Monsieur Pamplemousse on the Spot (3 page)

‘Because, Aristide, you are
not
at this moment staying at Les Cinq Parfaits. You may think you are, but you are not. To all intents and purposes you are staying at Les Quatre Parfaits. They are a Parfait short. One of the brothers – Jean-Claude – the one who is responsible for the
soufflé
in question, has vanished. Vanished without warning and without trace.'

‘That is bad news,
Monsieur,
I agree … but surely it is a matter for the local police …'

‘No, Pamplemousse, it is
not
a matter for the local police. The local police must be kept out of it at all costs. There are wheels, Pamplemousse, and within those wheels there are other wheels, and within those wheels there are yet more wheels. They must all be kept oiled. Without the continuing goodwill of this
grosse
légume
– and I must tell you that the speed with which he has acquired his untold wealth has not so far been matched by any show of finer feelings towards his fellow man, rather the reverse – oil will be in very short supply. It may well be diverted towards colder climes than ours.'

‘But surely,
Monsieur,
if this … this person has to go without his
Soufflé
Surprise
it is not the end of the world? Surely some other member of the staff could make one? One of the other brothers? Or if not, someone could be brought in. Girardet, perhaps? He is nearby.'

‘Aristide, would you have asked Titian to paint a Monet, or Picasso a Renoir? We are dealing with the creation of a genius.'

Monsieur Pamplemousse fell silent. The Director was right, of course. They were dealing with the product of an artist at the very pinnacle of his profession. Such things were beyond duplication.

‘Pamplemousse!' The Director's voice broke into his thoughts again. ‘When I say it is a serious matter, I mean it is a
very
serious matter. Who knows where it will end up? Each of the brothers is a specialist in his own right. Today there is no
Soufflé
Surprise.
Tomorrow it could be the
Omble.
The day after, the
Ris
de
veau
aux
salsifis.
It is a matter that is exercising the minds of certain people at the highest levels of government. In particular of a “certain person” whose name I am not at liberty to divulge for reasons of security …'

‘A certain person,' ventured Monsieur Pamplemousse, determined not to be outdone, ‘not a million miles away.'

‘No, Pamplemousse.' The Director appeared to be having trouble with his breathing again. ‘A “certain person” who happens to be not two feet away from me at this very moment. Furthermore, he wishes to speak to you.'

Despite himself, Monsieur Pamplemousse stiffened as a second voice came over the phone, clear and incisive; a voice he recognised. A voice which until that moment he had only heard over the radio or on television.

‘
Oui
,
Monsieur
.' His own voice, by comparison, sounded far away.

‘
Oui
,
Monsieur
. I understand,
Monsieur
.

‘It is a very great honour,
Monsieur.

‘Without question,
Monsieur
.'

‘Now do you understand the gravity of the situation, Pamplemousse?' It was the Director again, revitalised, and showing scarcely less authority than the previous speaker. Now the voice was that of a man with a mission. The voice, Monsieur Pamplemousse couldn't help but reflect, of a man who sensed the whiff of a possible decoration somewhere close at hand. An Order of Merit, perhaps, or membership of the
Légion d'Honneur
?

‘From now on you will only communicate directly with this office. The telephone will be manned day and night. The codename of your mission will be “Operation
Soufflé
”.
I have already spoken to Monsieur Albert Parfait. He has been instructed to render every assistance. If you require anything else, name it and it shall be yours. Otherwise, I suggest we keep conversation to a minimum.'

‘
Oui
,
Monsieur
.'

‘And Aristide …' The Director's voice softened for a moment. ‘If … no, not if –
when
our mission has been brought to a successful conclusion, you may order a bottle of Château d'Yquem … the '45. I will see matters right with Madame Grante in Accounts. Your P39s will not be delayed.
Au revoir, et bonne chance
.'

‘
Au
revoir, Monsieur
.'

Monsieur Pamplemousse replaced the receiver and then stood for a few seconds lost in thought. So much for a quiet week at Les Cinq Parfaits. It was a good thing Doucette hadn't come with him as had at first been suggested. She would not have been pleased.

Gathering up the rest of his change, he pushed open the door, glancing around as he did so. He felt as though he had been inside the booth for hours and yet it could only have been a matter of minutes. Inside the restaurant itself the scene was as he had left it, the soft lights, waiters gliding to and fro, a steady hum of conversation. If only they knew what currents were developing around them.

As he crossed the entrance hall the commissionaire looked at him enquiringly and then stepped to one side. The glass doors slid quietly open for him as he drew near.

Outside the air was cool. It had a crisp feel to it; a hint of autumn. Floodlights concealed in a low wall gave a translucent glow to a bed of late-flowering roses. Nearby a fountain changed from red to green. The swimming pool beyond was deserted. Of Pommes Frites there was still no sign.

He took a silent dog-whistle from an inside pocket, placed it to his lips and blew hard several times. The result was most satisfactory. From somewhere behind the hotel pandemonium broke out; a collection of barks and howls and shrieks that would have brought a smile of satisfaction to the face of any members of the local kennel club. The shrill yelps of Papillons and Pekingese mingled with Beagles
and Spaniels and did battle with Pomeranians. He
recognised
an Airedale or two and what sounded like a Labrador, but conspicuous by its absence was the deeper, full-throated baying of a Bloodhound answering his master's call.

It proved several things at one and the same time. The whistle was working – something he had never been totally sure about ever since he'd first bought it. It also proved that, temporarily at least, Pommes Frites was not in
residence
. Perhaps his huff was deeper than he'd feared, or else he'd gone off for some other reason best known to himself.

Monsieur Pamplemousse gazed gloomily at the
shrubbery
, hoping it might suddenly part to reveal his friend and mentor, but parting came there none.

With a heavy heart and a sense of foreboding he replaced the whistle in his pocket and, Watsonless, turned to go back inside the restaurant.

Leaning heavily on a stick, Albert Parfait rose to his feet, pushed a large, plain bottle full of colourless liquid across his desk, then hovered uneasily as he tried to regain his balance. Unlike the bottle, which was considerably wider at the bottom that it was at the top, weight distribution was not on his side and for a moment or two it looked as though he might topple over backwards into his chair again.

Monsieur Pamplemousse resisted the temptation to go to his aid. Having been born and brought up in the Auvergne, he recognised the independence of one who also came from a mountainous region.

His restraint didn’t go unrewarded. At long last Monsieur Parfait relaxed and waved his stick in a triumphant gesture which managed to embrace at one and the same time his visitor, the shadowy figures beyond the darkened glass separating his office from the kitchen, and the bottle on the table in front of him.

‘
Encore!
’

Monsieur Pamplemousse obeyed with alacrity. Ordinarily he was not a great lover of
eau-de-vie.
Given the choice he would have preferred an armagnac, but the opportunity to indulge himself with another
Poire
William
was not one to be missed. The somewhat depressing telephone conversation with the Director had left him feeling in need of a ‘pick-me-up’.

The bottle emitted a satisfactory gurgle as he topped up his glass; the whole pear within remained tantalisingly encapsulated and unreachable. From the absence of any
kind of a label he guessed Les Cinq Parfaits must make it themselves. It would be the job of the youngest recruit to slip the empty bottles over the fruit as it began to form in the late spring. Later in the year, when the pear itself was fully grown, someone else would be entrusted with the task of cutting down pear and bottle and adding the brandy. Later still, others like himself would be lucky enough to enjoy the benefit of their labours. There was a logical progression about the whole operation which appealed to his mathematical side. Truly life was not without its compensations. Just when things were looking black something unexpected happened to restore the balance. He was almost beginning to look forward to whatever fate had in store for him.

Settling back in his chair, he felt the warmth of the liquid rise up from within while he waited for his companion to speak again. The flourish of Monsieur Parfait’s stick conveyed a generosity of spirit which would have been hard to resist for fear of giving offence.

He glanced around the room. High up on the wall to his right there was a framed sepia photograph. It was the original of smaller, postcard-sized versions he’d seen on sale in the entrance hall, alongside pots of home-made
confiture
and signed copies of the menu; the almost obligatory current symbols of a successful restaurant.

The photograph was of a small group posing in front of a whitewashed stone building. One of the group, the only man in fact, was in a soldier’s uniform and from the way the others were dressed it must have been taken during the First World War, in the days when Les Cinq Parfaits had been known simply as Mère Parfait. Above their heads the words
CAFÉ RESTAURANT
were just visible, whilst to the right of a smallish window, a doorway with a bead curtain was all that separated the dining-room from the outside world.

It was far removed from the present building, which over the years had been extended, added to and improved beyond all recognition. Bead curtains had been exchanged for glass doors which opened and shut automatically at the slightest movement. Pommes Frites had caused chaos on
their arrival by activating the invisible rays of the operating mechanism with his tail which was wagging furiously in anticipation of the pleasures hopefully awaited by his opposite end. The smiles in Reception had become fixed rather than welcoming.

Monsieur Parfait read his thoughts. He pointed with his stick to the sepia photograph; in the centre stood an elderly woman with her arms folded. She bore a striking resemblance to him; there was the same dark, Italian-looking skin, the same nose. She was not one to stand any nonsense.

‘That was
Grand-mère.
The one in uniform was my father. He was killed only two months later – I hardly knew him. That was my mother, next to him. And that’ – he singled out a small figure between the two – ‘that was me. There have been many changes since those days.’ He gestured towards the kitchen. ‘Not the least in there. In my days it was all smoke and steam, heat and shouting. Now, it is more like a hospital. Everything is stainless steel and polished tiles and air-conditioning. There is no longer any need to shout in order to make yourself heard.’

He pointed once again to the bottle on the table. ‘In my day I was like that pear; able to see the world outside, but never free to escape into it. I was a prisoner of
circumstances
.’ He spoke without any hint of rancour, and yet Monsieur Pamplemousse couldn’t help but wonder if the accompanying shrug implied regret.

Again his thoughts were read. ‘
Comme
ci, comme ça
. You win one, you lose another. Is it better? It has to be. In the old days chefs were looked down on as the lowest of the low. There were exceptions – Carême, Brillat-Savarin, Escoffier – but they were geniuses, on a par with royalty. Many of their lesser brethren deserved to be treated the way they were.

‘Nowadays, chefs are like film stars. People ask for their autographs. We have to be diplomats one moment, businessmen the next. We have to know about turnover and profit margins and cash flows. Cooking is only one of the arts we have to master.

‘I tell you, inside every chef these days there is an accountant trying to get out. Our own turnover is over ten
million francs a year … but this year I have already spent nearly a quarter of a million francs on truffles alone. Fifty thousand has gone on flowers, two hundred thousand on laundry. Think of that! If my old grandmother knew I make more profit out of selling a signed copy of the menu than I do out of selling one of Jean-Claude’s
soufflés
she would turn in her grave. As for the helicopter landing-pad – she would see that as a sign of the devil.

‘
Alors
!
One must move with the times. When I was small I spent all my spare moments in the kitchens. I could not have wished for better training. By the time I was fourteen I had done everything. Then I was lucky enough to be apprenticed to Fernand Point at Vienne. It was he who first inspired me to aim for the heights. For him nothing less would do; nothing was so perfect that it couldn’t be improved.

‘I married. My wife bore me four sons and we were blissfully happy. Then one day … pouf! … We were involved in a car crash.’ He reached down and tapped his leg. ‘I was lucky. I suffered nothing worse than this. But my wife was killed outright. Now I had to bring up the children. I was determined they should not only be as good as me, but better. When the time came for them to go out into the world I made sure that they, too, served their apprenticeship with a master.

‘We live in an age of specialisation. If I want to buy a house I go to one lawyer. If I want to make sure when I write a cook book that I am infringing no one else’s copyright, I go to another. So I sent my first son, Alain, to Barrier, where he learnt humility. It is not possible to have true greatness without a touch of humility. He is now the
saucier.
Edouard went to Bocuse, who was taught as I was, at the hands of Point. Edouard became the
rôtisseur.
Gilbert was taught by Chapel to use his imagination … he is now the
poissonnier
…’

‘And Jean-Claude?’

‘Ah! Jean-Claude!’ Monsieur Parfait raised his eyes heavenwards. ‘In life there is always an exception. Jean-Claude went his own way. He is the odd one out. He inherited his grandmother’s stubbornness and, like his
mother, he was born with “the gift”. In his own way he is a genius, although I would not dream of telling him so – it would not be good for him. His brothers are exceptionally talented, but they have got where they are by dedication and hard work. With Jean-Claude it has always been there. He is a true “one-off” – a genuine creator. Without him we would have our three stars in Michelin, our toques and our Stock Pots … but
with
him … who knows? His strength is that when our guests are nearing the end of their meal and feel that nothing can surprise them any more, he surpasses all that has gone before.

‘One day he will take over – once he has settled down; he has the necessary qualities.

‘In many ways eating at a restaurant like Les Cinq Parfaits has to be like going to a concert or reading a great novel. The opening should catch your attention and make you want to carry on. The middle must give you a feeling of inner satisfaction. After that it is necessary to have an ending which not only leaves you feeling it was all worth while, but which makes you long to return.’

‘Like the
Soufflé Surprise
?’

‘Like the
Soufflé
Surprise
. It is, to date, Jean-Claude’s greatest creation. Ask him how he does it and he will shrug his shoulders. Pursue the matter, demand to know what secret ingredient he uses, and he will most likely laugh and change the subject. He will say, “Listen, today must be Wednesday. How do I know? Because I can hear children playing in the distance. It is their half-day.” It is like asking Beethoven how he composed the Ninth Symphony when all he had in front of him was a piano and a blank sheet of paper.’ Albert Parfait tapped his head. ‘The “secret
ingredient
” is all up here.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse found himself reminded of another great restaurant – Pic of Valence. For a long time he had puzzled over the special flavour of their Kir, generously dispensed from a jug. In the end it had turned out to be nothing more complicated than an added dash of Dubonnet. Perhaps Jean-Claude’s “secret ingredient” was as simple. He decided to take the plunge.

‘It is because of the
soufflé
that I am here. Jean-Claude’s
soufflé
–
or rather the lack of it – is the cause of worry in certain quarters.’

Monsieur Parfait gave him a long, hard look. ‘So I am told.
They
are worried about their
soufflé
–
I am worried about my son.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse returned the look in silence. Albert Parfait’s manner belied his words. They were not the actions of a worried man. Since they had met, the conversation had ranged far and wide. To say that the subject of the missing Jean-Claude had been skated around was to put it mildly. It was almost as though the other had been trying not to talk about it. If it wasn’t such a bizarre notion he would have suspected that for some reason or other Monsieur Parfait had been trying to gain time. But time for what? Being
patron
of Les Cinq Parfaits must have its headaches. By his own account the climb to the top had been long and arduous; but the higher you climb the harder you fall and it was something that could happen overnight. There were precedents.

The only sign of anxiety had been in the initial
handshake
. It had been firm but unexpectedly moist. And the moisture had come from within rather than without. Like the rest of the building, Albert Parfait’s office was kept at an ambient temperature of 20°C.

‘If you will forgive my saying so, you do not seem unduly disturbed by the news of your son’s disappearance.’

‘Sometimes, Monsieur Pamplemousse, appearances are deceptive. Like you, I have spent a lifetime trying to perfect the art of concealing my true feelings.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse accepted the implied rebuke with equanimity. ‘You know, of course, why I am here?’

Monsieur Parfait inclined his head. ‘I was informed this evening. We are very fortunate. A happy chance of fate.’ He relaxed a little. ‘Now that we have met I recognise you, of course. I have seen your picture many times in the newspapers. I had thought you were no longer active …’

‘I am still called on from time to time.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse got the remark in quickly before the other had time to enlarge on the cause of his early retirement. It
always left him feeling he’d been put at a slight disadvantage. The word ‘Follies’ seemed to bring out the worst in people; add to it evocative words like ‘chorus’ and ‘girls’ and there was no holding them. It was like trying to convince a collector of taxes of the need to research a handbook on refrigeration in the South of France. If he’d been caught
dans
le
costume
d’Adam
in the Himalayas it would have been a nine-day wonder in the
Bombay
Times
and then forgotten about. In the dressing-room of the Follies – never.

‘We thought at first you were from one of the guides. A man eating on his own at Les Cinq Parfaits is a rare occurrence. When we see him testing a little here … savouring a little there … choosing a table where he has a good view of all that is going on around him … we begin to wonder. Alain thought you were from Michelin, but then we found you had Pirelli tyres on your car, so that was out. Edouard was all for Gault Millau – especially when you called for a second helping of
Omble.
It was the dog that bothered me. It didn’t fit. No one from a guide, I reasoned, would bring a dog. Now I understand. He is your … assistant?’

Monsieur Pamplemousse nodded. ‘We are rarely parted. He has been instrumental in helping me reach some of my most memorable decisions.’ In culinary terms it was true; it was hard to picture being without Pommes Frites. He wondered what Albert Parfait would say if he knew their true identity. That would give him cause to perspire.

He’d had no idea he’d been the centre of so much attention. He must be more careful in future. Perhaps at the next quarterly meeting he would put forward the suggestion that all Inspectors should be accompanied by a suitable companion. There might even be a pool of ‘suitable companions’ for all occasions. That would bring a flush to Madame Grante’s cheeks.

‘If you need to bring him inside – if there are important trails to follow – please do. I rely on your discretion. It wouldn’t do for the other guests to think you are a favoured customer.’