The wait that followed was the most dreadful either Madeleine or the Head Chef had ever known. Normally, after a starter the waiter would come back and tell them when to begin preparing the next course. But this time, sinisterly, he did not. As the minutes ticked by, they began to suspect the worst.
But then a most peculiar thing happened. The table of seven asked for more.
They had been behaving strangely ever since receiving their first course. Until then they had been the noisiest customers in the restaurant, but since tasting the green pâté they had not said a word and did nothing but chew silently, staring into space.
Mixed Innards Pâté usually left people feeling so queasy they could barely finish what was on their plate. To order more was unheard of, and Monsieur Lard’s suspicions were instantly raised. It didn’t take long to find out who the culprit was either. He had several spies among his staff and one of them, the small, thin waiter who moved like a dancer, told Lard about the strangely coloured pâté. He also remarked, in passing, how he had seen Madeleine on her way into the city that morning.
Lard came thundering through the kitchen doors. The cooks were trying their best to conceal Madeleine inside a giant tin of vegetable oil, but Lard flung them aside.
He grabbed Madeleine by the shoulders and lifted her high in the air. ‘Where did you get it?’ he bellowed. ‘WHERE DID YOU GET IT?’
He was shaking her so violently she could not reply, but then, from out of her pocket fell the tiny green jar, and it plummeted to the ground. The contents lay splattered everywhere, but Monsieur Lard had his answer. For there, on a shard of broken glass, was a small piece of label, on which was written in fine, purple script:
Rumours spread quickly throughout the city, and the next day customers began flocking to the Squealing Pig after they heard tell of the strange and delicious food Lard was serving there. Then, wonder of wonders, a table was booked by Monsieur Langoustine.
Monsieur Langoustine was a food critic, the most powerful food critic in Paris. A bad review from Langoustine and your restaurant would close immediately. As Monsieur Langoustine never gave a good review, the best you could hope for was not to displease him too severely, and if this happened, your restaurant would be permanently booked out.
If Langoustine was coming, Lard would have to give him something very special. And that meant a visit to the Rue d’Escargot.
Chapter Four
Monsieur Lard made his way along the riverbank, turning left down the winding alleys that were hot and dusty in the morning sun, and came through the doorway into the dim, candlelit gloom. Instantly, his nose was met by the scent of herbs and sweet spices and the deep, musty tang of old cheese. He wrinkled his nose. Something in the smell made him uneasy.
There was a small brass bell on the counter, which he hit once, and then again, as it appeared to make no sound. He drummed his fingers impatiently, casting his eyes around, when there was a sudden, fearsome screech and something leapt up out of the dark.
Lard stumbled back, nearly falling over in fright.
.
It was a cat – a thin white cat with a patch across one eye. It sprang down on to the counter, where it scowled and bared its fangs. ‘Mangy brute!’ Lard grumbled. And then, from out of the shadows appeared a woman dressed in black.
‘May I help you, Monsieur?’ said Madame Pamplemousse.
Lard felt distinctly uncomfortable. The two of them had caught him completely off guard and there was something in her voice that he didn’t like either. It sounded as if she knew what he was up to.
‘Madame,’ said Lard, grinning greasily, ‘yesterday my niece came in here to buy some pâté. Of course, you will not remember –’
‘I remember,’ she said.
‘Ah. Well, in that case, I’m sorry to inform you she made a mistake. Foolishly, she only bought the one jar, while I had instructed her to buy ten.’
‘That’s a lot of pâté, Monsieur,’ said Madame Pamplemousse after a pause.
‘Aha, yes!’ he chuckled, rubbing his hands. ‘My dear little mother is coming to dinner tonight. A small woman but a big appetite.’
‘Alas, Monsieur, I’m afraid it is impossible.’
‘Very little is impossible where money is concerned, Madame. I’m sure we could come to an agreeable price.’
‘Perhaps you did not read the label?’ said Madame Pamplemousse. ‘Sea serpents of the North Atlantic are something of a rarity. The last one is, I gather, currently somewhere in the fresh waters of Scotland. Your niece had my last jar. But perhaps I could interest Monsieur in something else?’
Lard felt a rage so powerful he had to control it by smiling even wider. ‘You obviously take me for a fool, Madame,’ he said, laughing dangerously. ‘Someone you can fob off with any old rubbish.’
‘I assure you nothing in this shop is rubbish,’ said Madame Pamplemousse coolly. The cat hissed and arched its back.
Monsieur Lard licked his fingers and then proceeded to count banknotes from his wallet. ‘I am interested only in the best, Madame, you understand? The very best you’ve got.’
‘The best, Monsieur?’ she said, raising an eyebrow. Lard felt sweat break out on his forehead. ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘If that is what you wish, try this.’ And in one swift motion she reached below the counter and brought up a tiny jar. It was no bigger than an eggcup, sealed in wax, with a rough, yellow paper label.
Lard took the jar suspiciously. It appeared to contain a kind of paste. Yes, that was it. But in the candlelight it changed colour. From one side it glowed a deep, golden red, the colour of flames, and from another, soft lavender, and from another angle it shifted to aquamarine and then to sapphire blue.
‘But what is this? I cannot read the label. It looks like . . . why, it is blank, Madame.’
‘That’s because it has no name,’ she said.
‘No name? And no ingredients either?’
‘The ingredients are a secret,’ she said. ‘However, I can assure you it will not disappoint.’
Monsieur Lard wiped his brow. His prize was now so near, if only he could manage to control himself. His composure was not helped by the cat, which was making a low growling sound.
‘But the jar is so small. If it is as good as you say, perhaps you could sell me . . . ooh, I don’t know . . . a hundred jars?’
‘Your mother must be hungry, Monsieur.’
Lard broke out into hysterical laughter. ‘My idea of a joke, Madame.’
But Madame Pamplemousse did not smile. ‘The one jar is all I have at present. It is a feature of this particular delicacy that it cannot be cooked to order. Any attempt to do so would severely impair its flavour. However, a little goes a long way and you will find more than enough there to feed a table of a hundred. I think that should be enough for Monsieur and his. . . guest?’
Lard bowed his head. ‘You are too kind, Madame. Certainly, one jar will suffice. Now, we have not discussed a price . . .’ Hurriedly, he began putting the money back into his wallet. ‘Presumably, as it is so small, the price will be small as well?’
‘Pay me nothing,’ she said, ‘until you have tried it. Then tomorrow come and give me whatever you think it’s worth. But on one condition: serve it simply, as simply as possible, with nothing more than a good wine and good bread. And now,’ she clapped her hands, ‘if that is all, good day, Monsieur.’ And the next instant she was gone, vanishing into the darkness.
Chapter Five
Back at the Squealing Pig, everyone was smiling. Monsieur Lard was patrolling the kitchen and the preparations for the evening were being supervised to the last detail. He had followed Madame Pamplemousse’s instructions and served the strangely coloured paste unaccompanied except by bread, but he could not resist putting a small pig’s ear garnish beside it on every plate.
Ever since the night of the Sea Serpent Pâté, Monsieur Lard had been watching Madeleine suspiciously. She had, of course, been the one responsible for his strange turn of fortunes, but
to Monsieur Lard this made her dangerous. Because she knew he was a fraud – that he was serving someone else’s cooking and pretending it was his own.
It was now strictly forbidden for anyone to speak to her. As a result, a strange cloud of suspicion formed around Madeleine, and it wasn’t just Monsieur Lard but the whole staff who began treating her differently. People avoided speaking to her; waiters would no longer stack their dishes but would dump them straight in the sink, splashing her with greasy water. And when it came time for the staff meal, she found herself mysteriously left out. It was only her friend, the Head Chef, who, at immense personal risk, made sure that she was fed.
Outside the restaurant, a great queue of people had formed along the riverbank. The mood was that of a street party, the evening air buzzing with excited chatter. News of Monsieur Langoustine’s arrival had spread quickly throughout Paris and there was a great burst of applause as a black limousine pulled up and the black-suited chauffeur got out to open the passenger door to reveal Monsieur Langoustine, dressed in his customary black. Two of Lard’s waiters escorted the critic to his table and, as soon as he was seated, glasses of pink champagne and pink jewel-encrusted plates bearing Madame Pamplemousse’s delicacy were brought out and served to everyone. The diners were still chattering away and drinking wine when they first tasted it. And then they all fell silent.
The crowds of people queuing up around the corner became silent as well, surprised by this sudden, eerie hush. For each and every one of the diners had stopped talking at the same instant and were now gazing into the distance with a strange look on their faces.
In the kitchen, they all ceased what they were doing and went to the window to look. People passing in the nearby streets stopped to stare, to see what everyone else was staring at, and they too fell silent. Cars driving past came to a halt as drivers got out to find out what was going on, and soon the entire city of Paris had stopped still and was waiting to see what would happen, and for a long while you could hear nothing but the sound of the wind, rustling in the trees. But then a grand old chef who was 115 years old stopped chewing, swallowed and stood up.
‘Ah yes,’ he said, ‘now I understand.’ And then he sat down again and died immediately, but with a look of great joy on his face. And then the diners all began to cheer as one. People were laughing, singing and dancing; some wept, others proposed marriage to whoever was sitting next to them.
From a balcony high above the rooftops, Camembert growled. He and Madame Pamplemousse were sharing a bottle of Rose-Petal Wine.
.
‘Monsieur Lard is a fat, thieving pig!’ Camembert spat out each word. ‘He will become rich, he will become famous. And all because of you!’
Madame Pamplemousse puffed on her pipe.
‘Look down there,’ she said. ‘Tonight, people are happy. They are laughing, singing; they feel anything is possible and, yes, it’s because of my cooking. I’m happy for them. But to have the whole of Paris on my doorstep, demanding more . . .’ She shrugged. ‘It is not for me. Monsieur Lard is welcome to it.’
‘I tell you what,’ said Camembert, scowling with his one eye. ‘I’ll kill him.’
She shook her head.
‘It’s no trouble,’ he said. ‘It would be my pleasure.’
‘There’s no need. Besides,’ she said, ‘the recipe works in mysterious ways; you never know quite what might happen. Now be a good cat,’ and she waved him gently away. ‘I want to enjoy the sunset in peace.’
So Camembert snarled and stalked off to a high rooftop, where he was to meet his girlfriend, Chanterelle. She at least would show him sympathy.
Chapter Six
As Madame Pamplemousse predicted, the press beat a path to Lard’s door. He appeared on the cover of Paris Match and was interviewed on national television. To everyone’s amazement, the other guest in the studio was Monsieur Langoustine, who absolutely never gave interviews. The presenter asked Langoustine what was so special about Lard’s cooking.
At first, the food critic did not reply. The presenter waited eagerly, for in Paris Langoustine was revered as a philosopher, a guru and a mystic. When he finally spoke, the presenter was alarmed to hear a soft, piping voice that sounded more like a flute or a recorder than a human being.
‘Well, well,’ said Langoustine. ‘Monsieur Lard must be very clever, for you ask me what is so special about his food. At first I would have said nothing.’ He shrugged. ‘On the face of it, Lard’s restaurant is just like any other, if rather more revoltingly furnished. Paris is, unfortunately, full of such places – fit to burst, you might say.’
The presenter laughed politely. Langoustine stared at him a while before continuing.
.
‘But then I tried Monsieur Lard’s cooking and . . . ooh la la! I think to myself, what is this mysterious flavour? What is this miraculous taste? So it seems Monsieur Lard has a secret. A very big secret. Some kind of ingredient X.’ Langoustine turned to Monsieur Lard slowly, making him squirm in his seat. ‘I wonder what it could be.’
‘That’s the secret the whole of Paris is trying to crack,’ said the presenter. ‘Monsieur Lard, do you have any plans to give it away?’
Monsieur Lard gave a hollow-sounding laugh. ‘You want to know what it is? This secret, this ingredient X?’ He paused for effect and then tapped his skull. ‘It’s right here,’ he said.
But for Lard the awful truth was that he was as much in the dark as anyone else about this mysterious ingredient. Because the recipe didn’t belong to him at all; it belonged to Madame Pamplemousse. And he was damned if he was going to let her keep it.
Chapter Seven
The next morning Lard woke after a troubled sleep. He had been having nightmares about Monsieur Langoustine with long pincers instead of arms, interrogating him in a cave beneath the sea. At one terrible moment Langoustine had removed his dark glasses to reveal . . . but then he had woken up.
Afterwards Lard was more than usually sweaty, so he lathered his armpits in powerfully scented soap and coated himself in aftershave. Then he put on one of his finest mint-green-and-pink-striped suits and oiled his moustache. Monsieur Lard had a plan.
It was so beautifully simple. He kicked himself for not having thought of it before. When he had been in the shop, Madame Pamplemousse had been alone. She had that wretched cat, of course, but no assistant. Clearly she was too poor to afford one. So how could she refuse a sweet, charming girl with a dear smile who would work there for free? In other words, he would volunteer Madeleine for the job. Then, once inside, she could become his spy.
When he had finished oiling his moustache, Lard crashed into Madeleine’s bedroom, singing ‘What a beautiful morning!’ at the top of his voice and tap dancing so that the floor shook. Then he yanked her out of bed and told her to start practising her smile. He also made her put on a ridiculous pink fairy outfit with silver wings.
‘You don’t fool me,’ he said over breakfast. This consisted of a large fatty piece of bacon that had been boiled until it was grey. ‘It’s always the quiet ones. You might look nice and polite on the outside, but I know you’re really a little sneak underneath!’
He chuckled in a way that instantly gave her stomach ache. This was before she had even attempted the bacon, which was very gristly and difficult to cut into.
.
‘But I’m giving you a chance to redeem yourself, a chance to put your sneaky little ways to good use!’
He brought his shiny, sweaty face up close.
‘You’re going back to that shop and you’re going to work for that woman as her assistant. And you’d better do as she says because she’s not a big softy like me; one foot wrong and she’ll chop you up for sausage meat!’
Madeleine remembered the eerie darkness of the shop and the mysterious woman in black appearing out of nowhere. The awful thing was, her uncle was right: she did feel like a sneak, because he was serving food from this woman’s shop and passing it off as his own. And it was all Madeleine’s
fault; she had been the one who started it. Goodness knows what the woman would do to her if she found out.
‘I want you to keep your eyes open. There’s one special delicacy. One with no name, no ingredients on the label. I want you to find out how she makes it, what goes into it, right down to the last pinch of salt, do you understand me?’
‘Yes, Uncle,’ she said very faintly.
‘Good girl!’ He gave her an affectionate pinch on the cheek. ‘And don’t forget to smile!’
Monsieur Lard kept a tight grip on his niece’s hand as he dragged her along the riverbank. Passers-by, seeing a big man holding hands with a small girl in a fairy costume, smiled at such a heart-warming sight. Eventually they turned down the winding little alley that led into the narrow cobbled street. And there was the shop.
They found the door was open and went inside. It took a while for them to adjust to the candlelight, but the shop appeared to be empty. Monsieur Lard rang the bell on the counter, but it was silent, so he rang it again several times.
‘I trust last night went well, Monsieur?’
The voice came out of the darkness, making Lard cry out in shock. But the next moment there was the woman, standing right in front of him.
‘Madame!’ he sang in his oiliest voice. ‘How nice to see you again and, if I may say, how well you look. But last night! Such a delightful evening; my mother simply adored your little recipe.’
‘I’m so glad she enjoyed it.’
‘Enjoyed it? She scoffed the lot! But you asked me to pay you whatever I deemed it worth. So may I present this girl.’
Madame Pamplemousse stared at Madeleine.
‘This is your payment, Monsieur?’
Madame Pamplemousse and Her Incredible Edibles Page 2