by Nan Lyons
“Funny you should mean to ask.”
He waited for her to continue. “Yes?”
“No. I’m afraid not. No matter how sorely tempted I might be, let us say, while having my privacy, integrity, and patience abused. Not even in those circumstances would I consider using my knives as lethal weapons.” She shook her head. “Sad, but true.”
“And you say you came all the way from New York to cook at Buckingham Palace?”
“At a dinner the Queen”—she pointed to the picture on the wall—“that Queen, is giving tonight.”
“And the Palace actually asked you to come from New York?”
“I am actually being paid to do it”
“You were paid to come from New York to cook dinner at Buckingham Palace tonight,” he said, careful to avoid making it a question.
“Not dinner. Just dessert. I’m here to make the dessert.”
“You were paid to come from New York to make dessert at Buckingham Palace tonight?” he said, unable to control his voice from rising at the end of his sentence. “And that,” he added, as if he were satisfactorily answering his own question, “is why you have a case full of knives.”
“Thank Cod you understand.” Then she added, smiling, “Tovarich!”
He picked up the telephone quickly and dialed two digits. “Please come in at once,” he said and hung up immediately. He looked at Natasha and nodded, smiling as though he had seen her for the first time. He rose from his chair and said, “How do you do? I am Captain Henshaw, Airport Security.”
Without rising, she extended her arm to shake his hand. “How nice to meet you, Captain. I am Natasha O’Brien, Airport Insecurity.”
The door opened and a robust dark-haired woman in a blue uniform stepped inside. She closed the door smartly behind her.
“And this must be Mrs. Captain Henshaw, who helps you mind the airport.”
“This is our Miss Creighton,” he said. “She will …”
“She will not. Not one finger,” Natasha said, rising from her chair. Miss Creighton narrowed her eyes and leaned forward like a bulldog eying a fly. “I will not have Our Miss Creighton lay a finger on me. Nor will I continue this absurd interview. I’m exhausted from my trip. Do you know how much work I’ve had to do in preparation for this trip? Do you know how many columns I’ve had to write? Even on the plane. With coq au vin yet. No. I am exhausted. If carrying knives is a crime, or if you think you’ve found Jacqueline the Ripper, then charge me formally. Call Scotland Yard. And get me a lawyer. Otherwise, open that door and let me go.”
“Miss O’Brien, I’m merely trying to avoid making any formal charges or detain you any longer than absolutely necessary. I merely wish to examine your luggage, which we have every right to do, and our Miss Creighton will examine your person to be certain …”
“If you, and Our Miss Creighton, wish to be certain, Captain,” Natasha said, pointing to the picture on the wall, “call the Queen.”
Miss Creighton shot a glance at Henshaw and then narrowed her eyes again. How can Henshaw always spot the lunatics, she wondered.
“Miss O’Brien,” he began.
“That Queen. Of England.” Natasha turned to Miss Creighton. “C’mon,” she said impatiently, “you must know the number.”
Miss Creighton took one step forward, as though the pull on her lead had slackened for a moment. Bloody brilliant he is, she thought.
“Miss O’Brien, I would appreciate it if…”
“Captain, you will appreciate it if I do not charge you with kidnapping me. I am an American national detained against my will without sufficient cause. I am suffering a severe case of jet lag while on my way to serve Your Majesty, Her Majesty, Your Queen.” Natasha opened her purse. Both Henshaw and Creighton pulled back instinctively and then relaxed as they saw her take out an envelope. She handed Henshaw the invitation. “So call. Someone must be home.”
Silence. Like treacle. Then a throat-clearing from Henshaw. He folded the invitation neatly, placed it within her passport, and handed both to Miss Creighton, who, after receiving a nod from Henshaw, left the room to check Natasha’s credentials.
Henshaw looked at Natasha, smiled quickly, and asked, “What is it you’re making for dessert?”
“La Bombe Richelieu.”
“Oh.”
“It’s made with chocolate ice cream, whipped cream, orange peel, almonds, raspberry ices, liqueur, and spun sugar.”
“Indeed.”
Pause.
“Yes.”
Pause.
“Actually, Captain, you use over a dozen egg yolks.”
“Over a dozen.”
Pause.
“And tons of heavy cream.”
“Sounds interesting.”
“It’s a specialty of mine. I created it.”
“I see.” Then, after a moment, “It doesn’t sound overly complicated.”
“It’s not. Would you like the recipe for your wife?”
“It doesn’t even sound as though there were very much … uh, cutting up of things.”
“Not really. Once you’ve slivered the almonds, and peeled the oranges. Actually, it’s become rather a bore for me to make. That’s how easy it is.”
“Then,” he said, slowly rising from his chair, raising his voice with every word until he was shouting, “would you please tell me why the hell you had to be paid to come from New York with all your bloody knives to make a dessert that my wife could have made?”
The door opened. Miss Creighton entered briskly. She nodded affirmatively to Henshaw and handed Natasha her passport. Natasha smiled, and stood up to leave.
“Tell me, Miss O’Brien,” Henshaw said, his voice hardly above a whisper, “do they do this sort of thing often at the Palace?”
Natasha picked up her luggage. “Only when they run out of Jell-O.”
The ruby-red Rolls-Royce Silver Shadow sedan stopped at the Trade Gate of Buckingham Palace. A mustachioed, scarlet-coated officer glanced at the black chauffeur and walked immediately to the rear of the car. He bent over to look in at Natasha. She rolled down her window.
“Good day, Miss O’Brien. We’ve been expecting you. Hope you had a pleasant trip.” Without waiting for a reply, he changed his tone. “Driver, please take the lady to the door immediately ahead and then return through this gate.”
Rudolph glanced at her in the mirror. They raised their eyebrows simultaneously and prepared to share an adventure. A bellow from the officer. “You may open the gate.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” Another toy soldier unlatched the gates and drew back first one side and then the other. The officer nodded to Rudolph that he might proceed.
De Mille himself could not have helped being impressed. The door was only some five hundred feet away, but crossing the gravel was to step through The Looking Class. Each crunch of tire on stone crushed away reality. Ordinary objects that came into view—a door frame, a shrub, a fallen leaf—became subject to comparison with their counterparts in the real world. But it was mostly The Silence onto which everything else intruded. The car moving. The car stopping. Rudolph opening the door. The crunch of his steps as he walked around to open Natasha’s door. She stepped out and held on to his arm for a moment. She looked at the Palace facade, staring as though she had never before seen its likeness. Pussycat, pussycat, where have you been?
Rudolph put her alligator case in front of the entrance. She smiled at him. There was nothing to be said, even if either of them had dared break the silence. He nodded and walked to the car. She heard the last of his steps as she turned to the door, PLEASE RING BELL.
An overly freckled, red-haired young man in blue-striped overalls appeared almost immediately. “Sorry to keep you waiting, miss. I’ll take you to your room.” He spoke with a soft Irish brogue.
“Thank you, but I’m here to cook. …”
“Yes, miss. La Bombe Richelieu it’s to be.”
The small foyer in which they stood was painted with cream
-colored glossy enamel. The floors were tiled in black-and-white vinyl checkerboard squares. Above them, at overextended intervals, were large illuminated globes hung from the ceiling on heavy brass chains. The glow they produced had a very yellow cast, unlike American indoor lighting. Natasha felt as though she had checked into a resort on the Irish coast.
They walked down a hallway comprised of closed, numbered doors. A white-haired woman in a starched white dress with a starched blue apron and a starched blue cap came stiffly toward her.
“I am Mrs. Wooley,” she said in a crashingly firm voice.
“And I’m La Bombe Richelieu,” Natasha answered, smiling. The women shook hands. “I am pleased to meet you, Mrs. Wooley.”
“You must be tired from your journey, Miss O’Brien. Simon will show you to a room where you may freshen up. When you’re ready, please ring the bell and we’ll take you downstairs.”
Natasha followed Simon along another corridor of closed, numbered doors. No, it was more like checking into an orphanage.
“Here we are, miss.” Simon stopped in front of No. 37. He took a large ring of keys from a hook on his belt and unlocked the door. The room was all glossy white enamel. The bed was framed by a white enamel headboard. A white enamel wooden chair sat next to a white enamel table. A vase of fresh red roses offered the only color in the room.
Simon turned on the light for her. Then he opened a closet to show her a white uniform, white apron, and white hat. “If these don’t fit, miss, please ring and Mrs. Wooley will change them.” Natasha walked to the closet and handed the dress to Simon.
“Will you please ask Mrs. Wooley for a pair of trousers size twenty-four and jacket to match.”
“But…”
“I can squeeze into a twenty-two.”
“Thank you, miss.” Simon closed the door behind him.
Natasha walked to the roses. There was a card. “You are the perfect ending to my favorite dinner. As always, A.” She looked at her watch and subtracted five hours. Goddamn it, it was too early to think about La Bombe Richelieu, no less to begin separating eggs in some strange kitchen. She smiled. Some Strange Kitchen. Hell, she was going to play the Palace!
Mrs. Wooley was clearly displeased as they walked along the corridor on the lower level. The kitchens of Buckingham were unsuited to young women in trousers. Yet, it would have been unspeakably rude to insult the dessert.
“The Royal Family have their private suites in the North Wing,” Mrs. Wooley announced, almost as much to reassure herself as to attempt civility with The American.
The corridors on the lower level had fluorescent lighting and the floors were tiled in a predominantly black multicolored marble pattern. The walls were the same glossy cream enamel. Men in blue-striped overalls were counting the crates of vegetables that lined the passageway. “Our vegetables are grown on the grounds of Windsor Castle and are picked fresh daily. Excesses are sold to tradesmen at Covent Garden.” Natasha already knew this, having gone with Louis on his early-morning shopping. The Royal garden shipments were reserved generally for the deluxe hotels where the deluxe cooks were fanatic about freshly picked vegetables. Since it was not permitted to advertise the source of the produce, none of the other buyers at Covent Garden could capitalize on the lineage of their carrots.
As they passed boxes of flowers being unpacked, Mrs. Wooley continued her narration. “Flowers are grown also in the Royal sheds and are sent down daily. We even grow our own Christmas trees.”
“Does Her Majesty …” Natasha began hesitantly.
“Yes?”
“Does Her Majesty really drink orange juice with every meal?”
“The door on your left leads to the royal meat and game larders. The birds shot at Balmoral and Sandringham are kept in the basement refrigerators. There is also a large glass tank filled with fresh water and stocked with spotted trout from Loch Muick.”
“I’ve also heard that salad is served as a first course.”
“Mr. Cantrell, the Royal Chef, has asked that I extend to you every courtesy and suggested I show you the service hall before taking you to the kitchen.”
“I mean, does she drink orange juice with things like pâté, or oysters?”
The corridor they turned into had a series of amber, red, and green lights along the walls. It was as though Natasha had just stepped onto a movie set. There were men carrying white satin knee breeches and scarlet frock coats. White silk stockings were being sorted in one of the rooms off the corridor, and some young men carrying blue vests with gold lace were being lectured to by a scarlet-nosed character out of Dickens.
“When the amber lights flash you will be in position for serving. Green lights will go on for commence of the service, as we have rehearsed. You are to stop dead in your tracks if the red light flashes. No one is to move if the red light flashes. Now that’s all you have to remember. Look at the lights, gentlemen, and try to forget you are fugitives from a Wimpy Bar.”
Natasha looked at Mrs. Wooley, who explained. “The Palace Steward stands behind Her Majesty in the dining room and is able to see the progress of the meal. At the appropriate time, he presses the buttons that alert the under-butlers, pages, and footmen for presentation or removal of each course. Since many of them are not permanent staff, the traffic lights were installed to ensure proper timing of the service. You have no idea how difficult it is to find experienced help. Everyone wants to be a film star these days.”
Butterflies. In her stomach, the unbelievable reality of where she was. And the absurdity. In a few hours men in white stockings would be serving her dessert to the Queen of England. Eat your heart out, Betty Crocker.
Mrs. Wooley turned and led Natasha through a service area. “We’ll be using the Queen’s kitchen today. The Royal kitchens are reserved for state banquets.” From the service area could be seen the preparations room, with its white tiled walls and long white tables running the length of the room. Kitchen workers in blue-striped overalls were cleaning vegetables and cutting joints of meat. There were the familiar sounds of steel against wood and the constant running of water.
In the working kitchen were stoves, electric ovens, and refrigerators in an unbroken line against the far wall. The equipment was a combination of modern and stone age. Blue cupboards lined the other walls and an open door showed shelf upon shelf of gleaming copper. Commanding one corner all for itself was an enormous juicer on a special table. To the right of the working kitchen was the pastry kitchen, in which Natasha would spend the next six hours.
The Royal Chef came out of his office. He was a very tall man with a very large nose and a very small mustache. “Miss O’Brien,” he began with his Continental accent, “I am Phillipe Cantrell and I welcome you to our kitchens.”
“Dare I proceed without a green light flashing?” she asked, walking toward him.
“Ah. Mrs. Wooley has given you the Cook’s tour.”
“Literally.”
“Yes, a house joke. But you must be tired from your journey.”
“And hungry. What are the chances for a Royal BLT down?”
He smiled. “You will forgive that I cannot myself prepare something for you,.but I am sure Mrs. Wooley…”
“I’m only kidding. But I would love some coffee.” She looked at the juicer in the comer. “And perhaps some orange juice, if you have any.”
“If I have any?” Phillipe raised his hands. “You would not believe the juice A Certain Someone consumes.” He lowered his voice. “With everything.” Natasha smiled at Mrs. Wooley. Phillipe opened the book he carried under his arm and took out the list of ingredients Natasha had sent to him weeks ago. “We have everything ready for you. That is, if you do not mind that I did the buying for you?”
“Of course not. I trust you implicitly.”
“Thank you. I will assign …” Phillipe was interrupted by shouting from the preparations kitchen. Natasha recognized the voice, and in a moment Louis rushed through the door, throwing mushrooms into the air. He
wore a white uniform, and his toque hid a head of thick gray hair. A big man with craggy features, Louis looked younger and thinner than a few months ago, when Natasha had last seen him. She thought of how she loved the silver hair on his chest.
“You. Herr Royal Chef. You call these champignons? In thirty years I have not seen such an assortment of fungus. Do you expect me to cook them or cure them?” He had not noticed Natasha.
“Louis, they are Windsor mushrooms. The best in the Empire.”
“Which is not to say much for the Empire. Ach du lieber, I should have done my own buying.” Louis turned to Natasha, considering at first only the presence of another person to whom he could plead his case. Then recognition. “Mon oignon,” he drawled, opening his arms wide and embracing her as the mushrooms dropped to the floor.
Mrs. Wooley and Phillipe looked at one another with raised eyebrows. Oblivious to the chopping and simmering, sautéeing and fileting, Louis and Natasha began to rock from side to side. Silently embracing. She kissed his ear, bit it gently, and then whispered, “Poor darling, nobody knows the truffles you’ve seen.”
Dear Sex Object:
I hope your baby blues fall out trying to read this note since it’s being written under duress, under a hysterical “fasten seat belts” sign, and under the movie. If God had meant woman to fly, She would have …
No matter, heartless wonder. I have once again surmounted all odds. Enclosed is “Sex and the Sommelier,” the last column due you. It (like me) is too damn good for you. Or Sulzberger’s yellow rag. It (the column) (my last) (I swear on your nonexistent agent’s heart) (HEY—I just did three parentheses in a row!) (Are your toes curling, love?) (Six) I forgot what I was going to say. Oh. About the enclosed column.
AVISO—1) No cutesy subheads without my approval; 2) I have final say on all shots to be used—no matter how The Blue Fairy stamps his pointy little feet; 3) Better to cut your hairy wrists than to cut one line of my copy.
How sweet of you to send me a bon voyage bottle of NONVINTAGE champagne! Château Cheapeau has long been one of my very favorites. Haven’t the months with me taught you ANYTHING?
