by Michael Bond
Apart from Véronique, who was in charge of the tasting arrangements, she was the only female present. There was no sign of Maria.
The rest of the audience was made up of a small contingent from the fourth estate. Notebooks at the ready, they looked unsure as to why they were there at all.
At the appointed hour of 10 a.m. proceedings began with a dissertation by the renowned television pundit, animal expert and doyen of the canine show circuit, Oscar Durand.
A patrician figure in English tweeds, he had difficulty in making himself heard as he soliloquised on the sensitivity of dogs, notably bloodhounds, to smells … pause for a meaningful nod in Pommes Frites’ direction, followed by a further pause as his gesture met with sporadic clapping from the staff.
As Durand moved on to instancing particular case histories; the unique ability of certain breeds to search out narcotics and explosives, and the fact that, given suitable olfactory training, they could detect practically anything, from truffles to bedbugs, and – a recent exciting development – cancer in human beings, Monsieur Pamplemousse’s attention began to wander.
Anxious to get down to brass tacks, he wondered if he had done the right thing in giving Pommes Frites an extra helping of breakfast that morning. He had done so in order to take the edge off his appetite in case hunger got the better of his normal instinct to seek out the best.
His sense of smell certainly hadn’t deserted him. When they arrived at Le Guide’s Headquarters that morning, he had gone straight to work.
Although barely 7 a.m., the large double gates were thrown wide open and the inner courtyard was alive with vans coming and going. He couldn’t help noticing that even in the somewhat mundane area of delivering food, there was a definite pecking order. Those bearing illustrious names in the world of boucherie metaphorically elbowed their way in front of others belonging to various supermarchés, as though it were a God-given right.
Canteen staff were already on duty helping to unload trays of meat; Le Guide’s resident chef, Claude Bouquet, armed with a clipboard, meticulously ticking off each new arrival. At its height, it could have been a miniature replica of Rungis market at dawn.
Ignoring all the commotion, Pommes Frites, nose to the ground, tail erect, made a bee-line for the gatekeeper’s lodge. Unfazed by the fact that the door appeared to be locked, he took off in another direction, following a trail that led him first of all to the Smart car, still parked in the same place, then towards the main entrance. Only when he came up against the revolving doors did his tail begin to droop, presumably because the scent merged with too many others to separate it.
If nothing else, it confirmed in Monsieur Pamplemousse’s mind the identity of the previous night’s visitor. Thank goodness it hadn’t been Doucette all on her own; although, having said that, given the time the break-in took place, the intruder must have been somewhere outside on the look-out for his and Pommes Frites’ return.
If the present trail were fresh, it must mean Dubois was somewhere on the premises, perhaps involved in some way with the preparations, and he wondered what his reaction would be if and when he caught sight of them. It could bring matters to a head.
Suddenly realising Durand had stopped talking and the Director was about to hold forth, he tried to concentrate on the job in hand.
‘The procedure is simple,’ began Monsieur Leclercq. ‘Each of the dogs taking part will be presented with three bowls. For the sake of clarity they will be marked A, B, and C. The first round will involve cooked chicken, the second lamb, and the third beef.
‘On each occasion one of the bowls will contain a top quality product from a premiere supplier – a known specialist in that particular area. The other two bowls will contain a lower grade meat. The object of the exercise is to ascertain the animals’ reaction to being given a choice. Will they, par exemple, show any indication of singling out one as being preferable to the other two?
‘We are leaving our own Pommes Frites until last, as the object of the exercise is to demonstrate that he is a dog of taste and discernment and, after a preliminary inspection, will always, without any hesitation, choose the best.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse glanced at the clock on the wall. The thespian in Monsieur Leclercq was beginning to take over. Any moment now he would be back in his favourite role, that of Robespierre the Incorruptible.
In Monsieur Pamplemousse’s humble opinion, anyone who believed the people of France should exist on a diet of lentils would have been a most unsuitable candidate for being Director of Le Guide.
Robespierre had undoubtedly been an orator par excellence but, like Monsieur Leclercq, once he was in full flow, had been hard to stop. In the end, he was only silenced by his own hand when he shot himself in the mouth rather than be shouted down.
Far be it for him to dwell on such parallels, but as the Director paused to make sure all the points had sunk in, Monsieur Pamplemousse couldn’t help but feel proud of his use of the words ‘our own’ when referring to Pommes Frites.
In any case, his thoughts were interrupted by the Judge.
‘May I,’ she called, ‘be permitted to ask if the prime product will always be in the same lettered bowl?’
‘No, madame,’ replied Monsieur Leclercq. ‘The arrangement will be entirely at random. The only person to know the answer to that question will be my secretary.’ He motioned towards Véronique. She will announce it before each sitting.
‘How do we know your dog can’t read?’ asked a member of the press, eliciting giggles from the rest of the corps.
The Judge fixed the speaker with a freezing stare. Had he been in the dock, the poor man would undoubtedly have been sentenced on the spot for contempt of court.
‘I am sure Pommes Frites will happily submit to being blindfolded,’ said Monsieur Leclercq hurriedly, ‘although I hardly think that is necessary.
‘For the benefit of those among us who have a vested interest in knowing where the prime products originate,’ he continued, ‘let me tell you the chicken is from Le Poulet de Bresse in the 16th arrondissement, the lamb is from Jean-Paul Gardil on the Ile St Louis – we are fortunate in that respect as the first of the seasons agneau des Pyrénées has just arrived. The beef is from Boucherie Jean-Jacques, also in the 16th.’
There was a murmur of approval from the chefs, and pencils raced across pads as those in the press corps took their cue. Monsieur Pamplemousse couldn’t help thinking it might be well worth eating in the canteen for the next few days, assuming there was any meat left over.
‘And now, if the handlers will all move to the far end of the room,’ said Monsieur Leclercq, ‘we will arrange for the first dishes to be brought in.’
While this was happening, he moved across and joined Monsieur Pamplemousse.
‘I trust Pommes Frites’ taste buds are on song,’ he hissed. ‘A great deal rests on his shoulders.’
‘I am quietly confident,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘I don’t think he has much to fear from the opposition, although I doubt if their owners will thank you. They have probably never had it so good. Future appetites will have been whetted.’
‘The team assembling them excelled themselves,’ said Monsieur Leclercq. ‘As for the owners; people who allow their dogs to roam the streets of Paris in the early hours are asking for trouble. That said, I doubt if many of those here today can lay claim to having an owner. They are probably counting themselves fortunate to end up with a free meal in pleasant surroundings, the like of which they probably haven’t experienced for a long time.
‘Perhaps we should have blind-folded them after all,’ he mused. ‘They will probably be hanging around in the rue Fabert for weeks to come. I must issue instructions to Bourdel.’
‘I didn’t see him this morning,’ ventured Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Is he in today?’
‘He volunteered to oversee security arrangements behind the scenes,’ said Monsieur Leclercq. ‘I have sent for Rambaud to help out. I hope he doesn’t take too long getti
ng here. He isn’t always that quick off the mark and he is very set in his ways …’ He broke off as Véronique entered with the first of the dishes on a tray.
Knowing how ponderous Rambaud could be when he felt like it, Monsieur Pamplemousse felt the Director was being a trifle over optimistic and subsequent events proved him right.
Dog after dog obeyed Véronique’s call, and without pausing for breath, devoured the entire contents of the bowls; nearest first, furthest away last. Licked cleaned until it would have been possible to see their faces in them, all but one dish survived the onslaught. The exception fell victim to a Rottweiler with yellowing teeth. Much to chef Bouquet’s evident disgust, it broke into several pieces. Worse still, when he tried to retrieve them, he narrowly escaped a mauling himself.
Monsieur Pamplemousse regretted not having armed himself with a camera. There were Cartier-Bresson moments galore.
For his part, Pommes Frites viewed the goings-on with detached interest.
Why Monsieur Leclercq should be throwing a party, asking all manner of stray dogs along, was beyond his understanding. He would much sooner have had a quiet meal with his master somewhere; just the two of them. On the other hand, there was no accounting for the way human beings behaved at times, and it was usually best to humour them. If the Director wanted to give him an early lunch, then so be it. He wasn’t complaining.
He pricked up his ears as Monsieur Leclercq began speaking again.
‘There are no prizes,’ he said, ‘for guessing which chicken will prove the best of the three. Bresse is the only poultry in the world to enjoy the protection of a controlled name: Appellation d’Origine Controllée. To acquire that accolade they have to meet strict criteria, not only in their breeding, but in the presentation. As the great French gastronome Brillat-Savarin once put it: “When fattened, the birds of Bresse are to cuisine what canvas is to painters, or the cap of Fortunatus to charlatans.”
‘All three birds have been cooked to perfection by chef Bouquet. All that remains is for Pommes Frites to choose which, in his considered opinion, is the best.’
Resting his case, the Director signalled Monsieur Pamplemousse to release his charge.
‘It is in bowl B,’ said Véronique, breaking the hush that came over the audience.
Instinctively sensing what was required of him, Pommes Frites made a show of giving all three bowls a preliminary sniff, then made light work of the chicken in the middle one.
A round of applause went up as he returned to his master, licking his lips.
He was beginning to enjoy himself. Travelling the length and breadth of France with his master, he had been lucky enough to encounter a great many excellent meals over the years, but never before had he been applauded for eating one.
In the short time at his disposal he had worked out in his own mind what was happening. All the other dogs were there to be auditioned for his post. If that were the case, he would show them. Spurred on by his success, he couldn’t wait for the arrival of the next course.
‘This test, involving the lamb,’ announced the Director, ‘is a good deal harder. Apart from agneau de lait des Pyrénées …’
‘Which is in bowl C,’ Véronique broke in on cue.
‘… we have also included a pré-salé lamb from Normandy, which, as I am sure you all know, is famous for the very special taste imparted by virtue of the sheep having grazed on the iodine-rich flora of coastal pasturelands when the tide is out. However, in my opinion, it doesn’t hold a candle to lambs born from sheep that have spent the summer months grazing on the grassy slopes of the Pyrénées, rich in all manner of wild flowers and herbs. That, too, is a very special taste.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse felt a momentary unease, wondering if his friend and mentor would take one sniff and compare Chef Bouquet’s handiwork unfavourably with Martine’s.
But he needn’t have worried. Having clearly awarded the pré-salé lamb second place, Pommes Frites chose the one from the Pyrénées. This time he waited for the applause to die down before returning to his master.
Pencils in the hands of the press corps literally flew across their pads.
‘No photographs, please,’ said Monsieur Leclercq, as a member of the group held up a camera. ‘I have my reasons,’ he added. ‘We do not seek publicity at this stage.’
‘And now, we come to perhaps the sternest test of all: beef.
‘Many people would nominate Charolais as being the best in all France.’
‘Bowl A,’ chimed in Veronique.
‘Again, as the chefs among you will know, Charolais cattle bear a Label Rouge, which means they have been raised on a diet of at least three parts grass to one part grain, and have spent around ten months outdoors.
‘By law, the meat must be dry-aged for a minimum of eight days in a refrigerated room at just above freezing; ideally, for anything up to three weeks.
‘As with all the prime products being used in these tests, when the time comes to transport the animals for slaughter, it must be carried out humanely and without any stress, which would impair the quality. The carcasses must also be guaranteed free of growth hormones and antibiotics.
‘However, in the opinion of many gourmets, the best beef of all comes not from from Burgundy, but from Aubrac in the Auvergne …’
As Pommes Frites made his way forward Véronique, finger to her lips, nodded towards bowl B.
Monsieur Pamplemousse breathed a sigh of relief. It was his home territory, and he knew Pommes Frites shared his tastes.
‘Once again,’ continued the Director, ‘it is a matter of what the animals feed on in the wild. The heights of the Auvergne, over one thousand metres above sea level, are rich in herbs, gentian and the like, which imparts a wonderful taste to the naturally marbled meat.’
It was a controversial statement, which was immediately taken up by some members of the assembly.
Jay Corby began extolling the virtues of American beef. ‘The reason why it’s the best in the world is because the cattle are killed off at a much earlier age – eighteen months; then we age it longer.’
‘If I tell you Aubrac is the first choice of Michel Bras, who for many years has enjoyed three Stock Pots in Le Guide,’ persisted Monsieur Leclercq, ‘I feel that says it all …’
The Judge held up her hand again. ‘If Aubrac beef is so good,’ she said, ‘why is your dog refusing to go anywhere near it?’
‘What?’ Monsieur Leclercq broke off in mid-flight.
He stared round the room, seeking help first of all from Véronique, who shook her head, clearly at a loss as to what had gone wrong, then at Monsieur Pamplemousse.
‘Perhaps,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘with all due respect to those behind the scenes, the bowls have become transposed.’
‘I hardly think that can be the case,’ said the Judge. ‘He is also refusing to touch bowl A. Yet, albeit reluctantly, he has finished off what you choose to call a lesser product from a supermarché. Clearly, he is of the opinion that is the best.’
A chorus of agreement rose from those around her.
For once, even the Director was temporarily at a loss for words.
Attention focused on Monsieur Pamplemousse as Pommes Frites raced out of the room. Leaping to his feet he pointed to the bowls. ‘Nobody,’ he ordered, ‘but nobody touch them while I am gone!’
Reliving his dream, he tore out of the room in hot pursuit of Pommes Frites. Only this time, instead of chasing after him on a bicycle, he headed towards the ground floor, taking the stairs two at a time.
He could tell by the set of the ears, the angle of the tail, the rate at which he was travelling as he left the boardroom, Pommes Frites was in deadly earnest about something. Speed was of the essence.
But he was too late. Arriving in the courtyard via the Director’s private entrance, he realised the Smart car was no longer there. Neither was Pommes Frites. He carried on into the street, but there was still no sign of either.
It was some while before
Monsieur Pamplemousse returned to the fourth floor, practically on his knees after a fruitless search of the area. The boardroom was empty of visitors; the long table, the chairs and other furnishings back in place.
To his intense joy Pommes Frites was waiting for him, looking none the worse for wherever it was he had been, but clearly suffering mixed feelings. Greetings over, he drew his master’s attention to a note on the table. It was from the Director, requesting their presence in his office.
‘There you are, Pamplemousse!’ boomed Monsieur Leclercq as they entered. ‘I was beginning to fear the worst. You will have heard the news, of course. Bourdel must have suffered some kind of mental breakdown. Apparently he came rushing out of the building like a being possessed, jumped into that wretched Smart car of his and shot off at an incredible speed. The whole thing was extraordinary.
‘Those who witnessed it could scarcely believe their eyes. For some reason he seemed unable to stop. Wrestling with the steering wheel, he went twice round the fountain before shooting out into the rue Fabert.
‘Fortunately the gates were still wide open, otherwise they would have suffered untold damage. As it was, he only just managed to turn left without overturning before heading towards the Seine with Pommes Frites hard on his heels. ‘Have you any idea what it all means?’
‘I suspect,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘the answer is much like those phrases one learnt by rote as a small child during English lessons. The one I particularly remember is: “the lady who is opening the window is my aunt.” In all my years I have never had occasion to use it. In fact, I am not sure I have ever seen any of my aunts open a window, even in the height of summer. The Auvergnat are wary of making rash decisions.’
The Director stared at him. ‘Don’t tell me you have an aunt involved in all of this, Pamplemousse. Why was I not informed?’
Monsieur Pamplemousse mentally counted up to ten. ‘In this particular case, monsieur,’ he said, ‘for “aunt” you need to substitute the word “uncle”.