by Nan
“I see. But it is very late for lunch and it is very early for dinner.”
“I know. But I am very hungry.”
“Pardon, Monsieur. I am not certain I understand. Are you telling me you are hungry and that is why you have come to Chez Gustave?”
“You got it!”
The maître shrugged. It was though someone had told him deux and deux equal cinq. “You have come to Chez Gustave because you are hungry?” he repeated incredulously.
“I’m starving! I really need something to eat.”
“You must pardon me, Monsieur, but if you need something to eat there are many bistros and cafés that are in business to feed the hungry.”
“But that’s what I came here for. I want you to sell me some cooked food that I can sit down here and eat.”
“I am afraid that is impossible.”
“I want to speak to the manager,” Clifford said.
“So do I!” The maître signaled in back of him. In a moment, Jacques Mertens walked briskly toward Clifford. Jacques was a large, gregarious man who greeted him as though he were a long-lost friend.
“Monsieur,” Jacques offered. “How may I help you?”
“How do you do?” Clifford said, shaking hands with him. “I am a very rich hungry man. I have spent the afternoon pricing a convent.”
Jacques nodded to the maître. “Then you must wish some refreshment.”
“Boy, do I! But I am afraid I do not have a reservation.”
“I believe I can find you a table, Monsieur. We are not yet at capacity. The hour is early.”
“Terrific,” Clifford said, following Jacques down the steps to the empty dining room. “Except there is one thing you must remember.”
“Monsieur?”
“I want only the best. Money is no object. What do you think such a dinner would cost?”
“Monsieur, it will depend. The wine. The entrée. Mon Dieu, the cognac alone could cost five hundred francs.”
Clifford reached into his pocket and took out three hundred dollars in traveler’s checks. He signed them and handed them to Jacques. “I don’t want to discuss cost anymore. I am hungry and thirsty and I want to have the best dinner my money can buy.”
“Of course, Monsieur. But there is one final question of a monetary nature.”
“Very well,” Clifford said testily. “What is it?”
“Do you wish the amount you have given me to include service?”
“Jesus.” Clifford took a deep breath. “Yes. I want the three hundred dollars to include tips. I will not under any circumstances give you one penny more, and I expect you will provide me with value to the penny.”
Jacques smiled. “Please do not be upset, Monsieur. It is always best in these matters to understand the limitations under which we work.”
Clifford gritted his teeth and followed as Jacques led the way to a table in the corner. Once settled in, Jacques opened a napkin and offered it. Clifford nodded. He looked up and smiled. “So, what’s cooking?”
Jacques drew himself up. “First, may I suggest an apéritif?”
“Yes, you may.”
Jacques sighed. “Perhaps Lillet. Or Kir. Or even Kir au Champagne.”
“Champagne?”
“Yes. Of course, the cassis ruins the champagne, but if you prefer bubbles, then that is more important than the taste of the champagne.”
“Which would you suggest?”
“For myself, I would have white wine with a twist of orange peel.”
“That sounds terrific.”
“You will have that?”
“Absolutely.”
“Très bien.”
Clifford reached up and grabbed his arm. “How much does it cost?”
“How must does it cost?” Jacques asked in horror.
“Listen, I just want to make sure you don’t stick me with a two-hundred-and-fifty-dollar drink.”
Jacques was speechless. “The apéritif will be, as you say, on the house.”
“Nice.” Clifford nodded his head in approval.
“For your hors d’oeuvre, I might suggest a Tourte Quercynoise—a tart of minced morels, sliced truffles and poached foie gras of duck baked in a silken custard. Or perhaps one of our famous truffle dishes, Truffes à la Serviette, in which whole truffles are served on toast with a Port wine sauce, all wrapped in a napkin.”
“Sounds good, but very messy for the napkin.”
“Then, there is Truffes en Feuilletage, in which the fresh truffle is covered with a foie gras mousse and wrapped in ham before being baked in a puff-pastry envelope. And of course, we are privileged to offer Truffes Fraîches sous la Cendre, in which very large truffles are cooked in Port, rolled in foie gras, wrapped in a half puff pastry and cooked under the ashes of a wood fire.”
“I see.”
Jacques cleared his throat and sighed. “Naturally, if you do not like truffles, you might prefer our Mousse de Grives au Genièvre.”
“Now, that sounds good!”
“It is a mousse of grape-fed thrushes mixed with juniper berries and goose fat.” He waited and then continued. “Pâté de Merles is made with one hundred boned Corsican blackbirds and lard.” Clifford raised his hand to signal he’d heard enough. “Of course, if you prefer, there is always tomato juice.”
“Aha!” Clifford said, smiling for the first time. “I knew you were saving the good stuff for last. I’ll have a nice glass of tomato juice with a quarter of a Sunkist lemon.”
“Do you wish a large glass, Monsieur?” he asked haughtily.
“Better not,” Clifford said confidentially. “I don’t want to spend it all on the hors d’oeuvre.”
“To follow, I would suggest our Brochet a l’Ardennaise—slices of poached pike covered with match-stick slices of ham and coated with a cream-and-butter sauce enriched with champagne. Or you might prefer our Marinière de Brochet Charolaise, which is a matelote of pike in a superb sauce of cream, cognac and Worcestershire sauce.”
“That’s what I want,” Clifford said. Jacques sighed with relief. “I want some Worcestershire sauce with my tomato juice.”
“Of course.”
“And I don’t expect to be charged extra for that!”
“Our Quenelles de Brochet are served with a sauce Nantua. The dumplings of pike are poached—” Clifford shook his head No. “Perhaps a Mousselines de Brochet Florentine, in which individual molded pike mousses are put on a bed of spinach—”
“Spinach? Ugh!”
“We have today a Matelote d’Anguilles à la Lyonnaise.”
“I think I had that yesterday.”
“It is stew in which eel is cooked in both red and white wine.”
“No, I must be thinking of something else.” Clifford picked up the menu and opened it. “God, I’m hungry! What’s this?” he asked pointing to Poularde Dauphinoise.
“It is one of the house specialties. We force truffle slices under the skin of a chicken . . .”
“Not bad.”
“. . . stuff it with foie gras . . .”
“Getting better.”
“. . . and then carefully fit the chicken into a pig’s bladder—”
“Next!”
Jacques sighed, trying not to lose his patience. “We received a special award from the Académie Culinaire de Paris for our casserole of kidneys cooked with vegetables and anchovies. The Tournedos Curnonsky are topped with a thick slice of poached beef marrow.” Clifford shook his head. “You might prefer our Lapere aux Sautés au Romarin et aux Girolles, which is a superb fricassee of rabbit—”
“Rabbit?”
“Rabbit,” Jacques, said, curling his lip.
“You mean bunny?” Clifford sat back in his chair. “You people eat bunnies here?”
“Monsieur, perhaps Chez Gustave is not the place for—”
“I’m sorry. Please. Go ahead.”
“You would most likely, then, not enjoy Lièvre?”
“What is it?”
�
�Hare.”
“As in Tortoise and the . . .?” Jacques nodded Yes. “No. That whole family is out. I also do not like rat. I never have. Try as I may to develop a taste for it.”
“Tripe?” Clifford shook his head No. “Beef tongue?” Clifford shook his head No. “A sirloin steak in wine sauce?”
“Now, tell me about that one.”
“We cook the steak in renderings of pork belly and coat it with a sauce of garlic, shallots, thyme, bay leaf, parsley stalks and wine.” Clifford signaled thumbs up. “And then, this delicious sauce is thickened with fresh chicken blood.”
Clifford held up his hand again. He looked around the room in order to find the entrance to the kitchen. He took a deep breath and yelled toward the swinging doors, “Hold the T.J.!” He stood up and threw the napkin on his plate.
Jacques knew there was trouble ahead. “Chez Gustave is a three-star restaurant frequented by royalty and gourmets from throughout the world.”
“Well, you’re sure as hell right about one thing.”
“Monsieur?”
“Nobody comes here when they’re hungry.”
“Our guests come here to dine, not to eat.”
“Well, not this guest, pal. Give me back my three hundred bucks.”
“With pleasure, Monsieur,” Jacques said bitterly. “Perhaps you would find the food at Pam-Pam or Pizza Pino’s more to your liking.”
“I would find the food at the Paris Zoo more to my liking! So this is the big number, eh? This is what Emma says I’ve been missing? This is what growing up is all about?”
“I am sorry Monsieur did not find anything to his pleasure here,” Jacques said snidely.
Clifford snatched back his traveler’s checks. “Well, this is one thing I’m gonna find to my pleasure,” he said, carefully putting them back into his wallet. “And here’s another!” Clifford swung around and punched him in the mouth. “This is from me and the rest of the kids in Never-Never Land!”
Jacques fell to the floor and was immediately surrounded by a crowd of waiters. Clifford, his heart beating wildly, ran down the stairs and onto the street. He kept running for blocks, bumping into people. He ignored the lights and dodged car after car. His chest ached as he ran on and on, nearly unable to catch his breath. Clifford never thought he would make it, but there it was. The number 57 bus back to the hotel.
THE mighty pots and pans of Le Petit Pigeon hung down over the stainless steel counters looking like the weapons of a medieval army. Deserted since receiving its nightly hosing, the kitchen of the Louis Q’s three-star luncheon restaurant was illuminated by a single light that reflected itself in flashes of aluminum, copper and white tile. It was almost midnight. The baker would not arrive until six.
Claude sat alone at the small table used by the head chef. A cup of coffee had long since gone cold.
He wondered how the Louis’s, the Henri’s, and the Charles’s had felt before the day of battle. Had they waited in their tents consumed with fear or with lust? For certain, they had not been preoccupied with whether Mickey Mouse was Baroque or Rococo.
Did men of war ever consider an alternative other than victory or death? Was that why Claude was afraid? There was little chance he would die, but the alternative to victory could be worse than death. Rococo. Mickey was definitely . . . Damn! The truth was, everything that would happen tomorrow in Epernay, even victory, frightened him. Emma was too much on his mind.
“Such deep thoughts,” Marie-Thérèse said.
“What are you doing here at this hour?” He reached out for her hand.
“What are you doing here at this hour?” She leaned over to kiss his ear. “Surely this was not the only place the great Claude Picard could get a reservation?”
“It is the only place to be. The most exclusive table in all of Paris.”
“Is it?”
He nodded. “There is only one chair.”
“Then you are here alone?”
“You sound disappointed.”
“Yes.” She walked to the large glass-door refrigerators. “I was looking for Le Dom.” He got up and followed her. “Suprême de volaille again?” she complained, absently pushing the dishes aside.
“He is not here.”
She turned to face him through the other side of the glass door. She reached for his hand. “You can make him come. Tell him I need him.” And then, looking back at the shelves, “I thought they had turbot today.”
“He will not come.”
Marie-Thérèse sniffed a terrine and put it back. “Why?” She handed Claude a bowl of raspberries.
“He is angry with me.”
She took a pitcher of crème fraîche and closed the door. “Why?”
Claude followed her back to the table. He held the chair as she sat down. “Perhaps I can help?” He brought over a stool and sat opposite her.
“You?” She shook her head. “A mere concierge?” She poured the entire pitcher of crème fraîche into the bowl of raspberries. “There is something I must tell him.” She leaned across the table and fed him a spoonful of berries. “I must tell him goodbye.”
“What are you saying, Marie?”
“I am saying goodbye. I shall remember you both always.”
He sat back. “What has happened?”
“Something for which I was not prepared. I have not fallen in love.”
He smiled. “With whom have you have not fallen in love?”
“You. It is the final injustice of all.”
“Marie . . .”
“No. It must be said. I thought the worst thing that happened to me was being born into incredible wealth. Although at first, I never suspected anything was wrong. I assumed everyone had a house on the Seine. And on the Loire. And on the Côte d’Azur. It was inconceivable to me that all the little girls who played in the Bois did not have monogrammed underwear. My family tried to hide the truth from me. But I outsmarted them.”
“You escaped to the Louis.”
“It was the most demeaning job I could find. It brought me into contact with reality.”
Claude opened his arms to her. “Welcome to Reality.”
“So I thought. But you, you were my precious fantasy. By day I mopped and scrubbed. By night, I fought at your side, crying with fear as I shared your memories.”
He laughed. “I do not see what more any girl could want.”
“I was truly happy. You gave me a very wonderful gift, something my parents had denied me—World War Two. But then came promotion after promotion. My paradise became a living hell.”
“Until you met Dwight Simon.”
“You know about him?”
“As le Directeur has told us many times, it is our job to know the pleasures of our guests. Of course, I did not think you would personally be one of them. What is he offering you?”
“Poverty. Scandal. Few prospects, if any. The scorn of his former friends.”
“How will you live?”
“Shamefully, of course. On my inheritance.”
“He would do that?”
“Yes,” she said proudly. “Isn’t it wonderful? Just when I thought nothing was going wrong, he will show me a side of life I had never hoped to experience. Indolence. Sloth. Pretense. And boredom.”
“It sounds ideal.”
Marie-Thérèse stood up angrily. “Don’t look as if I had betrayed you.” She spoke bitterly. “They bombed Mailly. They killed the Nazis. You had your war. I have at last found my own.”
“You are not fighting for anything, Marie. You are surrendering. You have betrayed yourself,” he said quietly.
“I have written my resignation.”
Poor Marie-Thérèse. He put his arms around her. He held her tight as they rocked gently back and forth. They kissed. Claude took her hand and very slowly they began to waltz. Tears ran down her cheeks as they danced past the stoves. They turned circles in front of the sinks.
“I shall miss you,” he whispered. “I shall always remember what we had.�
�� He smiled. “Even though it was not the best of times.”
Marie-Thérèse leaned her head on his shoulder. “It was not the worst of times.”
They danced into the service area and through the pantry. Around and around and around and around. And then, as he was afraid he might, he betrayed himself. He wished she were Emma. But he knew he would never again hold Emma in his arms. There was no turning back.
Wednesday
AT sunrise precisely, Claude left his room. He walked down the empty corridor. Two folded French flags were cradled in his arms. The flags were brand new. They had never been flown.
He unlocked the door to the Louis Q’s elegant ballroom, Le Salon de Printemps. The sharp sound of his footsteps on the polished wood floor echoed through the room. He walked in cadence to the beating of his heart. Neither his heart nor his walk disturbed the sleeping cherubs on the ceiling fresco.
The windows at the far end of the ballroom opened on to a small balcony directly over the main entrance. Two white flagpoles stood at forty-five-degree angles to the iron railing. As he untied the ropes, Claude began to recite Chapter One of The Constitution of the Fifth Republic.
“France shall be a Republic, indivisible, secular, democratic and social. It shall ensure the equality of all citizens before the law, without distinction of origin, race or religion. It shall respect all beliefs.
“The national emblem shall be the tricolor flag, blue, white and red.
“The national anthem shall be the ‘Marseillaise.’
“The motto of the Republic shall be ‘Liberty, Equality, Fraternity.’
“Its principle shall be government of the people, by the people and for the people.”
Claude stood on the balcony between the flags as they snapped noisily in the breeze. Each hand held on to a flagpole as though he were on the prow of a great warship. “For the people,” he repeated as the flags whipped around him. “For the people of France!”
A few minutes before eight, Murphy strode into the lobby carrying two enormous bunches of red roses. Etienne struggled to keep pace with him as Murphy turned around and said, “Bullshit!”
