by Michael Bond
Through a gap in the houses on the far side of the square he could see fields of asperges, through another gap some goats. Beyond that fields of fading sunflowers rose majestically towards the clear September sky, their huge yellow heads bowed down under the weight of it all. The sight reminded him that he had work to do. Apart from their health-giving properties, sunflower seeds were thought by some to have aphrodisiac powers, probably on account of the impression they gave of drinking in the sun’s rays; an association of ideas. Perhaps … perhaps even now someone in the village was stirring a cauldron ready for the evening meal.
Almost immediately he dismissed the idea. Deep down he had a feeling that the cause of Bernard’s fall from grace would be nothing quite as obvious; an accident rather than a deliberate act. His meeting with the Director’s aunt had been necessarily brief – a quick exchange of pleasantries while he’d been checking in, but his first impression had been of someone almost transparently honest, and he believed in first impressions. Instinct told him that whatever had happened to Bernard was not of her making.
Turning back into the room he nearly tripped over Pommes Frites who lay with his chin between his paws gazing lugubriously at the head of a lion-skin rug on the floor at the foot of the bed. There must at one time have been a taxidermist of note in the area. In Tours several years before he’d come across a stuffed elephant which had belonged to Barnum and Bailey’s circus, and in the same city he’d once stayed at an hotel where there was a stuffed lion standing in a make-believe jungle by the lift shaft. He’d even come across the odd stuffed horse standing around in fields during his travels.
Whoever it was had been kept well supplied by Tante Louise’s forebears. Animals or heads of animals stood or peered down from walls on all sides as they left the room, silently following their progress as they made their way down the stairs.
An air of gloom enveloped them as they descended to the ground floor. Monsieur Pamplemousse was not a devotee of the art of the taxidermist. On the whole stuffed animals made him feel depressed. It was a feeling that was clearly endorsed by Pommes Frites, who glanced uneasily at a large brown bear who stood expectantly holding a tray marked POSTE behind the reception desk. Pommes Frites liked other creatures to react. You knew where you were with creatures that reacted.
Monsieur Pamplemousse’s spirits sank still further as they entered the dining-room. There were about twenty tables; some seventy places in all, but only one was occupied, and that by a young couple who looked as if they were there for the peace and quiet rather than the food.
He looked around and was about to take his seat near the window and as far away from the others as possible, when the door leading to the kitchen swung open.
‘Vous avez une réservation?’ The voice went with its owner, a large, well-preserved madame of uncertain age who bustled forward clutching a menu with the air of one used to being in command. Monsieur Pamplemousse had met her counterpart a thousand times before, in bars, bistros and tiny restaurants the length and breadth of France. She would be a widow, married once to a man who had died in a war. Whatever the time they were always of a previous age, just as they had been in Napoleon’s time. Formidable was the only word to describe them.
‘No, Madame,’ he began. ‘I –’
‘In that case, Monsieur …’ Her words were punctuated by a thud as a plastic RÉSERVÉE notice was grasped and plonked down very firmly in the centre of the table by a hand which continued on its way in one sweeping movement towards another table near the couple in the corner.
Monsieur Pamplemousse braced himself. If it was to be a battle of wills then it was one which needed to be won early on in his stay rather than later. He had no wish to be seated next to the only other occupants of an otherwise empty room, simply to save someone else’s feet.
He pointed in turn to a compromise position on the other side of the window. ‘I would prefer that one.’
The pause was only fractional; the flicker in the eyes that met and held his was one of respect rather than disapproval. As was so often the case, challenge was the best form of defence.
Pommes Frites, confident of the outcome of the argument, brought it to a conclusion by settling himself under the table, awaiting his master’s choice. He hoped it would be something he could get his teeth into. Something meaty. A large steak, perhaps – or some carré d’agneau. Something that would allow for a reasonable division. Experience told him he would not have to put up with any newfangled cooking – all slivers of underdone meat with bits of fruit on top and brightly coloured vegetables. Pommes Frites was not a devotee of nouvelle cuisine.
Experience told Monsieur Pamplemousse as he ran his eye down the carte that neither of them was in for a gastronomic treat. It was handwritten in purple ink – often a good sign, but in this case in letters so faded they had obviously been penned many months before. He looked in vain for an additional list of dishes of the day. No piece of paper fell out from between the pages when he held up the folder and shook it. There wasn’t even a dish that the chef – or, as he suspected, the Director’s aunt, had marked with an asterisk as being particularly recommended; a speciality of the house.
He glanced around the room at the empty tables, each with its quota of napkins folded hog’s-head style on top of the waiting plates, surrounded by sets of rather sad-looking cutlery. The enormity of the task in front of him suddenly sank home. On the one hand there was his brief to put forward or even to implement suggestions as to how to bring about improvements in the restaurant. On the other hand there was the problem of discovering what dish or combination of dishes had caused Bernard to disgrace himself after his visit.
He ran his eye down the menu, considering the options. There were many foods credited with the power to increase sexual desires, most of them he’d covered in an article for L’Escargot. Others promoted ‘staying power’. He’d once read that in India men rubbed garlic ointment on their vital parts in moments of need. A sobering thought which momentarily put him off the potage aioli. Besides, Bernard’s ‘staying power’ under what might be called ‘field conditions’ had hardly been put to the test. Perhaps it was something he had drunk? Perhaps some brandy, egg-yolk and cinnamon concoction had triggered it off? Again, that would have been a deliberate act totally out of character with the Bernard he knew. Looking at the row of bottles behind a small bar near the entrance to the dining-room he could see a selection of various marques of cognac and a sprinkling of Armagnacs, but there wasn’t even a bottle of advocaat and he doubted very much if the hotel was into serving any kind of ‘concoction’. It would be a bottle of cognac plonked on the table along with a glass and a ‘help yourself’. The request for an egg to go with it would have been greeted by a sniff. He shuddered to think what would happen if you asked for cinnamon as well.
Tia Maria was supposed to heat the blood, but that, too, was absent and it would have needed a great many glasses to induce in Bernard the kind of blood heat that would have caused him to behave as he had.
On the other hand, perhaps unwittingly he’d stumbled on a selection of dishes which against all the odds had combined to produce an unprecedented effect; like someone discovering a system to beat the bank at Monte Carlo. He resolved to put his theory to the test. There was no time like the present and he was hardly likely to lose control of his emotions with the waitress.
Moules were nowhere on the carte, fish with ginger was obviously an unheard of concept, frogs’ legs were conspicuous by their absence.
In the end mentally, and without any great feeling of optimism, he settled on artichoke – once sold in the streets of Paris because of its ‘heating qualities’, cow’s liver – something the Romans had set great faith in, drying it in order to grind up as part of a love potion – and tourte au lapin with spinach and potato. With luck, being in the Loire Valley the pie would be made with prunes as well. Prunes figured largely in local recipes, and in the old days they had been served in brothels to stimulate the custome
rs and promote a brisk turn around in the trade. As for potato; no less an authority than William Shakespeare had pointed out its aphrodisiac qualities in The Merry Wives of Windsor. If none of that had any effect he might end up with ananas; ananas with sugar piled high on top, followed by an Armagnac.
Feeling pleased that his research had borne fruit, Monsieur Pamplemousse sat back and wondered what Bernard’s choice had been. Had it been the forty franc menu with the rabbit pie, or the forty-five one with liver? Perhaps he had done as he was now doing, gone the whole hog and eaten à la carte. He wished now he’d thought to telephone and ask, but it was too late; the Madame was already advancing towards him at a brisk pace, pencil and pad poised for action. With only two other customers and the prospect of an early night she would not take kindly to any delay.
‘Vous avez choisi, Monsieur?’ She flicked open the pad.
His choice went without comment until he asked for pommes frites with the lapin.
‘Non, Monsieur.’
‘Non?’
‘Non. Pommes vapeur.’ Again their eyes met. Again there was a feeling of a battle to be fought. He wondered whether frites were not available – too much trouble, or whether his choice had simply met with disapproval. Hearing his name mentioned, Pommes Frites poked his head out enquiringly. For the sake of peace Monsieur Pamplemousse decided on a tactical withdrawal.
He nodded his agreement. ‘Pommes vapeur.’ She was probably right. Gastronomically speaking it was a better combination. Frites would soak up the rich juices from the pie and lose their crispness. It had really been a concession to a ‘certain other’ not a million miles away. Pommes Frites was not keen on vapeur, he liked his namesake best, often eating large quantities. Looking rather put-out, he disappeared under the table again.
His capitulation was rewarded by a slight thawing out. ‘I would not recommend the pommes frites, Monsieur.’ It was said with feeling born of past experience. ‘Terminé?’ Without waiting for a reply, the carte de table was exchanged for a basket of bread and the carte des vins.
Monsieur Pamplemousse gazed at both with an equal lack of enthusiasm. The bread looked like a poor imitation of the Poilâne wheat loaves presently fashionable in Paris. Long-lasting and delicious when baked by Poilâne, but from the tired look of the slices he’d been given they must have long ago outlived their life expectancy. Why, in heaven’s name, did they serve it when there was a perfectly good boulangerie not a stone’s throw away?
He opened the carte des vins and as he did so his spirits rose slightly. Not unexpectedly, it was the usual commercially available booklet, sectionalised and decorated with anonymous men operating ancient presses. The pages had been inscribed by someone using the same purple ink as had been used for the carte de table. What was surprising was the fact that although none of the entries had been accorded a vintage there were some very familiar names; mouth-watering names. The Bordeaux section in particular sported some highly respected representatives of the 1855 classification.
He hesitated, trying to decide whether to choose a local wine as he’d intended or something more exotic. Again, he found himself wondering about Bernard. Had he opted for a half carafe of the house wine, included in the price of the menu, or had he indulged himself? If the Kir they’d had that afternoon was anything to go by, he suspected the latter.
His choice of a Ducru Beaucaillou met with a total lack of response. The bottle when it arrived was covered in dust. He reached forward and felt it quickly while the waitress searched under her apron for a corkscrew. It was cold from the cellar. Catching her eye he withdrew his hand again, waiting while she opened it. He half expected her to pass the cork under her nose and then pour it without comment, but in the event he detected a hint of grudging approval in her perfunctory sniff.
Swirling the wine round in the glass he looked at it against the white cloth. The colour was surprisingly rich. It was rich to the nose as well, with a cedary bouquet. It had a feeling of depth and age which overrode the coldness to the lips. He decided to take his meal at as leisurely a pace as possible so that it would have time to open up.
As he put the glass down again he caught sight of the year on the label. It was a ’66. He could hardly believe his good fortune.
‘This is the wine which is on the list?’
The waitress craned her neck, taking in both the list and the label. ‘Oui. There is something wrong?’
Monsieur Pamplemousse made a non-committal gesture. He had done his duty. If the hotel wished to offer wine at give-away prices that was their business. He had no wish to query his good fortune any more for fear it would go away.
‘Terminé?’ As the wine list disappeared from under his nose in a manner which brooked no further argument he resolved to make a closer study of it at the earliest opportunity. Who knew what other goodies were contained within its pages? Left on his own again he held the cork below the folds of the table cloth. An approving sniff greeted its appearance. Pommes Frites liked red Bordeaux. It always gave him an appetite. Sometimes he was allowed the dregs in his water bowl. He especially liked the crunchy bits. In his opinion the more crunchy bits there were the better the wine.
As if to underline the change in their fortunes, the setting sun, which had been half-hidden behind a building, cast a shaft of evening brightness across the table. It carried on across the room, illuminating the flushed faces of the couple in the corner. There was a flurry of movement and for a moment or two Monsieur Pamplemousse gazed at them, wondering if perhaps they were falling victims to Bernard’s disease. He decided not. It was merely young love. All the same, it might be worth keeping an eye on their choice of food.
Throwing caution to the wind, he withdrew his notebook from a side pocket and began to write, slowly and methodically awarding points here, taking away others there, totting up the pluses and the minuses since their arrival.
Looked at from any direction his deliberations made sorry reading. Mathematically it could have been reduced to a series of figures which grew less and less equal the more the meal progressed.
The arrival of the rabbit pie reminded him of the Director’s words. ‘Pastry, Pamplemousse, that would tax the ingenuity of a woodpecker.’ If the noise coming from under the table was anything to go by, even Pommes Frites was having trouble masticating it. He reached down and gave him an encouraging pat. He wished now he’d insisted on frites after all. The rich juices he’d pictured savouring were non-existent. It was a meal of unbelievable awfulness. Had there been less at stake he would have sent a message to the kitchen congratulating the Director’s aunt on her effrontery. Several times during the course of the evening Pommes Frites looked out from under the table-cloth as if he could hardly believe his eyes let alone his taste buds.
Halfway through the sweet course Monsieur Pamplemousse reached for his tablets. Dyspepsia was an occupational hazard and although he was blessed with a moderately good digestive system, there were limits to its powers of endurance. He slipped a second one under the table. Pommes Frites crunched it gratefully.
‘Terminé?’
‘Oui.’ There was nothing more to be said. He contemplated Madame Terminé through half-closed eyes, wondering if his meal had brought about any great change. Sadly it had not. It was possible that beneath her tightly corsetted exterior there beat a heart of gold, but if so neither food nor wine had made it any easier to detect. She flicked the table with her napkin.
‘Café?’
‘Non.’ Coffee after such a meal might only compound the problem of going to sleep. ‘Do you have a tisane?’
‘Here or in the salon?’ The emphasis on the last word was such that any suggestion of a choice was clearly window-dressing. He wondered what the reaction would be if he insisted on taking it at his table. Not wishing to be relegated to the cheerless room he’d seen on first entering the hotel, he decided on another approach.
‘I’ll take it up to my room.’
As they left the dining-ro
om the young couple in the corner were already receiving their marching orders in the form of a folded bill on a plate. The restaurant of the Hôtel du Paradis was definitely being terminéed for the night.
On the way to the stairs he hesitated, torn between going straight up to his room or going out of the back entrance to the hotel in order to inflate Pommes Frites’ kennel for the night. He had just decided in favour of carrying on up the stairs – the kennel could wait until they took their post-prandial stroll – when he caught sight of the Director’s aunt through an open doorway at the end of the passage. Dressed in a long white apron, she looked rather more tired and fraught than he remembered from his arrival earlier in the evening.
Partly on an impulse and partly out of curiosity he made his way towards the kitchen. Almost immediately he regretted the decision. His appearance prompted the inevitable question which he should have foreseen.
‘Did I enjoy my meal?’ He played for time before answering. Natural politeness towards a member of the opposite sex suggested a non-committal answer. His training with Le Guide forbade anything other than a non-committal answer. But his taste buds and his digestive juices, not to mention his reason for being there told him it was necessary to be cruel in order to be kind.
‘With the greatest respect, and since you have asked, I cannot remember when I had a worse meal!’
Her jaw dropped and for a moment he thought she was going to cry.
‘I’m sorry to put it quite so bluntly, but I would not be doing you a favour if I did otherwise. The artichoke was undercooked – I had to tug the leaves away from the heart. It was also discoloured. If you are going to prepare it days ahead then it should have had a slice of lemon tied to it to prevent that happening. And it is not sufficient just to put it on a plate; it should have been served with melted butter or with hollandaise.
‘As for the lapin – dying of old age is one thing, encasing it within pastry so hard it could have served as a funeral casket is another matter again. And when you keep pommes vapeur hot you should cover them with a cloth. In that way you will absorb any excess moisture and they will arrive at the table dry and floury instead of sodden as the ones were tonight.