides, two’s company and three’s a crowd. Pommes Frites is probably tired out after his performance and he can be a dead weight at the best of times.’

  ‘His right leg must be nearly falling off,’ said Amber. ‘I’ve heard some excuses in my time.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse also had some telephone calls to make, but he kept that fact to himself.

  ‘Is everything all right, Aristide?’ asked Doucette when she answered his call. ‘Your voice sounds funny.’

  ‘It is probably the sea air, Couscous,’ he said.

  Before he went to sleep, Monsieur Pamplemousse made one more call. This time it was to enquire after Monsieur Leclercq’s health. He rather hoped the Director wouldn’t pick up the phone himself. He was in no mood to cope with what could be a long and tedious explanation.

  The distaff side came to his rescue.

  ‘The local pompiers managed to release him,’ said Chantal. ‘They had to make use of a scenery hoist. He is now in a darkened room nursing his wounds. One of our English guests suggested he might need counselling. An American friend came up with the idea of an Anger Management course. You can imagine how both of those went down. I think they are now the ones who are in need of help.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse gave her a brief rundown on Corby’s problem before getting down to brass tacks.

  ‘Talking of the Mafia,’ he said. ‘Have you heard from your Sicilian uncle recently?’

  ‘Uncle Caputo? Not since he intervened when Henri was being blackmailed and you and Pommes Frites became involved.’

  ‘He may be able to help again,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Given Deauville has both a casino and two race tracks, it is possible he has contacts in this part of the world. As you may remember, following on from the last affair, he gained himself a new driver … a remarkably good one, so he owes me a favour.’

  ‘Two favours if you count the girl who tried to seduce Henri on the flight back from New York,’ said Chantal. ‘Maria was her name, I think. I gather she has also been taken on strength.’

  ‘You know about her?’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.

  ‘I do now,’ said Chantal. ‘I a
lways suspected as much, but thank you for confirming it.

  ‘Henri doesn’t know I know,’ she added.

  ‘I promise not to tell him,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.

  ‘It is better that way,’ said Chantal. ‘There is no fool like an old fool and despite everything I do love him very much.’

  ‘So …’

  ‘I will do my best, Aristide. I cannot do more. Dormez bien.’

  Dormez bien, thought Monsieur Pamplemousse bitterly, as he turned off his light.

  It’s all right for some. For others, the chance would be a fine thing.

  He was right about one thing, though. Pommes Frites really was a dead weight.

  CHAPTER SIX

  If Friday got off to a bad start, it was for a very good reason.

  As is so often the case when a person doesn’t get a good night’s sleep, but whiles away the time instead tossing and turning, his or her mind occupied by this, that and ‘the other’ (the ‘other’ being an especially well-documented cause of chronic insomnia), the inevitable happens, and Monsieur Pamplemousse was no exception to the rule.

  Shortly before dawn, worn out by it all, he slipped gently but firmly into the welcoming arms of Morpheus. And that was where he remained for the next few hours, held in a vice-like grip, to all intents and purposes dead to the world.

  So much so, Pommes Frites, having taken several close looks at his master, even went so far as to try giving him a nudge or two, but without success.

  Having slept through the wake-up call from a built-in bedside alarm carefully set for 07.00, Monsieur Pamplemousse eventually woke to the insistent ringing of a telephone on the other side of the room.

  It took him a moment or two to realise it was coming from his own mobile, which he had left on charge, and longer still to recognise the voice as that of the concierge he had spoken to the previous evening.

  ‘Apropos your enquiry, Monsieur …’ repeated the man, relieved to have made contact at long last. ‘It appears the gentleman concerned was staying at one of our associated hotels. I thought you might like to know that earlier this morning he was asking about the availability of early morning trains departing from Deauville …