by Michael Bond
‘Fashions come, and by the time a new edition is ready for publication they are often gone again. There was a time when kiwi fruit was all the rage. Then it was sun-dried tomatoes. Then, when growers couldn’t find enough sunshine they became sun-blushed. For a while, fusion was the “in” word, along with “froth” and “cappuccino”.
Ingredients that many people had never heard of, like lemongrass and tamarind, suddenly became the “in” words. I read the other day of a chef who has stopped dusting his jellies with powdered sugar but insists on using bee’s pollen from the Ba Va mountains in Vietnam.
‘Even the language of cooking changes. No one spoons sauce onto a plate any more; they drizzle it.
‘Translations are another headache. Going through some press cuttings the other day I came across the word “heretical” being used to describe a piece of cheesecake. There is an English food writer who often makes use of the word “historic” to describe a quite ordinary dish. Americans are fond of the word “revelatory”, and they talk of “signature dishes”.
‘More and more top chefs are spreading their talents too. Nobody expects them to be slaving away over a hot stove all the time – that would be unrealistic, and their great gift to us all is training others up to their standards – but patrons also appreciate continuity and it would be nice if they could show their faces from time to time other than in a fashion magazine.
‘In order to keep pace with rising costs, many of the three Stock Pot restaurants in Paris are opening more modestly priced off-shoots nearby; the Bistro Opposite; the Bistro Alongside; the Bistro Two Doors Down. Even Taillevant has branched out with L’Angle, although that is discreetly further away from its parent than most, and stands on its own two feet. Gagnaire has done the same. But chefs can’t be in two places at once.
‘Cooking is an inexact science, if you choose to call it a science, because you can record all the ingredients, and the times, but you omit the most important one of all: the chef. How can you explain a Bocuse, or a Robuchon or a Gagnaire to the layman? Others can follow their recipes slavishly, but they seldom taste the same.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse had to agree. At the end of the day, the hand that held the ladle was all important. That, along with precision and attention to detail.
Hadn’t he once been dining at Paul Bocuse? And hadn’t the great man himself, on passing a chicken he had ordered that was turning on a spit in the open fireplace, paused to make some minor adjustment? And hadn’t it turned out to be one of the best he had ever eaten? The skin, crisp and golden; the flesh firm and juicy; the taste sublime?
Was it fact or was it fancy? It had certainly made all the difference to his enjoyment of the meal.
It had also pointed the way to a lasting interest in all things to do with food and wine.
‘There you are,’ said Véronique, when he told her. ‘But then Bocuse has the passion.
‘Sometimes I wonder where it will all end. Most people have no idea how much work is involved in producing a guide.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse wondered too. Véronique spoke with authority and with passion too, and for perhaps the first time he realised just what an asset she must be to Monsieur Leclercq.
‘It is not entirely the fault of the guides,’ he said. ‘They can only report what they find. We live in an age when the curse of the Top Ten or Top Twenty is upon us. That, and everyone wanting to be a “celebrity”.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Véronique replenished their glasses and then crossed the room to put the bottle back in its cooler. ‘You know all this much better than I do anyway, and it sounds as though I am trying to justify myself, but I did what I did with the best of intentions.’
‘So what happened that was so bad?’ asked Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘I’m sure it can be put right, whatever it is.’
‘I’m afraid it is too late,’ said Véronique. ‘There is no going back.
‘In a way, Madame Grante put the idea into my head. She pointed out to Monsieur Leclercq that his latest trip to America would be the third visit this year, and that fares were going up all the time. She even suggested he might travel tourist class for a change – you can imagine how that went down.
‘Consequently, he was in two minds about whether to go or not. Personally, I felt the change of scene might do him good. Also, he needed a break before getting down to serious work on next year’s edition.
‘What clinched it for me was a piece of junk mail that came through on the office fax machine. These things usually get binned, but it was from a company I hadn’t heard of before and the layout happened to be particularly eye-catching. They said they were specialising in first class air and sea fares, and as an opening offer to potential customers they were offering cut-price seats at over sixty per cent off the normal price; twice as much as we normally get.
‘Monsieur Leclercq always left his travel arrangements to me, but in the end I asked him what he thought about giving them a trial. His immediate reaction was go for it, provided of course, he was accorded his usual seating arrangements.’
‘So, in effect,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘he has only himself to blame.’
Véronique made a face. ‘You could say that, but the truth of the matter is, I put the idea into his head in the first place, and since his return he has been a changed person. Something happened while he was away and I feel largely responsible.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse felt half tempted to tell her, but … Once again he automatically looked for his watch, then made do with a large clock on one of the walls.
It was getting late and his mind was in too much of a whirl as it was. It was hard to equate the Director’s encounter on the plane with what was happening back home, but if they were connected, then Monsieur Leclercq must be in worse trouble than he had pictured. Up to his knees, as Bernard might say. He decided to gloss over it for the time being.
‘You really shouldn’t lose any sleep,’ he said. ‘I am sure it is a passing storm. It will blow itself out eventually.’
‘The way he is behaving is having an effect on everything,’ persisted Véronique. ‘It is permeating right down through the system. At first it was little things, like pensioning off old Rambaud and bringing in the new man.’
‘You don’t like the man from BRINKS?’
‘Paul Bourdel? Nobody likes him. That was really the start of it all. Now, the entries in Le Guide itself are being sabotaged in some way.’
‘And the firm who provided the tickets? You have used them again since?’
Véronique shook her head. ‘It was a flash in the pan. I tried to get through, but they must have gone under already. Businesses come and go these days. Nothing is for ever.’
‘If you let me have the details,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘I can get someone to check up on them.’
‘I don’t have them here,’ said Véronique. ‘Next time you come into the office …’
‘I’m afraid that will not be possible.’
‘Not possible?’
‘Monsieur Leclercq hasn’t told you?’
Monsieur Pamplemousse broke off to relate the outcome of his morning visit. In the event, Véronique had been out of her room when he and Pommes Frites left, but he assumed she would have been told on her return.
‘The old devil,’ she said, when he had finished his tale of woe. ‘He didn’t say a word about it. Not one word. In fact, it struck me that after your visit he seemed in much better spirits; almost as though a great weight had been lifted from his mind. I actually heard him humming a few bars of “La Donna e Mobile”.
‘You are not taking it seriously, of course.’
‘I can hardly ignore it. Besides, my mind is made up. If Pommes Frites goes, then I go too. There is a principle at stake.’
‘I can understand that,’ said Véronique. ‘But principles don’t pay the bills, Aristide. Anyway, surely things said in the heat of the moment …’
‘It wasn’t exactly the heat of the moment,’ said Monsi
eur Pamplemousse. ‘In fact, I remember his words very clearly. Not only that, but I remember the tone in which they were said. He couldn’t have spelt them out more clearly.
‘When I semi-jokingly asked when would be a good time for me to leave, he looked at his watch and said, quite simply: “I think now is a very good moment, Pamplemousse”. It left no room for argument even if I’d had a mind to.
‘After all the years I have been with Le Guide, we parted company without so much as a handshake. It was not a happy occasion.’
‘This is worse than I thought,’ said Véronique, ‘much worse. Do you think he is heading for a nervous breakdown?’
‘If he is, I am sorry, but …’ Monsieur Pamplemousse gave a non-committal shrug, hands outspread.
‘I do worry about him,’ said Véronique, considering the possibility. ‘It is always worse at this time of the year. Nothing gives him more pleasure than to see someone being awarded an additional Stock Pot. Conversely, he agonises for days when it is a question of demotion. He worries about the effect it will have, not only on their business but on their personal life as well; their health, their family – the possibility that some will take it so badly it will be the end of everything. I don’t know what I would do if that happened.’
‘You mean suicide?’
‘It happens from time to time,’ said Véronique. ‘When total depression sets in.’
‘But that has always been so,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘We French take the business of food very seriously. Over the years many have become martyrs to the cause of Gastronomy.
‘Remember Vatel, who stabbed himself to death with a sword over the simple matter of the late arrival of some fish? Only two baskets arrived instead of the vast quantity that was expected for a lunch he was cooking for Louis XIV. He was one of a long line who have died in the cause of gastronomy. It comes under the heading of failure to uphold the highest traditions of their profession. According to Madame de Sévigné, it quite spoilt the King’s party.’
‘That was in 1671,’ said Véronique, and Louis XIV did have an entourage of several hundred. It wasn’t as though he was cooking a dinner for two.’
‘How about the chef at the Relais de Porquerolles, the one who shot himself after losing his Michelin star?’ suggested Monsieur Pamplemousse.
‘That was also a long time ago; nearly forty years. I am thinking of more recent events.’
‘Bernard Loiseau?’
‘That hit Monsieur Leclercq hard. Over the years they had become friends. It was unnecessary, too. There was a rumour of his being downgraded in Gault Millau, but there was no suggestion of him being demoted in Le Guide or Michelin.’
‘There must have been other reasons,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Even without him his restaurant still enjoys top rating in all the guides.’
‘He was out in the sticks,’ said Véronique. ‘Following the 2001 terrorist attacks in New York, the number of wealthy Americans flying to Europe dropped alarmingly, and the local trade wasn’t sufficient to fill the restaurant during the winter months. Restaurants are like theatres – there is no quicker way of losing money than having them only half full. It had taken him twenty years to build up the business and suddenly it was on the verge of collapse. He also had an enormous loan to pay back. It was as simple as that.
‘Anyway, that still doesn’t make it any better. And it still doesn’t solve Le Guide’s present problems. Someone, somehow, is double guessing everything we do, and quietly sabotaging it. If things carry on as they are I can’t picture our being able to publish next year’s edition and that would be a catastrophe. All our jobs are at risk; our jobs, and all those in the trade who count on receiving a mention.’
‘I am hardly in a position to help,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.
‘There is no reason why Monsieur Leclercq should know,’ said Véronique.
‘And as far as anyone else in the company is concerned, you are still on the staff.’
‘I wouldn’t know where to begin,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse lamely.
‘We think,’ said Véronique, ‘Monsieur Leclcerq is being ill-advised.’
‘We, being …’
‘Violaine and myself.’ As if he hadn’t guessed!
He threw a balloon in the air. ‘When you say he is being ill-advised, you mean the new time and motion person? He seems to be rubbing people up the wrong way, right, left and centre.’
‘That is one way of putting it. I gather you haven’t met.’
‘You do not like him either?’
Véronique hesitated. ‘I think perhaps you should form your own opinion, and as soon as possible. You could meet outside the office. For dinner perhaps? I can arrange a suitable rendezvous.’
It had taken a roundabout route to reach that point, and it had been dropped into the conversation as though it were a case of sudden inspiration, but it was almost too casual. He would have bet anything it had been planned all along. Véronique was being the soul of discretion as ever.
‘Women’s intuition?’
‘Something like that. And don’t forget … there are two of us. And don’t lose sight of the problem with Jo Jo – while he is still around. It would be nice to keep things the way they are.’
Véronique was right. It might have been Pommes Frites. It could still be, the way things were heading. He knew when he was beaten.
‘We must do something about it,’ he said.
The communicating door opened and Madame Grante entered the room complete with cage.
‘I couldn’t help overhearing,’ she said, coming towards them. ‘You are a very kind man, Monsieur Pamplemousse.’
Clearly, a thaw had set in, and for the briefest of moments he thought she was about to embrace him, cage and all, but once again the sudden movement caught Jo Jo off balance.
‘Bonne journée,’ came a gruff voice. ‘Bonne journée.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse beamed his goodnights towards the speaker. Jo Jo might not be the greatest conversationalist in the world, but give him his due, despite living in a world dominated by millet sprays and iodine nibbles; he did have impeccable timing.
‘I will await your call,’ he said to Véronique.
CHAPTER SIX
The next day, having taken advantage of his new found freedom, Monsieur Pamplemousse arrived back rather later than usual from his morning walk with
Pommes Frites. He was about to slip his key into the lock on the apartment door, when he paused. Pommes Frites looked equally surprised when he heard an unexpected voice coming from the other side of it, and he eyed his master quizzically.
‘Guess who’s here,’ said Doucette, as they entered the apartment. ‘Madame Leclercq!’
‘Please, I must insist,’ said the Director’s wife, ‘do call me Chantal. I know your husband would prefer it that way.’
‘It has been a long time,’ said Doucette lamely.
‘All the more reason not to stand on ceremony, is that not so, Aristide?’
As Monsieur Pamplemousse drew near, Madame Leclercq held out her hand to be kissed. There was a flirtatious side to her that was never far from the surface, especially when she wanted something. Most people put it down to her Italian connections and a reputed early training for the world of opera, although there were those who said the latter was really only singing lessons and the term ‘opera’ a conceit on the part of her husband.
One thing was certain, the tiny hand Monsieur Pamplemousse encountered with his lips was far from frozen, nor was it withdrawn as quickly as it might have been; something he felt sure his wife could hardly have failed to register.
He wondered what the problem was this time.
‘I will go and put the coffee on,’ said Doucette tactfully.
‘Henri has got himself into a mess.’ Madame Leclercq wasted no time in getting down to brass tacks as soon as they were alone.
‘Has he really?’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse guardedly.
‘Either that, or he is
having an affair, but somehow I don’t think that is the reason. I suspect it has more to do with work; possibly even a mixture of both.’
‘It is a busy time of the year,’ agreed Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘He has a great many things on his mind.’
Privately he agreed with her analysis. Having married into money, Monsieur Leclercq knew only too well which side of his bread was buttered. That mattered a lot to him. He was hardly likely to risk it all on a brief flirtation.
‘It couldn’t have come at a worse time,’ said Chantal. ‘As you know, the local elections are coming up soon and he is in the running for the post of mayor in our village; something he has always coveted. It brings with it so many advantages, but the slightest whiff of scandal before he gets it …’
‘Perhaps it is a touch of le demon de midi?’ suggested Monsieur Pamplemousse.
‘I am sure it will all blow over.’
‘Men!’ said Chantal with feeling. ‘They blame everything on the mid-life crisis, as though there is absolutely nothing they can do about it! We women have our problems in that area too, you know.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse remained silent. Madame Leclercq’s must have arrived early, for he still remembered the occasion when she had played footsie with him under the table. It was during one of the Director’s annual staff parties at their summer residence near Deauville. At least, he had always assumed it was her foot. It had been hard to tell at the time because others had been at it too. In fact, the whole table ended up in a state of chaos following Pommes Frites’ discovery, while sitting beneath it, that pressing the odd toe with his paw in order to relieve the boredom produced some unexpected results.
From the way he was behaving now, sniffing Madame Leclercq’s bag on the floor beside her chair, it looked as though he might be reliving the occasion.
‘What do you make of a husband who returns home with the end of his tie missing?’ asked Chantal.
Someone who is asking for trouble, thought Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Perhaps he shut it in his car door?’ he said out loud. ‘It is easily done.’