by Nan Lyons
The only thing I still owe you (literally, precious) is the script for the Good Morning Show. I don’t know why they object to using film from the demonstration I’ll be doing at Harrods next week. Hell, if my dessert is good enough for the Queen, it should be good enough for Miss Co-Host. Yes, I know. They want a “liberated lady something.” Not that I ain’t one of your leading LL’s, but Fannie Farmer wasn’t exactly a blot on the nation. (Don’t tell Gloria.)
So what else is new? I’m glancing at my “month-at-a-glance” calendar and I’ve xxx’d out everything for the next two weeks, except for the aforementioned TV thing. (To be titled A Quiche in the Dark? Or Moule Over Miami?) Caramba, I haven’t had this much free time in years. And I’m going to have FUN, FUN, FUN.
Even if it kills me, kills me, kills me.
All right. So I’m sitting here, five miles above terra firma, and can’t stop thinking earthbound thoughts. Somebody ought to do a paper about the effects of pressurized cabins on The Guilts. No wonder the astronauts turned to Tang.
In support then, of better mental health, here’s the latest list of my priorities. Here’s what I really want to do:
1. Set up that cooking school for kids. If the church can get them while they’re young, why not me, too? (I know, because I’m not HER.)
2. Get on the Susskind show. I want to chew the fat with Jackie O’s ex-liver-chopper, who says that if Escoffier lived today he would use margarine.
3. Get started on the eagerly awaited second edition of You Are What You Eat, my electrifying best seller. But this time, nobody but yours truly tests the recipes and the Yogurt Maven at your favorite publisher’s had better keep her dentures shut. (Didn’t you know she wore dentures? I heard she lost her teeth trying to eat the shells on her steamers.)
4. Paint my apartment. Laugh, but I cannot bear those white walls. I’m just not a vanilla personality. I’d never serve mashed potatoes and cauliflower on the same plate, so why should I have an all-white apartment? WHY? WHY? WHY? A lot you care.
5. Cancel my magazine column. But I know that I can’t because you have to pay the seltzer man, and I should endure it with my other monthly curse. It’s just that I don’t believe anybody really cooks my recipes. Especially not when I’ve got a quarter page and Shake ’n Bake has three-quarters of the same page. But who knows? Maybe that’s why people ride airplanes but also buy flight insurance. I warn you, you’ll have a hassle trying to convince me to renew that contract.
Not just because I’m getting closer to London with each air pocket, but I do keep thinking about Achille’s offer. Mainly because as editor of LUCULLUS, I could trust my audience. I know, I know, how could I give IT ALL up and move to London? Maybe I can’t. Maybe it’s just the Château Cheapeau talking. (I had to drink it all myself because I was too ashamed to offer it to any of my companions in first class—which reminds me, they are definitely not all first-class companions.)
Maybe I should give IT ALL up and get married? Have kids? A shaggy dog? A station wagon? Or shall I continue my life as a gastronomic Evel Knievel? Jumping across flaming éclairs, leaping tall babkas in a single bound?
No, I do not subscribe to your therapist Norman’s theory that these are the after-the-divorce blues. I don’t really think Max and I were ever really married. Or at least, I wasn’t ever really married to him.
Anyway, just because I’m having a holiday is no reason for you to sit back on your ten percent. I expect to come back and scream at you because there won’t be enough time to handle all the glamorous assignments you’ve snared for me. So much for What Makes Natasha Run.
Do you think Paul Newman is really in love with Robert Redford? They’re right above me on the screen. I can’t hear what they’re saying, but it looks kinda suspicious.
Speaking of sex symbols, I do miss you, puss. Not all of you, mind. Just the important part.
Kisses. All over it.
N.
Chapter 3
The deep-blue Phantom Mark V Rolls-Royce turned the corner into Oxford Street. Maximilian Ogden lit an American cigarette. King-sized, filter-tipped, and mentholated. He inhaled deeply, and prematurely tapped the end of his cigarette into the ashtray.
“All right, Flanners. Let’s knock off the Wimpy Bar on Wardour Street, and the Kentucky Pancake House near Leicester Square.”
“Yes, sir,” the chauffeur answered. “In that sequence?”
“Surprise me.” Max sat back and brushed an ash from his camel’s-hair coat. He was dressed in a gray flannel suit with deep side vents in the jacket His tie was pearl gray and he wore a gray-and-white-striped shirt with white collar and cuffs. He watched his reflection in the tinted window glass and thought he looked rather British. The graying temples, the large nose. Like Edward the something-or-other.
“You see, sir,” Flanners began after an appropriate interval, “I’m afraid we’re only around the corner from Wardour Street and in order to surprise you …”
“Around the corner?” Max asked without averting his eyes from the long-legged, miniskirted girl keeping pace with the car. “Now, that is a surprise, Flanners. You’ve done it again,” he said, winking at his Oxford Circus appassionata.
“Well, yes, rather,” muttered Flanners as he changed lanes and turned the corner.
These would be their last two stops. Mainly, to be certain they hadn’t burned down the night before he mailed his report. And also because it was too early for his appointment with Achille.
Max’s report to his board of directors at American Good Foods Products Enterprises was actually written on the flight over from Chicago, between the evening filet and the morning Rice Krispies. His analysis of quality-standards maintenance in a chain operation was lifted from a confidential study he had once made while moonlighting for the Israel Discount Bank when it was interested in underwriting a chain of kosher pizzerias.
His stopover in London was really unnecessary, because he already knew the precise spot he wanted for his first H. Dumpty omelette restaurant. But being there would give him a chance to see Natasha for the first time since their divorce became final.
“Wimpy Bar, sir. Surprise!”
Max looked out the window and stared into the half-empty premises. Some shopgirls on their way to a matinée, two Americans vying for the tomato-shaped ketchup dispenser, and a Jesus freak arguing with the turbaned Indian waiter. Typical. Probably they hadn’t served a dozen burgers in the past two hours and the cook was either dozing in the men’s room or else giggling over a year-old copy of Playboy.
“All right, Flanners. If you please.”
“The usual, sir?”
“Yes. But this time with onion.”
“Certainly, sir.”
Flanners stepped out of the car, pulled on his gloves with a snap, angled his cap, and stepped into the Wimpy Bar. He walked directly to the turbaned waiter and repeated nearly the same order he had given at least twenty times earlier that day. Flanners had become a pro and didn’t even glance nervously out at the car any more. He had accepted (somewhere around the fourth or fifth trip) that he and the American would be chasing hamburgers all day and threw himself, the matador from Maida Vale, into the sport. A few moments later he returned to the car.
“The cook was an earnest cockney, sir. The grill was reasonably clean, although the mustard and ketchup containers were rather grimy. The waiter short-changed me and never asked whether salt or pepper was required.”
“Flanners, you’re brilliant,” Max said, gingerly taking the bag from him through the open window. “You’ve all the makings of a first-rate industrialist.”
“Kind of you to say, sir. It’s been rather an adventure.”
“Well, I guess it beats waiting for fat ladies at Fortnum’s. Now let’s examine the damage.”
Max pulled down the teak desk in front of him. He reached into the bag and took out a hamburger wrapped in a grease-stained paper napkin. He opened the napkin and noted the hamburger bun had been cut with a dull knife that p
ulled mercilessly at its top half. He took the top half off, careful not to soil his hands on the meat. The hamburger was depressingly flat, except for its concave center filled with grease. Holding the bottom of the bun, he flipped the hamburger onto the napkin. The slice of onion was cut evenly enough, but its outer rings were slightly shriveled from being left uncovered on a plate in the kitchen. Indeed, the entire onion, although spotted with rapidly coagulating grease and meat juice, was so dry that its inner rings had begun to separate. The thin membrane that held the petals together had dried completely. Testing the onion was a shrewd touch, he thought. Pity the report had already been written.
The inside bottom of the bun showed a smudge of dirt or rust, either from the cutting knife or from the underside of the metal turner. On the outside bottom of the bun, he saw telltale white spots that identified a careless baker who had not mixed his flour well enough. He reassembled the hamburger, careful to handle it as little as possible, put it back into the bag, and handed it to Flanners.
“For your collection.”
“Thank you, sir.” Flanners had neatly arranged some twenty bags on the floor in the front. Although he hadn’t been instructed to do so, he had written on each bag the time and location of the purchase. If a job is worth doing …
Max rolled down the window and took a small can of non-scented deodorant from the cabinet above the desk. He sprayed the air, and used a damp cloth to refresh his hands. No unsung genius in that hamburger kitchen.
Flanners stopped in front of the brightly neoned Kentucky Pancake House. Max motioned that he needn’t get out.
“Just looking, Flanners.” Two cooks stood in a window where the grills had been placed so that passers-by could witness the birth of each pancake. For some bizarre reason, the cooks had pressed down their tall white hats into a semiberet style. Their toques touched their ears and cheeks, and were totally flat on top. It angered Millie that some dumb manager hadn’t understood that height was needed to circulate the air. He wasn’t annoyed with the cooks, because he didn’t expect they would understand anything.
“You ever eat here, Flanners?”
“Never,” he replied, as though Commander Whitehead had just inquired about Pepsi-Cola.
“Good show,” Max said, smiling at him. “And now on to Curzon Street, please.”
No. 85 Curzon Street was a remodeled town house with bright-red shutters. An oval brass plate in finest Edwardian script identified the premises, LUCULLUS, it said, without saying nearly enough.
Max opened the bright-red door and was greeted by a blast of cold air. He smiled as he recalled Achille’s comment that the Colosseum was the only properly ventilated structure in Europe.
A brisk “Good morning” came across the Regency table that served as a reception desk. The striking blonde smiled at him rather too professionally.
“You’re new,” Max told her.
“Miss Benson is on leave,” she answered, unsettled by his familiarity.
“She’s not pregnant again?”
The girl with the banana-colored hair smiled. Miss Benson was in her sixties. “May I help you?”
“Could be.” Max sat down on the table, which had only a blank pad and a pink-feathered ball-point pen. “But first I have to see Mr. Wonderful. Tell the boss Millie Ogden is here.”
“Millie?”
“Short for Mildred.”
She picked up the phone, staring at him, and dialed. “Mr. Mildred Ogden to see Mr. van Golk. Yes, Mildred. Well, that’s what he said ”
Her eyes narrowed menacingly as she told him he might go upstairs. Max thanked her, smiled, blew a kiss, and walked into the small gold brocade elevator.
“Mildred, indeed,” Miss Beauchamp said, opening the elevator doors. “But I am pleased to see you, Mr. Ogden. And not only because you’re sure to upset His Nibs.”
“From you that’s a real compliment Have you begun to lust after me, Beauchamp?”
“The way I lust after the plague,” she snapped. They turned the book-lined corridor and faced the etched-glass-and-copper swinging door that Achille had brought from a restaurant kitchen in Cannes. “I should tell you,” she said, nodding at the gleaming door, “he’s not been too well. I was hoping you might be rather discreet about it.”
“How is Estella?”
“Mrs. van Golk, from what I gather, is in a decline.”
Max looked at her, sensing the sincere concern she felt He stared for a moment. “Tell me,” he said softly, looking her squarely in the eyes, “have your breasts grown larger? They seem to be a different shape from …”
She closed her eyes in resignation, pointed to the door, and turned away. Max smiled, remembering how Natasha had kicked him in the shins for that remark. He pushed open the door and found Achille lying flat on his back atop a maroon leather chaise.
The office walls were covered with panels of brushed chrome with large brass nailheads. The floor was carpeted in red broad-loom over which was centered a multicolored oriental rug. Red velvet drapes framed the floor-to-ceiling windows. The furniture was Regency. The vases and lamps and wall hangings were Chinese. One entire wall was covered with framed photographs of Achille eating in various restaurants. Each picture was autographed by the chef.
“Ah, the cupcake king,” Achille muttered without opening his eyes. “Tell me, how many rat hairs are you now permitted to include in each frozen waffle?”
“I’m here because I ran short of rat hairs. Achille, you’re looking dreadful.”
“I have been given five minutes to live, having consumed an immature Lafite at lunch. Good of you to share my final breaths with me.”
“You know, Achille, if I didn’t know you better…”
“Yes?”
“I would probably love you. You did get my letter?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
“But I didn’t read it.”
“Achille. Can you be of help to me?” His voice was impatient.
“Of course I can be of help to you. You needn’t have left your tin can to find that out. Indeed, who was responsible for your rise as one of the finest maîtres in Europe? Didn’t I guide your career as though you were my own son? From Marseilles to Zurich to Vienna to …”
“Achille …”
“It was my hope we would someday open a restaurant that would surpass anything Europe has ever seen. Instead, you’ve become more corrupt than seedless grapes.”
“American Good Foods is …”
“American Good Foods is a purveyor of cyclamates, nitrates, and saccharin. How many smiling American children have you poisoned this week?”
“Achille, I’m sorry if you can’t understand that I like my work. I really do like flip-top boxes, and stay-seals, and frozen foods, and instant mixes. They are highly creative. And fun. And, unlike any restaurant kitchen, clean.”
“And cleanliness is next to profits. That’s the American way of life, isn’t it?”
“Will you help me?”
“You do know that Natasha is here?”
“Here?”
“In London.”
“I know.”
“She’s sleeping with Louis.”
“Terrific.”
“I thought you would want to know. I thought it my duty to tell you. Now, you see, I have been of help to you.”
“Achille, I need a cook.”
“For your H. Dumpty omelette brothels? Never.”
“Don’t you understand that one good cook at a place like H. Dumpty can improve things for thousands? Why is it that you people think you’re running an exclusive club?”
“Kindly refrain from referring to me as a crowd.”
“You know what I mean. You and Natasha sneer at the poor slobs who live on hot dogs but you won’t give them a chance for something better. Help me hire someone really good. Give the poor slobs a fighting chance.”
“How does The Seven Apostles Delicatessen sound? You know, Max, you’re too old for this. And I have
my hands full keeping ‘the club,’ as you put it, on its toes. Why, you should have tasted the Bordelaise they tried palming off at Montebello’s. Dear boy, don’t ask a crêpe to become a flapjack.”
A pause. Both men unmoving. Then slowly, almost majestically, Achille put his legs over the edge of the chair and raised himself. He stood up and looked at Max for the first time.
“I still love you, dear boy. But I can’t contribute to your ptomaine temple. It appalls me. Like glass skyscrapers and one-size-fits-all. It’s an inhuman, synthetic endeavor.”
Max smiled. “You’re a dying breed, Achille.”
“Yes, I know,” he said. And then, smiling broadly, “But do call me for lunch before you go to Paris. I’ve found a place that serves frozen turbot and canned peas.”
The two men shook hands. They held on to each other for a long moment. “How is Estella?” Max asked. Achille withdrew his hand and shook his head. Max turned and closed the door behind him. No sooner had he taken two steps than Miss Beauchamp approached him.
“No whiplashes visible.”
“You know,” he said, ringing for the elevator, “you’ve really got TNT.”
“And just what does that mean?” she asked warily.
“Two Nifty Tits.”
CONFIDENTIAL
Hiram Baby,
As I said on the Don Ameche, get your arse on a plane and walk to the corner of Piccadilly and Haymarket. Throw your eyes two shops down and just look at that army surplus store. Eggs-actly what we want!
Since the three most important factors in a successful restaurant of this type are location, location, and location (in that order), you’ll find that I’m not eggs-aggerating in my enthusiasm for this spot. Yes, I got the option, for only one month though, so we must get our eggs-perts on it pronto.
O.K. I’ll stop eggs-asperating you. But you must admit there’s a certain charm to my boyish enthusiasm. Indeed, I even bowled over old Achille. For all his sophistication, he was quite taken with H. Dumpty and suggested we might even want to open in Chelsea at the same time. Even better, he suggested that Louis Kohner (a cook I’ve known for some years) might be ready for a change and if we can make the price high enough, we might be able to catch ourselves a really big fish. (I told you it would be a good idea to stop off in London.) Kohner was in the Austrian army during WWII and was assigned to the kitchen. Well, the poor schnook learned a trade in spite of himself and potted around Vienna (Ha Ha) after the war before landing a job at Demel’s (translation: the world’s most fattening tearoom, with a very justified reputation for the best pastry anywhere). Louis married, but had no kids. His wife was also a cook and they decided to take a job in Brussels. From there to Brighton, and then the Savoy in London. (How’s that for some nifty PR? SAVOY CHEF TO DIRECT NEW OMELETTERIA CHAIN.) The only problem is that there was some personal trouble when he and his wife split up (she’s still in Brighton) and he’s a little meshuga over the whole thing.
