The Second-Worst Restaurant in France

by Alexander McCall Smith

  Paul frowned. “In what sense?”

  Annabelle seemed embarrassed. “He feels that his uncle may be in danger.”

  It took Paul a few moments to react. Then he laughed. “Oh, I see. He thinks that my cousin has her eye on his uncle? So it’s a case of the nephew protecting the uncle from a voracious woman?”

  “No,” said Thérèse. “From a dangerous woman.”

  Paul shook his head. “Forgive me,” he said. “It’s possible that I don’t understand you properly. Sometimes, when you’re having a conversation in a foreign language, you don’t get things right. This may be happening here. Forgive me. Dangerous? Are you suggesting she’s some sort of femme fatale, intent on seducing Claude? Is that the idea?”

  “No,” said Annabelle. “We’re not suggesting that. It’s just that Hugo has uncovered something that raises questions about your cousin’s…well, raises questions about her identity. She may not be who she claims to be. That’s the issue, I’m afraid.”

  Paul felt the urge to laugh. This was ridiculous. It was perfectly possible that Chloe might be conducting an affair with Claude—after all, she did have form in that respect—but to suggest that she was in some way a threat to the chef seemed to be fanciful, to say the least.

  “I can see that you don’t believe us,” said Thérèse.

  Paul smiled. “I admit that my cousin has a bit of a past. But there are plenty of people who have a chequered history when it comes to men—or women. They just do.”

  Thérèse listened, but was clearly not convinced. “Then why does she have a false passport?” she asked.

  Paul looked puzzled.

  “Hugo found it,” Annabelle said. “It was in a bag in the kitchen. He did not know that the bag belonged to your cousin. He was looking for something else and he came across a passport that appeared to belong to your cousin. It was probably a fake.”

  Paul was polite. Annabelle’s tone had turned accusatory. Yet he was still their guest, and one did not accuse one’s guests—or their cousins—of bearing false documents. “May I ask why?”

  “Because it had her photograph in it,” said Thérèse. “But the name was different. It was not the name she had given earlier on, nor the name on her credit card. They’d seen that, you know. On the credit card she is Mrs. Chloe Jameson. In the passport she is Mrs. Chloe Pangloss. And it was a French passport, by the way.”

  Paul felt his heart leap. Pangloss!

  “Yes,” said Annabelle. “I’m not surprised that you are astonished. Pangloss is a very unusual name. It’s the name of the doctor in Candide. But…” She hesitated. “It’s the name, too, of somebody who lived not far from here a few years ago. A certain Dr. Pangloss.”

  Paul stared at them mutely.

  “Who disappeared,” Annabelle continued.

  “And was never found,” said Thérèse. “Never seen again.”

  There now followed a period in which nobody said anything. A few minutes after the beginning of this silence, there was a knock, followed by the sound of footsteps in the hall. Thérèse put down her wine glass and went to investigate. A minute or two later she returned, and Audette was at her side, her baby in her arms.

  The baby seemed motionless, and Paul gasped with alarm. And then he realised that the infant was clearly awake, and was waving its arms.

  “Bleu has returned,” blurted out Audette. “He’s come back.”

  12

  Griotte Cherry Clafoutis

  The dinner with Annabelle and Thérèse had been abruptly cancelled—“suspended” was how Thérèse put it—when Audette had arrived with the news of Bleu’s return. Paul did not stay long, as it seemed to him there was no place for him in the ensuing discussion. Thérèse fussed over the baby, Annabelle hovered on the edge of tears, and Audette herself alternated between bouts of vengeful swearing and hysterical sobbing. He was able, though, to put together a picture of what had happened. Bleu, the electricity thief and former lover of Audette, had presented himself at Audette’s door that evening, along with a woman called Gigi—a woman of the very worst calibre, said Thérèse, who had seen her photograph in the local paper: a member of a well-known family of pickpockets and itinerant prostitutes, she was regularly prosecuted for handbag-snatching on the railway platforms at Poitiers. Bleu, it appeared, was living with this woman in a caravan parked in one of the fields of a local alcoholic pig-farmer. “Fleecing him, no doubt,” said Thérèse. “Plying him with alcohol.”

  Audette had tried to prevent Bleu from entering the house, but he and Gigi had pushed past her.

  “They marched right in,” she said. “Right in. Stood there and made their demands.”

  Annabelle had enquired what these were.

  “My baby,” said Audette.

  This had brought a sharp gasp from Annabelle. “Kidnapping!”

  Thérèse frowned. “Well, not quite. They didn’t take him, did they?”

  “No,” said Audette. “I wouldn’t have let that happen.”

  “Good,” said Thérèse. “So they went away?”

  “Yes.”

  Annabelle pressed Audette for more information. “Why would they want the baby?”

  Audette hesitated before she gave her answer. “He says he is the father.”

  “Hah!” said Thérèse. “What nonsense.”

  Audette looked at the floor. Annabelle raised an eyebrow.

  “Even if he is the father,” said Thérèse, “he would have no right to the child. You are the mother.”

  “Yes, I’m the mother,” said Audette. “But he has been to a lawyer. These people…people like him—they have money. They can afford a lawyer. The lawyer told him that if the judge hears that I have been—” She broke off.

  Thérèse sighed. “Your prison sentences?”

  That was new to Paul. But now nothing would surprise him. Audette nodded. “He said that Bleu would get custody of the child. The lawyer assured him of that.”

  Annabelle had begun to cry, and Paul, sensing that his continued presence would add little to the evening, had thanked the twins and slipped away. As he left, Thérèse had come out to whisper to him.

  “Can you stand by?” she asked.

  “Well, yes. Obviously if there’s anything I can do…” He regretted his words immediately, but he had said them.

  “Good,” said Thérèse. “I’m worried about her staying where she is. Not with that man around. The poor girl is terrified.”

  He understood. “Of course. It must be a nightmare.”

  “She can stay here tonight, of course,” said Thérèse. “We’re perfectly happy to look after her—for a night or two.”

  Paul waited.

  Thérèse lowered her voice yet further. “But beyond that…The problem, you see, is that Bleu will guess she’s with us. After all, her house is in our grounds.”

  Paul nodded. “Yes, I imagine he’ll work that out. But what about the police? Can’t you get the police to have a word with him?”

  Thérèse raised her hands in despair. “The police? Worse than useless, I’m afraid. They’re afraid of those people. They won’t touch them.”

  Paul was shocked. This was France. This was the European Union. This was today. “No?”

  “No. France is full of no-go areas, you know. Outsiders don’t realise it. This is one. These people—these travellers—pay no taxes, observe no laws, and are left to get on with it by the police. It’s easier that way.”

  Paul was not sure whether to believe her. Gypsies had always been at the bottom of the social pecking order—accused of any- and everything. Yet could they really operate with such impunity? He doubted it.

  “So,” continued Thérèse, “I think it might be best if Audette and the baby come to stay with you for a while. Would you mind very much? They’d be much safer, as this Bleu person would not
know where they were. They could lie low, so to speak.”

  Paul opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted. “It’s very kind of you,” said Thérèse quickly. “But I’d better get back in there. My sister is very emotional, as you’ve probably observed.” She smiled. “But we love her for all that, don’t we? We do.”

  “But what about Chloe?” he stuttered. “I’m just staying with her. I’m a guest. She’s the one you’ll need to ask.”

  Thérèse brushed off his concerns. “She’ll be fine. Don’t worry about her.”

  With that, she ushered him out into the dark. As he walked back down the village high street, Paul reflected on the events of the past few days. The peaceful sojourn he had planned in rural France was proving to be anything but that. He had become involved with the affairs of a failing, if not failed, restaurant; he had convinced himself of the futility of a project for which he had already signed a contract; and now he had agreed—or it had been agreed—that he would look after a woman and baby on the run from a psychopath. And, to add to the mixture, having only recently exonerated Chloe from suspicion, he had now discovered that his fears about her had some foundation. If she was Mrs. Pangloss after all, then why had she denied it? And who was the Dr. Pangloss who had disappeared so mysteriously? Suddenly it occurred to Paul that those who have spouse after spouse have sometimes been known to dispose of them.

  The thought sent a chill up his spine. Was he sharing a house with a woman who had been responsible for disposing of a husband? Where? In a quarry, perhaps? There were disused quarries nearby—he had seen them—and he had noticed that one of them was filled with water. He had walked past it and peered down into its green depths. Oddly enough, at the time it had crossed his mind that this was exactly the sort of place where a killer might choose to dump a victim. Wrapped in chains, or lead weights, or whatever it was that such people used to dispose of their victims, a corpse would sink in the sure and certain knowledge of never being disturbed. Was this the watery grave of Dr. Pangloss?

  With Chloe still in the restaurant, the house was in darkness when he returned, a dark shape, crouching upon the earth; the bushes shadows; the horizon a distant line where the land merged with a sky to which a few stars, and the stronger planets, added pinpricks of light.

  He knew it was irrational—that a house at night was no more than a darkened version of a house by day. But now, as he let himself in the front door, he felt a stab of fear. His life in Edinburgh had been an ordered, secure one in which concern for safety played no part at all. The world into which Chloe had taken him was different: this was a place of real conflict, it seemed, where things might go unpredictably and badly wrong.

  He reached for the switch beside the front door. This was the switch that would turn on the lights in the hall and in the corridor beyond. With those illuminated, he could light the kitchen and, if he chose, the courtyard at the rear of the house. He thought he might put as many lights on as possible, to dispel these ridiculous fears of his.

  The switch did not work. He tried it again, to no effect. Making his way into the darkness of the hall, he crossed to where he knew he would find a table lamp. Feeling for the switch on this, he flicked it into the on position. Nothing happened.

  Paul stood quite still. They had been warned about power cuts, but he had been told that they tended not to last very long. They were, it was said, on a different, older circuit from many of the other houses in the village, and therefore they might lose electricity when others still had it. Peering out of the window, he saw now that this was exactly what seemed to be happening: across the fields, on the other side of the village, lights blazed from the windows of several houses.

  It did not take long for Paul to make up his mind. He would go to the restaurant and warn Chloe about the power cut. He would then wait there until he could accompany her back to the house. She had said something about candles, but he had no idea where they were. She could find them.

  He left the house, feeling somewhat relieved to be out of it. Then, walking as briskly as he could, but resisting the temptation to break into a run, he made his way back across the village to La Table de St. Vincent.

  There were very few people in the restaurant. Claude, in a waiter’s apron, was conversing with the diners at one of the tables, while the others busied themselves with their meals. From a quick glance round the room, Paul formed the impression that in spite of the empty tables, things were going well—Chloe’s intervention, whatever it was, was clearly having its effect.

  Claude smiled at him and indicated with a toss of the head that Chloe was to be found in the kitchen. Paul went through the swing door, to see Chloe and Hugo bending over a baking tray. Hugo looked up and smiled warmly. “Clafoutis,” he announced. “Griotte Cherry Clafoutis. About to be served for the first time.”

  “And it’s superb,” said Chloe. “Here, taste a tiny slice.”

  Paul inspected the soft flan. He noted the red juice of the cherries seeping out into the surrounding mixture, just as it should do in a good clafoutis. He commented on the fact, and Hugo beamed with pleasure.

  “You’ve been doing all the cooking tonight?” Paul asked. “What about Uncle?” He nodded in the direction of the dining room.

  Chloe answered on Hugo’s behalf. “Claude has been very happy looking after the front of house,” she said. “And doing the waiting.”

  Paul smiled at Hugo. The young man was looking at him with bright, expectant eyes. “So you’ve done everything back here?”

  Hugo bit his lip. “I hope it’s been all right.”

  “They looked happy out there,” said Paul. “You can always tell.”

  Chloe now passed him a slice of the clafoutis. Paul tasted it, and looked appreciatively at Hugo. “Where did you pick that up?”

  The young man squirmed with pleasure. “I read about it. I used Joël Robuchon’s recipe. He used it at the Jamin.”

  Paul smiled. “Robuchon? You know that I met him once?”

  Hugo’s eyes widened. “You met him? You talked to him?”

  “Yes. He was…well, he was like anybody else, I suppose. Very down to earth. Very helpful. He wore the tricolour on the collar of his chef’s tunic.”

  “Very patriotic,” said Chloe. Turning to Hugo, she said, “And the other dessert, Hugo. Tell Paul about that.”

  Hugo gestured to a large dish in which several light concoctions had been placed. Each looked like a tiny, circular mousse, topped with foam. “Marcona Almond Cream,” he said proudly. “I’ve made eight, and so I hope that some people will go for the clafoutis.”

  Paul examined the desserts.

  “You could try one,” said Hugo. “Please try one.”

  “And then there’ll be seven,” said Paul.

  “I want you to.” There was something pleading about the young man’s tone. Paul glanced at him; the young chef was looking at him almost with longing. Had anybody ever been nice to this boy? Paul found himself thinking.

  He reached for a spoon. “What are the ingredients?” he asked.

  “Almond paste, sugar, yoghurt, cream, and gelatin sheets.”

  “Ah, gelatin. It keeps everything together.”

  Hugo nodded. “I love using it. I’d put it on everything if I could.”

  “Stick to the rules,” said Paul. “And one of those rules is: never add another ingredient. Take things away, but never add to a recipe.”

  Hugo looked anxious. “Always?”

  “Always,” affirmed Paul.

  He tasted the almond cream, licking the spoon clean. Hugo watched him attentively, waiting for the verdict.

  “Transcendent,” said Paul.

  Hugo frowned. “Which means?”

  “Which means that it’s better than everything,” said Chloe. “It leaps over everything.”

  “Really?” asked Hugo.
/>   “Yes,” said Paul. “That’s what it means. Well done, Hugo.”

  He turned to Chloe. “There’s bad news,” he said.

  Chloe listened in silence as he told her of the evening’s events. As he reached the end of his account, she started to untie her apron. “I shall have to go and see what’s going on,” she said. “Paul, can you stay and help Hugo with the rest of the evening?”

  Paul shrugged. “I suppose so. We still have Claude.”

  “No,” said Chloe. “I think that Claude will probably want to come with me.”

  “We’ll be all right,” said Hugo. “There aren’t many guests. We’ll be all right.”

  “There you are,” said Chloe. “You stay, Paul. Claude and I shall go and see what’s happening.” She paused. “He will be very upset.”

  * * *

  —

  The last of the diners left. There were effusive remarks. “I’ve been here before,” said one. “People have said…well, they’ve not been particularly complimentary.”

  “That’s putting it mildly,” said another.

  “They called it the second—”

  Hugo interrupted. “The second-worst restaurant in France. Yes, I know. But we try, you know.”

  “It isn’t,” said one of the diners. “Not now. Definitely not.”

  Back in the kitchen, Paul helped Hugo to stack the remaining plates in the dishwasher and to soak the pans. Claude and Chloe had not returned, and so it would be left to the two of them to close up for the night.

  Hugo had not eaten and was hungry, as was Paul.

  “I could make an omelette,” he said. “It’s the best thing to have late at night. It’s easy on the stomach.”

  “Perfect,” said Paul.

  “Mushrooms? Cheese, with some truffle?”

  “I can’t resist truffles,” said Paul.

  “Then it will be truffle,” said Hugo, reaching for a jar from a shelf.

  Paul watched as the young chef prepared the omelette, shaving the truffle onto the fluffy surface of the egg. There was a deftness to his movements, a confidence, that told him that his earlier instinct had been correct: this was a natural cook.