by Peter King
The first course was arriving so I had no time to see who else I could identify. The table arrangements were completely different from the previous Circle of Careme dinner, a good decision by someone to divorce the two meals in every regard and avoid the unpleasant memories of the former meal.
We were served Asparagus Vinaigrette Mimosa. It was a clever way to start and the seasoning was faultless. Klaus Klingermann applauded it as one professional appreciating another.
“It is rare today to get a perfectly seasoned salad,” said Klaus. “That is evident when salt always has to be on the table. Oh, tastes differ certainly but a top-rank chef should be able to season so that the food and the seasoning are so carefully matched that no one even thinks of adding to it.”
The lady from MAFF wanted to know why it was called Mimosa and Klaus explained that it was the name of the method of preparing the hard-boiled eggs.
“You will notice too,” said Klaus, “that the vinaigrette is so delicate that it will not sully the palate for the wine that is now being poured.” Klaus went on, speaking of the vinegar used in dressing. “It must always be the mildest you can find. That way, if you put in a few drops extra it doesn’t make the dressing more acid.”
The wine was a light-bodied red, labelled Sukhindol Gamza from Bulgaria. Klaus sipped and approved and even Vito Volcanini who was not easy to please, grudgingly admitted that it was very palatable.
The next course was small fillets of red mullet. Vito said that they had been pan-grilled for less than one minute on each side. They were served on a bed of sauce which Klaus and Vito identified between them as containing shallots, rosemary, double cream and white wine. Both gave it a high rating.
Sam Beauregard from New Orleans was engaging Nelda in conversation. It seemed they had a common acquaintance in the restaurant business and that person—whose name I did not catch—was not receiving any commendations from either of them.
“He’s not a cook—he’s an arsonist,” said Sam vigorously.
Nelda nodded agreement. “His idea of seasoning is to keep adding garlic till the paint starts to peel off the walls.”
Leila Garrison from MAFF, joined in with a comment. She was a tall, bony lady with silvery hair and patrician features. I had not met her before but she was pleasant and knowledgeable.
“You should be more critical of restaurants, Nelda,” she admonished.
Nelda’s eyebrows rose. She was used to criticism for her forthright—some said vitriolic—manner but was probably the first time she had been urged to be more critical.
“Oh, I don’t mean the food,” Leila went on. “I mean the ambience and the service. Too many restaurants today are show-biz, not food. They are owned by film stars and people go to them to ogle, not to eat.”
“If a place becomes fashionable, the names go there,” said Nelda. “Then the no-names go there to stare at the names.”
“But when the food standards slip, people need warning that they may be spending fifty pounds or more for a meal that isn’t worth half of that.” Leila turned to Sam Beauregard. “At least that’s the way it is in London. What about New Orleans?
“The same,” said Sam. “Of course, it’s more of a problem in New York and Los Angeles but we get the same kind of thing too. Can’t criticise the food here though—it’s great.”
Vito pointed to Sam’s plate. “That won’t need washing.”
He was right. It was clean as if it had just come out of the washer.
“So’s the wine,” said Sam and everyone agreed.
“A daring choice of wines,” said Leila, “serving reds all through the meal.”
“Starting with a very light one and then progressing to heavier and heavier with each course,” said Nelda. “Maybe we can learn from this.” She looked meaningfully at Klaus, Sam and Vito, the three restaurateurs in the group.
The conversation had split into several directions by the time the main course arrived soon afterwards. It was Mignons de Veau, given an unusual warmth and sharpness by the addition of grated orange peel, Grand Marnier and green peppercorns.
With the veal came a magnificent Côte Rotie which succeeded in being defiantly independent and not trying to be a claret. Nelda commented on this and the others agreed.
“The service is excellent too,” remarked Sam Beauregard.
“Unfortunately,” said Leila, “the art of waiting is rapidly being lost.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” retorted Nelda, always ready to be argumentative. “There are dozens of restaurants in London where you have to wait.”
Leila smiled. “True, Nelda. But don’t you agree that the art of being a waiter is dying?”
“What makes a good waiter?” I asked.
Klaus was the first to answer.
“A good waiter never walks past his tables empty-handed without scanning each one to see whether anything is needed or should be cleared away.”
“More than that,” said Vito. “A good waiter can memorise the meal orders from half a dozen tables. A good waiter knows what every diner has ordered. He does not have to stand and ask ‘Whose is the rare steak?’”
“A lot more than that,” said Nelda. “A good waiter must be able to describe every dish on the menu and tell the diner what it contains and how it is prepared.”
“You’re all absolutely right,” Sam Beauregard said. “Compared to Europe, maybe our American waiters try too hard.”
“They certainly do,” Nelda said. “They sing, they tell jokes, they are funds of information on politics and economics. They should stick to being good waiters.”
“Good waiters work in good restaurants,” said Leila. “Their profession is being a waiter. Too many of the staff of restaurants today are ballet-dancers or actors or chorus boys in between jobs.”
There were murmurs of agreement at this. During this episode, the next red wine had been poured—a Gevrey-Chambertin, Clos de Beze. Its intense, plummy richness rounded off the main part of the meal admirably and everyone was smiling and relaxed.
I looked around the room where the occupants of the other tables appeared equally satisfied. Was one or more of them in for a big surprise? Inspector Hemingway had denied that he was “up to something”. Or had he? Now that I thought about it, he had not denied it at all. He had said that he was going to get some answers and clarify some issues. Then too—what further forensic information was he waiting for?
St Leger’s fair hair could be seen. He was deep in conversation with Johnny Chang. Milton Marston was getting a little red in the face but whether it was the wine or the proximity of Benjamin Breakspear was hard to say.
Leila caught the direction of my attention and smiled.
“Those two are having a real battle, aren’t they? I wonder what it’s about?”
“Worthy opponents anyway,” I said.
Leila smiled again.
“When I first came in, I ran into Benjamin—spent an hour talking to him for a few minutes.”
Cheese was served. It was Chevrotin de Moulins, small pyramid shapes of strong goat cheese from the Auvergne.
“A real challenge to serve a meal this good to so many people,” said Leila. All agreed and Nelda, in a rare moment of praise, said:
“It’s a challenge to run a really good restaurant at all.”
“Amen to that,” laughed Sam Beauregard.
“How do you run a really good restaurant?” asked Leila, looking around the table.
“All you need,” said Klaus, “is the dynamism of Michel Guerard, the boldness of Alain Chapel, the simplicity of Alastair Little—” he paused, thinking. Vito finished for him.
“—plus the brashness of Marco Pierre White and the originality of Peter Langan.”
“You could answer that another way,” Nelda said. “The integrity of Prue Leith, the showmanship of Julia Child, the ingenuity of Simca Beck—”
There were laughs from the men, acknowledging Nelda’s well-aimed shaft. Further contributions to the lis
ts were cut short by the arrival of the dessert.
This was Nougatine Glacée au Café according to the menu card. The nougatine was heavenly in texture, very slightly chewy but melting in the mouth. It was filled with hazelnuts, walnuts and almonds and served at precisely the right temperature, not frozen and burning the tongue but not yet thawing either. A spoonful of melted bitter chocolate over it was delicately flavoured with coffee. It was a perfect example of the difficult and exacting made simple.
I was certainly eating better than any of the private eyes of fiction, I reflected. Philo Vance enjoyed beluga caviare on occasion but Miss Marple seldom seemed to be observed being served anything but tea and scones and Mike Hammer was so busy with women’s bodies—dead or alive—that he had no time for food except the infrequent cheeseburger. I excluded Nero Wolfe of course. Reaching 320 lbs. meant he ate a lot in addition to eating well.
The coffee came and I felt relief. At least we had progressed beyond the stage of the ill-fated earlier Circle of Careme dinner. Brandy and liqueurs came but I declined. I didn’t know exactly what was to come but I wanted to understand it to the fullest. Nelda raised an eyebrow at my abstinence and was about to make a pointed comment but Sam Beauregard asked a question comparing British and American press techniques and Nelda’s professionalism prevailed.
We were called to order and the speeches began. First Ted Wells thanked us for our attendance and made only fleeting reference to the previous dinner. He spoke of Per Larsson’s great service to the food industry in Britain and suggested that he be made an honorary member of the Circle. I gathered that this was a rarity.
A cabinet minister spoke briefly, decrying his own expertise in the matter but commending Per Larsson in the highest terms. Benjamin Breakspear rose to his feet and there were one or two carefully suppressed groans but he had evidently been carefully briefed because that is what he was—brief, however uncharacteristic.
Ellsburg Warrington, presumably one of the elder statesmen of the Circle, paid a short tribute and so did Leila Garrison, representing MAFF. Ted Wells wisely cut off one or two other attempts at speech-making and invited Per Larsson to say a few words.
He was gracious and highly appreciative of the honour paid him by such a circle of luminaries, he said. He continued, pointing out the tremendous strides made in recent years by British hoteliers and restaurateurs but acknowledging the support given by publishers, writers and food critics, inspectors, wholesalers and retailers, wine merchants … The list was long but he was careful to give credit to all. There was an echoing round of applause and Ted Wells smilingly said that if this were a musical concert there would be a dozen encores.
He thanked the assembly for its presence and then, just as the evening was about to break up, Ted made his almost casual announcement.
Would all those who had not been present at the previous Circle of Careme dinner at François’ restaurant, he asked, please adjourn to the next room where coffee and after dinner drinks would continue to be served.
All those who had been present were asked to remain seated for a few moments. There was renewed activity by the staff who were bringing more coffee and this effectively stifled any objections to the arrangements. Other staff herded those going to the next room so discreetly and swiftly that all the movements were completed as Inspector Ronald Hemingway and Sergeant Winifred Fletcher walked in.
The inspector looked neat and dapper in a dark suit and bow tie. Winnie looked demure but alluring in a linen suit of a dark burgundy colour with a white silk blouse. Her shoes matched the suit and her hair was blonde and alive.
All the staff disappeared. Ted Wells had moved those guests at the head table to adjoining tables, leaving the head table free. The inspector and Winnie took their places at it, standing alone and all eyes were upon them. One or two faint murmurs arose but died instantly as the doors were slammed one by one with an ominous finality.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
“I WON’T KEEP YOU long,” Hemingway said briskly. “There are just a few points to clear up.”
“Why?” called out Mike Spitalny loudly. “You have a confession.”
“Which covers the whole case,” agreed Hemingway. He paused for just the briefest part of a second before adding “—except for one or two things.”
“But why are you keeping us here?” asked Frankie Orlando. “What can we tell you?”
Inspector Hemingway’s expression was placating, almost benevolent. I knew he was at his most dangerous.
“That’s precisely the reason, Mr Orlando. You can tell me something—” he waved away the immediate protestation. “Perhaps not you specifically but several people in the room know some details. They may not be aware of their importance.”
From one side of the room came the carefully enunciated words of Johnny Chang.
“Inspector, you have talked to each one of us. We have told you all we know. How can we do more?”
There were murmurs of support for this but again the inspector calmed the objectors.
“If you’ll all just bear with me for a short time, we’ll have this over very quickly and you can all leave.”
I wondered if anyone else in the room beside Sergeant Fletcher was taking that assurance with a large pinch of salt.
“Mr St Leger,” called out the inspector and heads swivelled in that direction.
“Yes, Inspector?” He looked slightly nonplussed but answered readily enough.
“Would you tell the assembly how it all started as far as you are concerned?”
St Leger glanced around. He was silent for a moment then he said:
“I received a phone call. A man said that Le Trouquet d’Or was being run in a very sloppy way. He said it typified a deplorable decline in London restaurant standards.”
“This man did not identify himself?”
“No.”
A murmur ran around the room. Every member of the Circle felt themselves affected.
“What else did the man say?”
“He described mice being found in the kitchen, failure to order supplies properly, not keeping records…”
The murmurs grew louder.
“What did you do, Mr St Leger?” The inspector’s sharp tone reduced the murmurs to silence.
“I asked why the person was calling me. He said the public should know they were being taken advantage of—he said they should be made aware of unreasonable profits, unsanitary kitchens, callous practices. He said he had always admired my television programmes and thought I was the right person to do something about it.”
“And what did you do?”
St Leger rubbed his chin in what would have been embarrassment if he hadn’t been a television performer.
“I—er, talked to one or two people at the studio but they said that scheduling pressures meant they couldn’t give me another show just then.”
“So what did you do?” prompted Hemingway.
“I talked to IJ. It sounded like the kind of thing he might be interested in developing.”
“Was he interested?”
“He said he had programmes lined up for six months—suggested I talk to him again then.”
“You accepted that?”
“I said that the story might be in other hands by that time. This was an immediate issue.”
“His reply?”
“He said there was nothing he could do.”
“And then?”
“The next thing I knew was that he was asking questions about the restaurant business, hiring people—freelances, to dig around.”
“You approached him again?”
“Yes. He said he’d changed his mind, was going to give it a top priority. From what he said, I was sure that the same man had phoned him—he seemed to know even more than I did.”
Over to my left, François half-rose to his feet then changed his mind and sat down again. Hemingway’s strategy was clear—he wanted to get the opinions of all in the room on the statements they had all made t
o the police. Which of them would be in a position to contradict?
“What happened then?”
“He asked me if I wanted to help him.”
St Leger was clearly having a difficult time explaining what most of the room knew—that NTV wouldn’t give him a programme of his own and he was forced to accept a demeaning and probably subservient role to the demanding IJ.
To his credit, the inspector didn’t pursue the point. He switched his line of questioning.
“You agreed?”
Relieved, St Leger hurried to answer. “It was a good opportunity for me to get into the investigative side of television journalism.”
“So that you might eventually have the opportunity of replacing IJ?”
Aha, I thought. Now he’s zero’ing in.
“Yes.” St Leger’s relief tapered off as he realised the implications of what he was saying. “No, I didn’t mean that … all my recent experience has been in TV, naturally I wanted to explore other styles—”
“Quite so.” The inspector was urbane. “You were also looking into other career opportunities, I believe?”
“Well, yes.” St Leger was less buoyant now. He sounded reluctant to go on but the inspector’s silence was projected at him like a pressurising beam.
“I was approached by Larry Leopold—” St Leger’s mention of the name seized everyone’s attention immediately. “—it was concerning a chain of cooking schools. I had taught cooking on TV and Leopold said Le Trouquet d’Or wanted to sponsor a chain of schools all over the world, Europe, the U.S.A., Japan, Australia—”
François was really on his feet this time, shouting.
“I know nothing of this! I have never even considered cooking schools. This is not true!”
“It is true,” insisted St Leger.
“Then Leopold was acting entirely without my authority,” snapped François. “What proof do you have of this? A proposal? A contract? A business plan?”
“It—it was all verbal,” said St Leger weakly.
François sat down with a “I rest my case” gesture.
