Camembert growled like a tiger, ready to pounce. ‘Be quiet!’ Madame Pamplemousse said sharply. Camembert tossed his head back and began licking his fur. ‘Your uncle wishes to steal something from me: the recipe for The Most Incredible Edible Ever Tasted. Well, here it is.’ And she promptly handed Madeleine a piece of yellow paper with a list written in purple ink.
Madeleine took the page and studied it closely. ‘But I don’t understand,’ she said. ‘Is that all?’ For the incredible thing about the list was that none of the ingredients were in the least bit incredible. Some were quite rare but easily available in a city like Paris.
‘Oh yes, that’s all there is to it. I used to make it with Giant-Squid Stock, but there were no squids to hand one summer so I had to do without. A small improvement.’
‘But if you give him the recipe . . .’ Madeleine’s voice shook, ‘then . . . he’s won, hasn’t he?’
Madame Pamplemousse smiled. ‘Your uncle is a fool. He wishes to steal The Most Incredible Edible Ever Tasted and he thinks this is a simple matter of acquiring the recipe and . . .’ here her lips pursed and Madeleine thought she was about to spit, ‘copying it!’
Camembert spat for her, a great fur ball that landed at Madeleine’s feet.
‘The delicacy cannot be stolen, for it is made by my own hand, assisted by my colleague Camembert. The ingredients I use are not especially remarkable. Exquisite, yes, and delicious, but only things. It is you yourself that gives flavour to your cooking – your character, your dreams, your smiles, your tears. Your uncle is a bully. That is how his cooking will always taste. I may give your uncle the recipe, but Lard’s customers should be warned: they might not like what they receive.’
Meanwhile, Camembert had gone back to chopping ingredients and was now heating them over a low flame. He took a spoonful of this and raised it to Madame Pamplemousse’s lips. She tasted it, then shook her head once. Camembert added some more spice, a pinch of something yellow and a pinch of something red.
Seeing them so engrossed, Madeleine thought it time to excuse herself as best she could. ‘Is that all, then, Madame?’ she asked quietly.
Madame Pamplemousse was concentrating on the pot which was cooking on the stove. She glanced up. ‘Mm? Oh yes, thank you so much, Mademoiselle, that will be all.’
‘Goodbye, then, Madame,’ said Madeleine.
‘Goodbye, Mademoiselle,’ she said.
Madeleine waited a second or two to see if she might say more. But Madame Pamplemousse said nothing and so she made to leave.
‘Oh . . . just one thing,’ said Madame Pamplemousse as Madeleine reached the door. ‘I thought you might like to try this before you go.’ And she handed her a small piece of bread on which was spread some of the contents of the pot. By now it was starting to cool and as it did so it changed colour. When Madeleine took the bread from Madame Pamplemousse’s hand it was a pale, mossy green, but before her eyes it shifted. At first it was a dark, warm red, the colour of burning coals, then a honey yellow, then the vivid blue of a peacock’s tail, before finally resting on lavender: a deep purplish hue.
‘It’s ready now,’ said Madame Pamplemousse and in her eyes there was a sudden flickering of a similar purple shade.
Afterwards, Madeleine would think back to that moment and try to remember when she first tasted it. But she could not, because tasting it was itself like a memory – all the best memories she had ever had suddenly sweeping through her like a gust of clear air. The flavours themselves, so light yet intense, subtle yet refreshing, seemed to wake her from a sleep. And all that time she had spent being afraid – doing her uncle’s dirty work, acting as his spy – now seemed so far away, as if it belonged to a different person. Not that she felt different; it was rather that she now felt more completely herself. And she realised then how, more than anything, she loved to cook. She had lost that somewhere in the Squealing Pig, thanks to her uncle, who made cookery seem so depressing. Monsieur Lard only wanted to become famous, to make the whole world love him. She loved cooking for its own sake, the way you loved another person.
‘That is now yours to keep for ever.’ Madeleine’s eyes had been closed but they opened to find Madame Pamplemousse smiling at her. ‘No one can take that away.’
‘But can I . . . can I really . . . ?’ Madeleine found herself barely able to speak.
‘Can you cook? Why naturally,’ said Madame Pamplemousse. ‘Not only that, you have a talent, Mademoiselle. An exceptional talent. I knew it the instant we met.’
‘But how, Madame?’
‘Because you are one of us,’ said Madame Pamplemousse. ‘And people like us should stick together. My recipe affects people in different ways. Some dance, others sing. It reminded you who you are, that is all.’
‘That’s incredible,’ said Madeleine.
‘Naturally. That’s why it’s The Most Incredible Edible Ever Tasted. Now, we don’t have much time. Your uncle is waiting for his recipe. Let’s give him what he wants. Then tomorrow night he will serve it to his customers. But first it is time for you to invent a recipe of your own. Serve that tomorrow for the second course, and we shall see which they prefer. Come, let us get to work.’
And so they did, throughout the night, Madeleine starting at first hesitantly, then more confidently, to mix ingredients together. She had long suspected that snails, liquorice, bay leaves and sorrel would make a good basis for a stock. These she slowly cooked until they had reached a good sludgy consistency, then she began adding other ingredients. She found she didn’t have to think too hard about what to include; her wits were now sharper than ever, and she knew instinctively how a pinch of spice, a grind of pepper or a grating of zest would combine to produce the perfect flavour. Her hands played lightly over the shelves, all the while aided and assisted by Madame Pamplemousse and her cat (or actually just by Madame Pamplemousse, since Camembert did nothing but lick his fur), until, at last, she had produced her very own edible. To celebrate, the three of them took breakfast on Madame Pamplemousse’s high balcony and toasted each other with hot chocolate as dawn was breaking over the city below.
Madeleine was ready. In her hands she bore the two recipes: the list of ingredients for The Most Incredible Edible and for her own unique creation. Then Madame Pamplemousse wished her good luck and Camembert offered to escort her along the riverbank, through the misty morning streets, back to the Squealing Pig.
Chapter Ten
When the news went out that the restaurant was opening again, the phone never stopped ringing. By now, only the wealthiest citizens of Paris were able to afford a table, but even so, the tables were by invitation only. The head of the FOOD Corporation had ordered his private jet to spin round in mid-flight when he got the news. The President of France had a special body double take over engagements so that he might attend.
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By eight o’clock that morning, all of Lard’s cooking staff had been despatched to buy the necessary ingredients. Lard was amazed by the recipe’s simplicity.
‘You mean that’s it? There’s nothing else to it?’
‘Just what’s on the list, Uncle,’ said Madeleine.
‘But surely some extra butter, a drizzle of double cream?’
‘Just what’s on the list,’ she repeated.
‘Well, I never!’ said Lard. ‘And there it was all this time, right under my very nose!’ And he went off muttering to himself, occasionally lashing out to punch a wall or smash a piece of furniture.
By midday all of the ingredients had been bought, chopped, filleted, sliced, crushed and blended as dictated, to the letter, in the recipe. Smiling practice began soon after and work had to stop for a good two hours. Seeing her chance, Madeleine slipped away.
As quickly as she could, she took a saucepan and began to prepare the stock, just as she had done the night before in Madame Pamplemousse’s kitchen. But the freedom she had felt there now abandoned her and in its place came a little, creeping fear. A fear that her recipe was no good – tha
t it would backfire horribly and her uncle would be triumphant after all. But then the first delicate threads of steam rose up from the cooking pot to curl about her nostrils, and in that instant she forgot her fear. A new, coolly detached part of herself took hold, no longer rushing, but allowing the recipe to take shape at its own pace and natural rhythm.
Then, when it was done, she removed the saucepan from the heat and let it cool in a special hiding place in one of the store cupboards. This she managed just in time before a great stampede of chefs, forced to stop work during smiling practice, came charging through the kitchen doors.
By seven o’clock huge crowds had formed outside the restaurant and were screaming and shouting to be let in. Lard had the full assistance of the military and the police, and great steel barriers had been set up around the restaurant, patrolled by armed guards. Television crews were filming all the commotion and the crowd became hysterical when a helicopter appeared overhead, hovered above the restaurant, and a rope ladder dropped down. A bald, faceless man in a grey suit, who was the President of France, climbed out of the helicopter, closely followed by a small, withered-looking man, who was the head of the FOOD Corporation.
It was more than Monsieur Lard could ever have dreamed of and he stepped out to meet the crowd, resplendent in his new pink and diamond-spangled suit.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he said in a voice like warm margarine. Then he paused to grin at everyone. ‘It is my immense honour to welcome you tonight to the grand re-opening of the Squealing Pig. So far the world has only had a taste, a first taste of what is, by all accounts, the most delectable, the most delicious, the most extraordinary, the most incredible-tasting edible in all the world!’
There were huge cheers and applause.
‘Who wants some more?’
There were shouts of ‘Me! I do! Me! Me!’
Lard raised his hands to silence them.
‘Well, I’ve news for you, ladies and gentlemen. Tonight you shall have as much as you can eat!’
And the crowd went wild.
In the kitchens the cooks were rushing about frantically. They had made vast quantities of the recipe and were spooning it at the double on to plates which had been polished up to a sparkle by Madeleine. The waiters were waiting anxiously, shouting for the cooks to hurry up.
A fight nearly broke out between one of the waiters and the Head Chef. It was the whippet-thin waiter who also acted as Lard’s spy.
‘If he shouts one more time,’ whispered the Head Chef, ‘I’ll chuck him in the deep-fat fryer!’
‘Don’t bother,’ Madeleine whispered back. ‘Listen, I’ve got a plan.’ And she told him about the secret recipe she had prepared and how they were to serve it for the second course.
Next door, Paris’s richest and most powerful were banging their cutlery on the tables, and when they saw the waiters marching out of the kitchen they began to whoop like monkeys. They pounced on the food, saliva dribbling from their chins, and for a while there was no sound but for the busy scraping of metal on china plates.
Monsieur Lard first knew there was something wrong when he saw that people had stopped eating – not the way they had done when they first tasted the delicacy from Madame Pamplemousse’s shop. Then they had stopped eating out of awe and wonder. This time they were frowning.
Lard’s beady little eyes darted rapidly about the tables and he saw the President of France chewing slowly with a terrible furrowed brow and a man at another table with a napkin over his mouth. A woman was puckering her lips as if she was about to be sick, and then he saw the President stop chewing and suddenly spit violently on to the table. All at once, everyone was coughing, spitting, spluttering, as if they had been poisoned.
Lard leapt up, waving his arms around. ‘Wait!’ he cried. ‘Stop! There must be some mistake. Everyone stop spitting this instant!’
And so they did, not because he told them to but because just then the restaurant doors flew open and out came a solemn procession of cooks, all dressed in their aprons and white hats. And at the front there was the Head Chef, bearing in his hand a tiny plate. This he delivered to the President. ‘Monsieur,’ he said, ‘please accept this from the kitchen, with our apologies.’
The President grunted and, as the crowd watched, he lifted up a tiny spoonful of the food to his mouth. Then he ate another spoonful, and then another. The cooks delivered plates to other tables and soon everyone was doing the same, for Madeleine’s recipe had the most incredible effect. It was so deliciously light, so fresh and zingy that people quite forgot their sickness and were soon calling out for more.
On seeing this extraordinary turn of events, Lard got out from under the tablecloth where he had been hiding and dusted himself down. He had no idea what was going on but assumed the cooks had made a mistake with the first batch of the recipe. He was going to flambé whoever was responsible but, meanwhile, he improvised.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he grinned broadly, ‘as you have probably guessed, that first course you received was really a test! A test to see whether you are truly the finest gourmets in Paris!’
A small murmur of approval went round the tables.
‘And you have passed that test! Admirably! You are not only the finest gourmets but also Paris’s best and most beautiful people!’
There was an even bigger murmur of approval. But while he was speaking, a black limousine had slid silently up to the pavement in front of the restaurant. A chauffeur got out to open the passenger door and out stepped the black-suited figure of Monsieur Langoustine. All eyes were on him as he walked up to Monsieur Lard.
‘Well, well, nice of you to drop by, Monsieur Langoustine,’ said Lard coolly. ‘To what do we owe the pleasure?’
‘The pleasure is all mine, Monsieur,’ said Langoustine. ‘For tonight I am here to celebrate Paris’s new gastronomic star.’ From out of his long black coat he produced a large bouquet of flowers. ‘May I present my compliments to the chef?’
‘Really, Monsieur Langoustine,’ said Lard, softening like rancid butter, ‘you shouldn’t have. Though, of course, I accept. For it is an honour and a privilege to be at last recognised as the greatest chef the world has ever –’
Monsieur Langoustine loudly cleared his throat. This was a disturbingly high-pitched, barely human kind of sound, which had the effect of immediately silencing Monsieur Lard. ‘Perhaps you didn’t hear me correctly, Monsieur,’ said Langoustine icily. ‘I said I was here to pay my compliments to the chef.’ He had raised his voice so that all might hear it, although this was unnecessary, since everyone was listening intently. And then he pointed his black-gloved hand in Madeleine’s direction. She had been standing in a huddle with the other chefs but, receiving his summons, she stepped out from among them and Monsieur Langoustine presented her with the flowers.
Attached to them was a note, written in exquisite purple script, which read:
Next to her name there was what appeared to be a smudge of ink, but when Madeleine looked closer she saw it was the tiny imprint of a paw.
‘Congratulations, Mademoiselle,’ said Langoustine in his soft, piping voice. ‘People like us should stick together.’ And then he raised her hand to his thin red lips.
A camera flash went off. A photographer had caught the moment and the next day the picture would appear on the cover of every national newspaper: Madeleine in her chef’s whites, holding a bunch of brilliantly coloured flowers, beside a rather sinister-looking man in dark glasses. Above it the headlines would read:
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LANGOUSTINE CONGRATULATES NEW GASTRONOMIC STAR
RESTAURANT OWNER STEALS RECIPE FROM HIS OWN NIECE
MONSIEUR LARD: THIEF!
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And in the later editions:
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THE MOST INCREDIBLE EDIBLE EVER TASTED: WAS IT REALLY ALL A HOAX?
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The photographer had also managed to get Monsieur Lard in the picture, his face bright pink, dripping with sweat. As far as situations in
which to be unmasked as a thief go, this was arguably the worst. He had personally seen to it that every exit was either fenced off or patrolled by men with guns. His every facial gesture was being broadcast on national television and he was surrounded by a large angry mob who might easily tear him to pieces.
But what they actually did was applaud. No one jeered, no one heckled or booed or hissed. They just stood up and clapped as if the whole thing had been a theatrical event, an entertainment and nothing more.
Then someone called out Madeleine’s name and a small tussle broke out among the press, trying to get the first interview. Paris’s top children’s clothing designer was there, trying to get her to model a new kind of pink fairy outfit with elasticated wings. But no one could find her.
During all the commotion, while everyone’s attention had been diverted by the flashing lights of the cameras, Monsieur Langoustine and Madeleine had discreetly made their way through the crowd. And when they reached the limousine, the chauffeur got out to open the door and together they slipped inside. And if anyone had been looking they might have been surprised to see the driver of the car was not even human, but a cat: a long white cat walking on its hind legs and wearing a peaked cap. But no one did notice and before they would have had the chance, the car had already started and was moving silently away.
Epilogue
Madeleine no longer washes dishes in the Squealing Pig. Monsieur Lard sold the restaurant to the Head Chef and his wife, who changed the name to the Hungry Snail, and ever since have made it a big success.
They also asked Madeleine if she would like to come and live with them. Madeleine’s parents agreed, provided they were financially reimbursed for the loss of their child.
Monsieur Lard left Paris and now drives a van, selling chips on the sea coast – and rumour has it they’re not bad at all.
Madame Pamplemousse and Her Incredible Edibles Page 4