by Peter King
His eyes widened. “Isn’t that enough?”
I let out a sigh of relief that rustled the unpaid bills on my desk. At the same time, I coughed to hide the sigh of relief and the combination wasn’t pleasant. I didn’t care. He didn’t know! He didn’t know about Raymond or about Oiseau Royal! I felt ten years younger and was so pleased that I said genially, “And what do you want me to do?”
François smiled for the first time since he had been in my office. “I knew you’d accept the assignment. Only a man with your detailed knowledge of food and restaurants could take it on. I want you to find out who is trying to put me out of business and why.”
I had put my foot in the trifle and no mistake. I tried to backtrack hastily. “Ordinarily I would be delighted to help you but as I said I’m very busy right now—”
He went on as if he had not heard me. “The first question you’re going to ask me is if I have any ideas on who might be behind this—well, I don’t. I have competitors naturally—”
I was so elated at being off the hook that I went boldly where I might not otherwise have gone. “Raymond in particular?”
He said nothing for a moment. He looked at his knuckles. They looked scarred and formidable from where I was sitting and I was glad he was here as a restaurateur looking for help rather than as an ex-prizefighter disgruntled at having his pet recipe taken from under his nose.
“It’s no secret that Raymond and I are competitors.”
“Rivals, would you say?”
“Rivals certainly.”
“Enemies?”
He hesitated. He sighed and then said, “Many years ago, there was an incident between us … since that time a gulf has divided us—” he broke off. He seemed to be considering whether to say more but when I couldn’t wait any longer I asked:
“Enough of a gulf that he might want to put you out of business?”
He spread his hands in a Gallic gesture that meant he wasn’t going to answer this one at all.
“Especially after so many years?”
He looked at his knuckles again. Perhaps he wanted to punch somebody with them. Was it Raymond or was it me?
“If I could tell you anything helpful, I would. But I can tell you nothing useful at all, I’m afraid.” His manner seemed sincere enough. “That incident I referred to with Raymond—well, there’s really nothing there either—I mean nothing with any relevance to this affair.”
The tough private eye always growled, “Best let me be the judge of that” but I didn’t think that would work with François. Besides, now that I knew François wasn’t there to pin me to the wall for unmasking the secrets of Oiseau Royal, I was breathing a little easier although I still wasn’t sure I wanted this job.
“Actually I’m not that kind of detective,” I told him. “What I do is—”
“Oh, I know what you do,” François said. “And you do it very well. You’re the man who found a new source of lotus leaves for Johnny Chang.”
I wasn’t too worried about him knowing that. It was good publicity when the occasional commission was leaked.
“Yes, I am. So you can see that I’m not really the kind of detective you want.” I said it in my most persuasive voice. It was as ineffective as recommending a Ploughman’s Lunch with pickles to a ploughman.
“I told you I need a man who is well-informed about food and restaurant procedures.”
“If it’s an investigator you want, try Knightsbridge Inquiry Agency,” I suggested. “They’re very reliable, their reputation is—”
“What do they know about food?”
“Everybody knows something about it—”
“Do they know as much as you?”
Honesty was pushing me towards saying “no” whereas self-preservation was yelling “yes, yes”. I was still trying to reconcile the two when François was saying:
“I won’t take no for an answer. I love my work as a chef, I love my restaurant. No one can take them away from me—I’ll do whatever I must to protect them.” He eyed me almost accusingly. “You must feel the same way. You can’t want to see a place like mine forced out of business.”
“Of course I don’t but—”
“Or a restaurateur of my calibre being humiliated.”
“It would be unfair—”
“Who knows if the same underhanded tactics might be used on another restaurant—and another—and another? It could affect the whole culinary scene!”
So I wasn’t as tough as Mike Hammer. I was weakening and François knew it. With masterly timing, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his cheque book. Grabbing at any straw, I asked feebly: “You’ve received no threatening notes? Ransom to be paid—anything like that?”
“Nothing. No.” He pulled out a pen. “What are your fees?”
From wondering how I was going to get through the rest of the month financially, suddenly money was pouring in, first Raymond and now François. I had run out of ways of saying that this wasn’t my kind of detection. Anyway, I had already deviated a little from usual operations in accepting the task of uncovering Oiseau Royal. Now François wanted me to deviate a little further. It was how people became alcoholics and embezzlers—a little more every time. Well, just this once and no more. They probably said that too.
With more time to think about it, I would have been able to come up with a really nice figure. After all, if I wasn’t that enthusiastic about taking the job, I could set my demand high. Then it wouldn’t matter if François backed down. But was I that sure I didn’t want the job? Any private eye would have wanted it. It would probably have appealed to Nero Wolfe most of all—eating was how he got to weigh a seventh of a ton.
“A thousand pounds down and a thousand pounds on completion,” I said promptly. Too promptly and I knew it as soon as the words were out of my mouth. Fortunately I had the presence of mind to add, “—and a hundred pounds a day plus expenses.”
François already had the cheque written before I could think of anything else to add. I took it with a sinking feeling that I was making a mistake.
“Come around tomorrow morning about nine-thirty,” said François. “I’ll introduce you to the staff and you can get all the information you want.” He stood and shook my hand in a hard grip. His athletic stride took him to the door and he was gone. I was still a little dazed. I looked at the cheque for comfort. It looked fine.
I left the office early after collecting my mail from Mrs Shearer. I felt I was entitled to do so after all that excitement. I walked through the Hammersmith mall and bought a few items, for once not bothering to look at the prices. It’s amazing the security one can feel from the comforting crackle of a piece of paper with numbers on it.
What’s the best music for relaxing? Vivaldi is high on the list though some people say they find his melodies lively and stimulating. This is more true of his violin concertos but his chamber music is more soothing. I put on Mendelssohn’s String Octet, Opus 20. It can be criticised as being slightly repetitive but it is simple and charming.
The Octet tinkled through the apartment as I read the day’s letters. It wasn’t much of a haul today. Would I like to take advantage of a special offer on dog-food? No, I wouldn’t, I seldom touch the stuff. There was an invitation to a cook-book signing which I put aside to consider.
There was one really interesting letter though and it read:
“Dunsingham Castle is about to re-open after 200 years as a ruin and 20 years of intermittent restoration.
“It will be a luxury hotel of unequalled excellence with no efforts spared to raise it to the category of the very finest hosteleries of the Western World.
“As part of this re-development programme, we intend to offer mediaeval food in keeping with the period when the castle was at the peak of its importance.
“We have sampled mediaeval meals at several places and found them to be unsatisfactory. We seek your recommendations on suitable menus, balancing as far as possible authenticity of food and style with
availability of raw materials.
“Please advise us if you will undertake this project and advise us of your fee.”
Now that was something I could get my teeth into. I had eaten a couple of so-called mediaeval banquets myself and found them to be pale and unconvincing replicas. Could I do better? It would be great fun to try and I began to scribble some notes.
Monchelet, for instance. It is a 14th century dish and unaccountably absent from modern menus. Pieces of neck of lamb are cooked in stock, mint, thyme, marjoram, onion and wine. Then ginger, saffron and cinnamon are added and it is cooked further. Egg yolks and lemon juice are blended with some of the broth and returned to the pot. The sauce resulting from thickening is aromatic and spicy and of a delicious golden colour. It is a superb dish and one I have cooked several times. It is fully deserving of revival and as all the ingredients are readily available today, no dish could be more authentic.
Goose should certainly be considered. It was a popular dish in the Middle Ages and is still eaten on feast days in Germany and Eastern Europe. It is a shame it is rarely encountered on menus today and hardly ever in the shops.
Potatoes were unknown so vegetable accompaniments should be the floury or starchy type to make up for them. Small tarts of fruit stewed with honey would be a simple and appropriate dessert. Several British restaurants offer syllabub today but it is usually pleasant yet uninteresting. I could hardly recommend making it by the original method—milking a cow directly into a bowl containing ale or cider but I could look into tastier variations. I had a dim recollection of an orange pudding I had once eaten but couldn’t recall the details. I made notes to research these points and offer any other mediaeval suggestions.
Did Dunsingham plan blazing torches and low-cut wenches? I wondered. This would be where decision-making became tricky—steering a course between historical accuracy, reality and the images that we all have in our minds which are difficult to translate without appearing tawdry and cheap.
The soft, gentle music of Mendelssohn continued to roll around the room. I put down the notes and François’ unexpected request came to the forefront of my mind. Some request—he had had me on the ropes from the moment I breathed that sigh of relief on finding out that he was not aware of losing his prized recipe.
The idea of putting a restaurant out of business was a terrifying one. Extortion and bribery were not unknown in the restaurant trade but this sounded different. What would be the point? Jealousy perhaps? Of the restaurant itself? Or the owner? Seemed a bit extreme but I supposed it was possible. Large amounts of money were involved when the establishment was as prestigious as Le Trouquet d’Or.
So maybe the job wasn’t as far out of my field as I had insisted. François was most likely right when he asserted that his beleaguered position could best be resolved by someone with an appropriate background and experience. It appealed to me though, I had to admit. Now that I had been more or less forced into it, I almost liked the thought—me, a private eye, a real one!
I had bought a bottle of tequila at the market, Sauza Blanco being a brand I particularly like. I poured some into the mixer then squeezed in the juice of three limes and added a few drops of Curaçao. I poured in a generous splash of tonic water to give it balance and a few bubbles. Somewhat removed from a classic margarita but I like it.
When the mixer motor finished buzzing, I put Ravel’s Bolero on the CD player. Ravel described it as “a lewd piece” and marked it in very slow tempo. He was furious when Toscanini played it quite fast. So Ravel was wrong and every conductor has played it at the Toscanini tempo ever since. Played at a pulsating pace, its insistent beat makes it an exhilarating composition even if outraged Spanish musicians declared it alien to traditional folk dances.
Good cooking requires planning but you can’t always plan meals. It can be a challenge to come up with a good meal at short notice and with little work. I had bought some shelled shrimp and I tossed them in a pan of clarified butter, added a fair amount of fresh ground pepper and some lemon juice. I cut a tomato in two, hollowed out each half and spooned the hot shrimp/butter mix into them. A generous sprinkle of chopped chives over them and into the refrigerator to chill.
One of my other purchases had been a filleted Dover sole. This is the name given to real sole to distinguish it from the other and inferior varieties. Its flesh is firm and tasty and it has the merit of being ideal for simple frying or grilling although on this occasion, I wanted to make it a little fancier. I buttered an oven dish, put in the fillet, covered it with a mixture of white wine and fish stock and added seasonings and a bouquet garni. I put it into the oven to bake and set the timer for fifteen minutes.
I finished the margarita then ate the shrimp and tomato. When the oven timer sounded, I took out the fillet, put the liquid in a pan with more white wine and some beurre manié then boiled it until the sauce thickened. I added my other purchase—some stoned green grapes and cooked until they were hot. Like the margarita, it was a departure from the original, in this case Sole Véronique. I had put on a few small potatoes to steam, they don’t detract from the subtle taste of the sole.
A bottle of Bourgogne Hautes Côtes de Beaune 1988 was the wine I selected from the rack. I had been wanting to try it and a white Burgundy seldom disappoints. This one came through fresh and clean with a stronger finish than expected.
Bolero lasted from the shrimp to the sole and with the last of the wine, I put on an Errol Garner disc for a complete change of pace. Searching the refrigerator, I found some crème brûlée that I had made a few days ago. That topped off the meal.
Meditating while Errol Garner’s fingers slid over the keys was pleasant. What would tomorrow bring? A second visit to Le Trouquet d’Or was a prospect to enjoy especially under the present circumstances. I had only the most niggling of worries that I would be recognised as the dummy who had walked into the kitchen and wrecked a trayful of dishes. Hundreds of diners passed through the place every week. Surely they wouldn’t remember one fat-head?
I had an early night and a dreamless sleep.
Chapter Six
DISASTER ALMOST STRUCK WITHIN five minutes of arriving at Le Trouquet d’Or. François had greeted me and we had talked for a few minutes. I suggested that in order to get to know the staff, each of them should take me around his own area and François had agreed. The first person I was introduced to was Henri Leclerc, the maître d’.
The moustachioed face examined me as we shook hands and I could see recognition dawning quickly. I told François I would talk to him later and he nodded and went back to his office.
“I am sorry, M’sieu, I did not know the other evening that you were helping us investigate these strange happenings,” Henri said apologetically. “Naturally, with these things going on…”
“I understand,” I said generously. “You were right to be suspicious.”
“Your head,” said Henri, “it is all right I hope?”
“Perfectly,” I assured him. I gave him a suitably conspiratorial nod. “And we will say no more of this matter, eh?”
“Certainly.”
“Not to anyone,” I pressed.
“Of course.”
That was one obstacle out of the way.
Henri lead me along a wood-panelled corridor with old menus framed on the walls. “This is Mr Leopold’s office. He is general manager. He is not in yet.” He lead me a little further along. “This is an office used by our accountant. He comes in only occasionally. Anyone else uses it in the meantime. Come, we will go to the kitchens.”
Shiny metal gleamed everywhere. Oven fronts, pots, pans, blades shone brightly and glass and ceramic jars, bottles and containers sparkled under the bright kitchen lights.
“Our head chef, Mr Klingermann, will be here at any moment,” said Henri.
Even if he wasn’t here to crack the whip, his staff was already hard at work. Two apprentice chefs were sorting vegetables for salad and another came through carrying a tray of meats. A kitchen h
elper was chopping pears and dropping them into a bowl of red wine. The air was still pristine with no aromas yet apparent. In a few hours, it would be heavy with luscious smells of sauces and spices, pungent with the flavours of condiments and seasonings.
We walked on through the dining and banquet rooms. They were silent and empty, awaiting their turn to be brought to glittering life. I looked around. There was not much to see but I wanted to get the feel of the place. A door slammed and Henri went to look. “Ah, here is Mr Klingermann. Come and I will introduce you.”
Klaus Klingermann was a big man with a bald head that looked polished and a jovial expression. He was Swiss, he told me proudly.
“I’ve heard your name, of course,” I told him. “Switzerland is fortunate to have two such fine chefs.”
He beamed. To be put alongside the legendary Fredy Girardet was the finest compliment I could pay him.
“You are going to help us find out the meaning behind these terrible things that are happening here?” Klaus’ large face was almost pleading. “I love this restaurant. Who can be doing these things to us?”
I assured him I intended to find out. “Can you tell me anything about these events?” I asked. “Were you involved in any of them?”
“François has told you about them …? yes, the mice I can tell you about.” His jovial expression was gone. He looked almost ready to cry. “We found them in one of the cupboards in the kitchen … come, I will show you.” He did so, pulling open a door. “They were in here. But, I can tell you—someone put them in here. We have a clean kitchen here, a spotless kitchen. It is absolutely impossible to have mice.”
“Klaus,” I said, “we both know that cockroaches and houseflies have been found in the kitchens of London hotels and restaurants. I appreciate the fact that you are proud of your kitchens but I have to be critical. How can you be really sure—” He stopped me with an upraised hand and looked around. “Tommy, over here a minute.”
