by Michael Bond
‘It was hardly his fault the landlady’s daughter climbed into bed with him before he was fully recovered. After a lifetime of abstinence, he must have had a lot bottled up.
Weakened as he was by the after-effects of influenza, it is all too easy to see how he must have found her blandishments hard to resist. By all accounts she was a comely girl.’
‘The winters are long and hard in the Auvergne,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.
‘The inhabitants have to do something to pass the time.’
‘You should know, Aristide,’ said the Director pointedly. ‘But never forget, in the early days, our founder went everywhere on his Michaux bicyclette, and that was before the invention of the pneumatic tyre and sprung saddles. It might have played havoc with his manhood. At least, in later life, having traded his bicyclette in for an eight-cylinder Delage, he got it out of his system and in so doing proved the opposite to be the case.
‘As the English poet, Donne, famously said: “To err is human, to forgive is divine”.’
‘I am always telling my wife that,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse sadly. ‘I am not sure she is in total agreement with his philosophy. She calls it “poet’s licence”.’
‘How many of us,’ said Monsieur Leclercq pointedly, ‘can say, hand on heart, we have only strayed but once in our lives?’
‘You mentioned a third prong,’ continued Monsieur Pamplemousse, hastily changing the subject.
‘Ah,’ said the Director. ‘It is one of the main reasons why I sent for you, Aristide.’ He paused to mop his brow.
Clearly ill at ease, and, despite his words, looking far from pleased at being reminded of the task in hand, he rummaged in a desk drawer and produced a bundle of photographs. Riffling through them, he singled out one near the bottom of the pile.
‘This arrived on my desk yesterday morning. Fortunately, it came by special courier and was addressed to me personally, otherwise …’
Monsieur Pamplemousse braced himself, wondering what he was about to see.
‘It grieves me more than I can possibly tell you, Aristide,’ said Monsieur Leclercq, ‘but you do realise, of course, that in our founder’s day this kind of behaviour would have resulted in your instant dismissal.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse stared at the photograph. It showed the inside of a restaurant and bore many of the telltale signs of having been taken on a mobile phone.
A small section of the original must have been blown up out of all proportion. Pixels were in short supply.
‘It is a good one of Pommes Frites,’ he admitted, holding it down for him to see. ‘He looks very pleased with life.’
‘As well he might be,’ said the Director grimly. ‘Poularde de Bresse en Vessie, if I am not mistaken. Helped on its way by a bottle of Montrachet. I trust it was a good year.’
‘I remember the occasion,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse defensively. ‘We were in Lyon and I ordered the poularde because it is one of the chef’s specialities. I was handing Pommes Frites his share while I thought no one else was looking. Clearly, I was mistaken, although why anyone would wish to take a picture of us, I don’t know. May I keep it?’
Monsieur Leclercq heaved a deep sigh.
‘I fear not, Pamplemousse,’ he said severely. ‘We may yet need it for what our lawyers will undoubtedly refer to as Exhibit “A” when a case is brought to court.
‘As for why anyone should wish to photograph the scene in the first place, the answer is simple. It was sent to one of France’s most illustrious journaux, along with an article by an unnamed freelance journalist. Fortunately, the editor happens to be an old friend of mine and he has promised to hold back on the story for the time being.
‘The writer of the article stated categorically that we are in an even worse state than Michelin. He says we are now so short of inspectors we have had to resort to using dogs to do the field work for us!’
‘But …’ Monsieur Pamplemousse stared at the Director, ‘that is ridiculous …’
‘Ridiculous it may be,’ said Monsieur Leclercq. ‘However, you know as well as I do, Aristide, that once the media get hold of a story like that there will be no holding them. They will have a field day. Ultimately, it could spell ruin for Le Guide.’
‘I would back Pommes Frites’ opinion against anyone else you care to mention,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse loyally. ‘His powers of observation are second to none. Many times over the years I have had to amend my reports following something he has noticed. It is not so much a question of taste – the food generally goes down at such a rate it barely touches the side of his throat. It is more a matter of scent. The preliminary sniff says it all. If there is anything the slightest bit untoward, you can forget it. I have often thought of writing an article on the subject of animals and food for the staff magazine.
‘In fact,’ he held the picture up to the light, ‘this is the kind of shot Calvet is always on the look-out for the front cover of l’Escargot. He has a theory that once you have seen one snail you have seen the lot.
‘That is not to criticise Le Guide’s logo of two escargots rampant,’ he added hastily. ‘But when they have their heads inside their shell it is hard to tell what they are thinking or, indeed, whether they are coming or going, and they probably feel the same way. I daresay Trigaux would be able to liven it up a bit in his lab. He loves getting his teeth into that kind of problem.’
‘And what did Pommes Frites think of the wine?’ asked Monsieur Leclercq, pointedly. ‘I haven’t had your P38 report downloaded, Madame Grante is away at the moment, but it looks to me very much like an ’86 from Sauzet. That is also one of his favourites, I presume?’
‘We happened to be in a three Stock Pot establishment, monsieur; one that prides itself on its wine list. To have ordered a glass of the house white would have drawn attention to our table. Suspicions would have been aroused.’
‘There is such a thing as a happy medium,’ said the Director grumpily.
It struck Monsieur Pamplemousse that the rumours might be true and Monsieur Leclercq really was engaged in a financial blitzkrieg. The lack of a water bowl for Pommes Frites could be part of a cost-cutting exercise. However, there were limits.
Besides, it didn’t gel with his engaging the services of a doubtlessly highly paid security guard at the gates.
He tried one last ploy. ‘As you have so often pointed out in the past, monsieur, “good wine is never expensive, only bad wine”.’
‘In any case,’ he continued, ‘Pommes Frites simply had his usual sniff of my glass under the table. That hardly counts as sharing. Apart from birthdays and Christmas, he is, to all intents and purposes, teetotal.’
‘Others are not cognisant of that fact, Pamplemousse,’ said the Director. ‘For all they know he could have been on his second or third bottle.’
‘Apart from a soupçon in his water bowl at Christmas, wine is not his particular forte, monsieur,’ continued Monsieur Pamplemousse defensively. ‘He is hardly in line to become an honorary member of Alcoholics Anonymous.
‘Occasionally, if it is a vintage red that has thrown some sediment, he stretches a point and has a morsel on some bread for his memory bank, but that is as far as it goes. He prefers to keep his sensory perceptions unsullied by alcohol, honed and ready for action at all times.’
‘All that may be true,’ said the Director. ‘However, I fear certain parallels can be drawn between the picture you are holding in your hand and Michelin’s recent problem with the ex-member of staff we were talking about earlier.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse wondered if the same person could be responsible for the latest picture, but he kept his thoughts to himself.
‘Clearly, monsieur,’ he said, handing it back, ‘there are problems that need to be addressed.’
Monsieur Leclercq’s face cleared. ‘I’m glad you are of like mind, Aristide. With that end in view I have engaged outside help.’
‘So I am given to understand,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse warily.<
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‘Speaking personally, I was fully prepared to put your case on the back boiler for the time being, but my adviser makes the very valid point that should the picture ever be published, your own anonymity, so precious when working for Le Guide, will be blown.
‘In short, I fear Pommes Frites will have to go.’
Having finally made his point, Monsieur Leclercq busied himself with some papers on his desk.
For the second time that day, the principal subject of his words gave vent to his feelings. Seeing the picture of the chicken portions after the prolonged absence of any kind of food whatsoever since breakfast, was bad enough. Now, having caught sight of the look on his master’s face, he simply couldn’t help himself. His long drawn-out howl captured the prevailing mood in a way that mere words could never have achieved.
As for Monsieur Pamplemousse; he was temporarily struck dumb.
Monsieur Leclercq was quick to take advantage of the silence. ‘It only serves to confirm the wisdom of the old adage, Aristide,’ he said gently. ‘There is no point whatsoever in buying a dog and then barking yourself.
‘There is nothing more to add. Pommes Frites has said it all.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse took a deep breath as he rose to leave. ‘In that case, monsieur,’ he said, enunciating his words slowly and distinctly, thus leaving no room for doubt, ‘you will have no further need of my services either. As I see things, it spells the end of the road for both of us. If monsieur would be kind enough to say when he wishes us to leave …’
Reaching for a notepad and pen, Monsieur Leclercq scribbled a few hasty words before glancing at his watch.
‘I think now is as good a time as any, Pamplemousse,’ he said, handing the scrap of paper across the table. ‘Before you leave the building I suggest you clear your IN tray.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse pocketed the paper. ‘That will not be necessary monsieur,’ he said stiffly. ‘I went through it when we arrived. There is nothing outstanding.’
‘That being the case,’ said Monsieur Leclercq, ‘I can but wish both of you bonne journée.’
CHAPTER FOUR
‘Is anything the matter, Aristide?’ asked Doucette. ‘You’ve hardly touched your dinner. After all that rich food you’ve been eating over the past few weeks, I thought you might be glad of something more down to earth.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse raised his eyes heavenwards. It was one of the hazards of his occupation. In much the same way as an author renders himself an object of deep suspicion in the eyes of the tax authorities if he enters ‘visits to the Folies – Bergère x 4’ on his tax return while researching a book on folk dancing, so the commonly perceived view of anyone working as an inspector for Le Guide was that life must be one long gastronomic holiday.
Even one’s nearest and dearest took it for granted you were living it up all the time, completely ignoring the simple fact that the ten thousand or so entries in Le Guide represented the cream of French cuisine. Reporting on the many others who, for one reason or another didn’t make the grade, was the downside of the job.
Many small hotels, once the backbone of the business, had fallen on hard times. The bedrooms, with their worn-out carpets and mattresses sporting a permanent dip in the middle, remained ice-cold in winter and sweltering hot during the summer months because their one-time mainstay, the voyageurs commerces, were themselves fighting a losing battle with customers who were now placing their orders via the Internet.
On the gastronomic side, it took no account of those restaurants whose over-elaborate menus meant only one thing; prefabricated frozen meals. Often, if the truth be known, well beyond their ‘consume by’ date.
To cap it all, at the end of every day, five hundred boxes in Le Guide’s questionnaire covering every item from Ashtrays in the bedroom to Zabaglione in the restaurant, had to be marked with a tick or a cross, comments being added where necessary.
‘I’m sorry, Couscous,’ he said. ‘My mind was on other things.’
‘Well,’ remarked Doucette, ‘whatever it was, Pommes Frites seems to have caught the bug as well. He’s hardly touched his plate. Don’t tell me he has his mind on other things as well. Just look at his face. Knowing he doesn’t like fish, I got him something different.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse pulled himself together. Doucette was right. It must be extremely galling to go to so much trouble over a meal, only to have it treated with a lack of respect.
For the time being, he relegated his problems to what Monsieur Leclercq would have called the ‘back burner’.
Doucette had chosen well. What he fondly called ‘the prawn dish’ fitted his mood after a long day behind the wheel; the bottle of white Corbières Vieilles Vignes from Roland Legard, just what the proverbial doctor might have ordered.
‘Couscous,’ he said, ‘you are une perle; and adventurous with it, branching out into unknown territory all by yourself like this. The Languedoc is a vast area.’
Doucette went a becoming shade of pink. ‘I am not married to a food inspector for nothing.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse returned to the matter in hand.
Although he had nicknamed it the ‘prawn dish’, he might just as well have called it the ‘egg dish’, or ‘the one with the sliced tomatoes’; for all three ingredients were combined in separate layers. Enveloped in a cheese sauce, capped by a layer of breadcrumbs, and cooked in the oven until the top was golden brown, it was a dish for all seasons.
Spearing a particularly large prawn, he held it up to the light. ‘Parfait!’ he exclaimed.
Their good friends, the Pickerings, whose recipe it was, maintained the dish was at its best in the early part of the year, when it could be accompanied by peas fresh from the garden and roast potatoes. But then, les Anglais were wedded to what they called their ‘two veg’.
Being French, Monsieur and Madame Pamplemousse were content to accompany their version with a fresh, green salad.
There were other minor differences of course; the prawns in particular were a good example. According to Mr Pickering, theirs were deep frozen and rarely, if ever, recovered their distinctive taste after being shelled by machine somewhere or other on the far side of the world, whereas the Pamplemousse’s were sea-fresh from the local poissonnier.
But wasn’t that so with most recipes? A flourishing industry had been built up satisfying the insatiable need of people who invested heavily in cookery books hoping that something magical would happen, only to blame anyone but themselves when it didn’t. In the end it wasn’t only a matter of fresh ingredients; the hands that melded them together were important too.
‘I am very lucky’, he said, ‘that you have the touch, Doucette. It is something you were born with, unlike some.’
The ‘unlike some’, was a reference to her sister Agathe, who had certainly missed out on that score with her tripes à la mode de Caen. It was a case of being wise after the event, but in retrospect he often wished he hadn’t been quite so lavish with his praise the first time they met when he had been on his best behaviour. From that moment on he had always been given it as ‘a treat’
Realising he still hadn’t answered his wife’s question, he helped himself to a second portion while trying to condense the story into as few words as possible.
Doucette listened in silence until he reached the point where Monsieur Leclercq delivered his bombshell regarding Pommes Frites.
She gazed across the table at her husband.
‘But can he do that? Surely there are laws …’
‘Pommes Frites is not a member of staff,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse simply. ‘He has no rights.’
‘But that is terrible, Aristide. You cannot let it happen.’
‘You see my dilemma, Couscous,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘And to give the Director his due, I can see his side of the argument. That being the case, I have no alternative but to resign.
‘Monsieur Leclercq is paranoid about his work. To him it is the beginning and end of everything. The wor
d “failure” has no place in his vocabulary. Were Le Guide to fail, the disgrace would kill him.’
‘But surely,’ said Doucette, ‘things cannot be as bad as all that. Most businesses have their ups and downs. People have short memories. Given time, it will all blow over …’
‘You don’t know the half of it, Couscous,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse sombrely. ‘For whatever reason, someone has it in for Le Guide. Feelings are running high within the company. So much so, cars are being daubed with graffiti. Such a thing would have been unheard of a few weeks ago.’
‘It seems to me there are a great many sad people in this world who are out to destroy things merely for the sake of it,’ said Doucette. ‘Les tagueurs cannot see anything beautiful without wishing to cover it with spray paint, just as there are others who can’t bear to see something that is successful.’
‘It is a worldwide problem,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Not made any easier because generally speaking the perpetrators are often hard to catch.
‘In Grande Bretagne they have a theory that many of those who indulge in graffiti take pride in their work and want others to admire it, so whenever possible they erase it as quickly as possible, hoping that in the end they will give up.
‘In France, we agree with the theory, but feel perhaps the perpetrators should be as it were, privatised, and given a place where they can display their talents to the public in a more civilised fashion; hence the recent exhibition in Paris with a top prize of €1,500.
‘In America, science has been brought to bear on the problem. They have invented a device called the Tagger Trap. Strategically placed, it is activated by the fumes from spray cans which triggers off an alarm in the nearest police station.
‘But these are relatively minor things. When it comes to big business, especially with an organisation like Le Guide, where accuracy is paramount, the problem is entirely different. Monsieur Leclercq is right. It takes years to build up a reputation, but mud sticks and it can be destroyed overnight.’