Pratt a Manger

by David Nobbs

  Nicky approached.

  ‘She’s lovely,’ she said.

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘You aren’t nervous, are you?’

  ‘Of course I am.’

  ‘Why? You could eat this lot for breakfast. Come over and chat.’

  ‘I don’t want to.’

  ‘Henry! I think you should.’

  She pulled him to his feet.

  ‘Why didn’t you send me any tapes of the show?’ he asked.

  ‘Because you’re an original. Because I didn’t want you to come with preconceived ideas and copy others. I’ve gone out on a limb over you, Henry. The producer was very doubtful, but I said you’d be an invaluable link between the professionals and the audience.’

  ‘It sounds a rather doubtful compliment.’

  ‘I told him you’d got balls,’ she said. ‘I hope you have. There’s a lot riding on this for me. Don’t let me down.’

  How could he tell her that he felt like a eunuch on a bad day.

  ‘Nicky! You’re making it worse.’

  ‘Come and talk to Denise. She’s longing to meet you.’

  ‘That I doubt.’

  ‘She is!’

  She pulled Henry across the Green Room like an owner dragging a dog that has found a good spot for a crap. As they got nearer and nearer to the incredibly glamorous Denise, Henry felt that he was growing smaller and smaller.

  ‘Denise. This is Henry Pratt, of the Café Henry. You remember.’

  ‘Yes indeed! Hello. Yes, it’s a lovely little place, Henry.’

  She took his hand in both her hands and squeezed it. He knew that she didn’t mean to be patronising when she called it a lovely little place, but he cringed inwardly none the less.

  ‘Yes, I told Nicky she must have you. As it were.’

  Henry tried to stop his eyes meeting Nicky’s. He might as well have tried to stop the Niagara Falls.

  ‘You aren’t nervous, are you, Henry? Honestly, it’s a doddle,’ said Denise. ‘Have you met the lovely Sally Atkinson?’

  ‘Not properly. Or even improperly.’

  ‘Then you must meet. Sally’s a darling.’

  Sally Atkinson pumped Henry’s hand and smiled from deep in her eyes. Henry noticed how exhausted her pale blue eyes looked.

  ‘Henry?’ she said, leading him unobtrusively away from the group, and lowering her voice. ‘I saw you talking to Bradley Tompkins in the corridor. A word of warning.’

  Why did his heart go straight to his boots?

  ‘What about?’ he managed to croak.

  ‘Never let him wheedle out of you what you intend to say on the show.’

  Oh God!!

  ‘First time I was on, he asked me if I was any good at jokes. Said he wasn’t. He seemed so nice. I found myself telling him an absolute humdinger about a novice monk and some faggots. The bastard only went and told it on the show.’

  Henry looked round the room to see if Bradley had come up there after all. He hadn’t.

  ‘He’s become embittered. He’s had a fifth series of Bradley on the Boil cancelled.’

  ‘I’ve never seen it.’

  ‘Don’t tell him that.’

  ‘Too late. I already have.’

  ‘He has no sense of humour, that’s his trouble. Fifty-two programmes without one laugh. They say they’re exploring other formats for him. That’s producer-ese for “You’re all washed up, mate.” He’s terrified. He has three posh restaurants in Central London, but no Michelin stars.’ She lowered her voice. ‘He never will. He can’t cook.’ She lowered her voice still further. ‘He can’t fuck either. Michelin star? He wouldn’t be worth a detour if you lived next door to him.’

  Henry knew that he should congratulate her on her Michelin star. He couldn’t. He was too upset.

  ‘You’ve told him something, haven’t you?’

  Henry nodded miserably.

  ‘I’ve told him all about my idea for my fictional chef.’

  ‘Oh, you haven’t! How can such a bastard be so persuasive?’

  ‘Precisely because he is such a bastard, I should imagine. Do you really think he’ll pinch my stuff? I mean, all right, he pinched your joke, but this is a whole routine.’

  ‘I wouldn’t put it past him.’

  ‘Do you think I should ask Dennis Danvers to put me on before Bradley?’

  ‘No!’ This was too loud. People turned to look. She lowered her voice again. Henry’s head was whirling. He couldn’t cope with all this. ‘Heavens, no. Bradley’s only an amateur bastard compared to Dennis. Dennis is poison.’ She lowered her voice still further. ‘He can’t fuck either.’

  What am I doing here? I’m out of my depth.

  ‘Isn’t anybody here remotely nice?’ he asked, rather pathetically.

  ‘Heavens, yes. I am. I’m very nice, Henry.’ Their eyes met briefly. ‘So is Denise. And so is Simon.’

  ‘What? I thought he was a rampaging, shouting, swearing terror?’

  ‘Simon? No! He’s a sweetie. A pussycat.’ She lowered her voice still further. Henry was beginning to realise that she had an extraordinary talent for lowering her voice. However far down it went, there was always further for it to go. ‘He can fuck.’

  Henry heard a loud and eloquent sniff. He looked round. There was nobody near them. A tremor ran down his spine. He recognised that sniff. It was Cousin Hilda’s. It was one of her specials, loaded with disgust and disapproval, and he realised that the sniff he had heard on his birthday had been hers too.

  This was ridiculous. One couldn’t be haunted by a sniff. A sniff couldn’t exist in space.

  Or could it?

  He didn’t like it when the make-up lady smiled at him, and said, ‘Oh good. I like a challenge.’

  He didn’t like the way the warm-up man introduced him to the studio audience: ‘And now, a newcomer to the show, Henry Pratt. Let’s hope he isn’t.’

  He didn’t like it that the audience laughed.

  He smiled at them, though. He smiled relentlessly, and bowed.

  None of them liked it when the warm-up man said, ‘There’s Only Fools and Horses in the next studio. I bet you all wish you’d got tickets for that.’

  They all trooped to their seats. It was very hot under the lights, but at least he couldn’t see the audience. He couldn’t see the expression of incredulous scorn with which Lampo would no doubt view the proceedings.

  He wished that he could see Hilary, though. Just one smile from her, and he might be all right.

  Absolute hush was called for. Suddenly the whole studio was tense. ‘Tension for this rubbish – absurd,’ thought Henry, suddenly less tense because everybody else was tense.

  ‘Good evening, and welcome to another edition of A Question of Sport. Oh shit!!’ said Dennis Danvers.

  The audience roared and roared (with the exception of Lampo, who was completely bewildered).

  Next time the show began properly, and the applause was all the greater because Dennis Danvers had got it right this time.

  At the top of the show Dennis introduced each contestant. When he said, ‘We have two men making their debuts. Let’s hear a particularly warm welcome for Jean-Paul Gascaud and Henry Pratt,’ he spoke the name ‘Jean-Paul Gascaud’ in a respectful, slightly continental manner, and then descended into a very blunt ‘Henry Pratt’. The audience, warmed-up to laugh at Henry’s name, did so again. Henry tried to give a spontaneous laugh of delight, as if nobody had ever laughed at his name before. It froze on his face.

  The first questions were terribly easy. Henry began to relax. He even thought of a joke that might amuse the studio audience. He would say that Anonymous Borsch had been born in the Russian town of Sodov. Or should it be Pissov? How crude should he be?

  ‘Mr Pratt? Are you with us?’

  Dennis Danvers’s voice came to him from afar, borne on the wind from the Steppes of Russia. His blood ran cold.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I was miles away.’

  This got a loud laugh
. Henry was utterly bewildered.

  ‘I was speaking to you, Mr Pratt,’ said Dennis Danvers. ‘After all, you are, are you not, the only Pratt here?’

  By now there was near hysteria in the audience. When it died down, Dennis Danvers asked Henry his question.

  ‘What culinary product is used in the expression, “As keen as …”?’

  Henry froze. His mind went a complete blank. He could hear the audience laughing, miles away.

  ‘Toffee,’ he said.

  The audience erupted. Even Dennis Danvers couldn’t keep a straight face.

  ‘Henry Pratt, I make a prediction,’ said Dennis Danvers. ‘The TV audience are going to be as keen as toffee to see you on this show. I’m certain that as you gain confidence you will be giving your answers as bold as pewter. I can offer it to the other side.’

  ‘Mustard,’ said Bradley Tompkins with eager, petty pride.

  ‘The scores at the end of that round are, Denise’s team eight, Simon’s team four,’ said Dennis Danvers. ‘Never mind, there’s a chance here for Simon’s team to catch up. We have a completely new round. Each panellist has to give me the CV, the life story, of a fictional chef of his invention. You, the audience, will judge how inventive and amusing their efforts are. Your applause will be measured on the Chipometer. First, to start us off, Bradley Tompkins, what have you for us?’

  ‘I want to talk about the very shy Russian chef, Anonymous Borsch,’ said Bradley Tompkins.

  Henry’s heart sank to his socks. The bastard!

  Bradley Tompkins’s heart sank to his socks too. His quip had not brought the gales of laughter that he was anticipating. There had been bemusement, and one or two titters, but only one laugh. Henry recognised it as Lampo’s.

  ‘He was born in the small Russian town of Volgograd,’ persisted Bradley Tompkins.

  Oh good. He’d missed the Sodov gag.

  ‘That wasn’t his real name, of course. He was called Anonymous because he was so shy, and Borsch because he made a very famous example of that Russian beetroot soup.’ Bradley Tompkins’s voice began to falter. He was losing confidence. He was dying on his arse. He was beginning to believe that that bastard Pratt had set him up.

  ‘But of course it was very confusing to be called Anonymous Borsch,’ continued Bradley bravely, ‘because of the painter.’

  He paused.

  ‘What painter would that be, Bradley?’ asked Dennis Danvers.

  ‘Well, Hieronymus Bosch, of course.’

  ‘Of course!’ Dennis Danvers looked across at the studio audience and repeated, ‘Of course!!’ The audience laughed. ‘What happened to Anonymous Borsch, Bradley?’

  ‘He opened a restaurant. He called it the Anonymous Borsch. Do you know why?’

  ‘None of us know why, Bradley,’ said Dennis Danvers. ‘We’re on the edge of our seats.’

  The audience laughed again, perhaps at the difficulty Dennis Danvers was having in not laughing. Mocking Bradley Tompkins was fine sport for a man who had never missed an easy target in his life.

  ‘He wished to be eponymous as well as anonymous,’ said Bradley Tompkins roguishly. This remark was greeted with total silence. Not even Lampo laughed.

  ‘And did Hieronymus ever go to the restaurant of the anonymous, eponymous Borsch?’ asked Dennis Danvers. By this time there was laughter at everything he said.

  ‘I don’t know,’ quipped Bradley Tompkins, his face the colour of borsch.

  ‘Well done, Bradley,’ said Dennis Danvers. ‘Well up to the standard I’d have expected of you. Now let’s put it to the Chipometer.’

  The audience’s applause was muted.

  ‘Oh dear. One out of ten on the Chipometer. Bad luck,’ said Dennis Danvers.

  Henry knew that Dennis Danvers would come to him next, and he had nothing whatever to say. ‘Funnily enough, my chef is also called Anonymous Borsch’ would hardly be a winner.

  ‘Think,’ he told himself. ‘Don’t panic. Think of any food. Quick. Asparagus. No, too elitist. Pasta. Good!’

  Dennis Danvers was speaking. ‘… which brings us to Henry Pratt,’ he was saying.

  Cannelloni. Canaletto. Ah!

  ‘What gem have you got for us, Henry Pratt?’

  The sarcasm in Dennis Danvers’s voice made Henry angry, and anger gave him strength.

  ‘Luigi Cannelloni, the inventor of pasta, was born in Venice in 1726,’ began Henry, with sudden, amazing confidence. There was laughter. Not a lot, but more than Bradley had got. Henry realised that the audience liked him. The sensitive antennae of Dennis Danvers picked this up too. He would be very careful about mocking Henry in future.

  ‘He was on a Hoseasons’ canal holiday there,’ continued Henry.

  He was surprised to hear himself say this, and even more surprised that it got a decent laugh because of the sheer unexpected banality of it.

  ‘He is very well known for his works of art, almost as well known as Hieronymus Bosch.’

  This crack got another decent laugh, but it was cheap and naughty, and he regretted it even as he said it. Later he would suspect that this moment might have sown the seed that in time would grow into a deep hatred of Henry, with all the difficulties that would entail in the years to come.

  ‘He is well known, of course, for his paintings of the Grand Canal. There are two Cannellonis hanging in the town hall of my native Thurmarsh. What is less well known is that he produced pasta models of Venetian landmarks. His Rialto Bridge stuffed with spinach and ricotta was sensational, he really was an expert stuffer, in fact he had six children, one of whom introduced cheese to pasta and was known as Macaroni Tony. Unfortunately he had a weakness – women.’ Henry lowered his voice like a newsreader approaching bad news. ‘His wife strangled him with five hundred yards of tagliatelle in 1782.’

  There was a good round of applause. The Chipometer registered seven out of ten. Bradley Tompkins glowered.

  4 Eggs Benedict

  IT WAS THE strange affair of the pigeon Denzil that gave Henry the idea.

  The need to create a special dish for his old colleague and friend came to Henry after a rather difficult dinner at Denzil and Lampo’s elegant little mews house in Chelsea, shortly after the recording of A Question of Salt.

  As they sipped their pre-prandial white wine in the tiny sitting room, choc-a-bloc with bric-a-brac, Henry asked them if they would like to witness the recording of another edition of A Question of Salt. They declined politely.

  When Lampo went out to get more olives, Denzil said in a low voice, ‘I would have liked to, but it’s all a bit beneath La Lampo. She only breathes very rarefied air, Henry. She’s too precious to live. She looks down on anything to do with television. So common.’

  When Denzil went to finish off the vegetables, Lampo said, ‘I would have loved to come. It’s so sublimely awful as almost to be brilliant, but poor old Denzil … between you and me and several gateposts … has no sense of humour, no love of the absurd, no relish for the incongruous.’

  It wasn’t difficult to deduce that relations between Lampo and Denzil were not at their smoothest. Henry felt sad that he had created a special dish for Lampo, the deceiver, but not for Denzil, the deceived. He longed to confront Lampo over his deceit on the day of his sixtieth birthday, but the moment didn’t seem right, and he contented himself with saying, in a low, urgent voice, ‘Lampo, don’t hurt him, will you?’

  Lampo raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Henry feels responsible for your relationship,’ said Hilary, ‘because he brought you together in Siena.’

  ‘On that memorable day on which he also first met you,’ Lampo reminded her. ‘It’s all so long ago. How banal time is. All it can ever think to do is pass. Pass, pass, pass, second after second, minute after minute, and always at the same rate. So tedious.’

  ‘Yours was love at first sight,’ said Henry. ‘We took a little longer. But no, I suppose I do feel responsible.’

  ‘Ridiculous,’ said Lampo. ‘How you do overestimate you
r importance in the scheme of things.’ He looked at his watch. ‘He’s slower than ever these days.’

  ‘Shouldn’t you be helping?’ asked Hilary gently. ‘Don’t you think it’s all getting a bit beyond him?’

  ‘He can’t bear having me in his kitchen,’ said Lampo, ‘and when he can’t manage it on his own any more, it’ll be a dreadful blow. I have to be cruel to be kind. I never lift a finger, much as I might want to. It’s a sacrifice I have to make.’

  At last Denzil was ready. They had smoked salmon and pork casserole and all the time, as they talked, Henry felt the presence of the shadow of his knowledge of Lampo’s duplicity.

  The opportunity to speak about it arose while Denzil was clearing away the main course and preparing the dessert. It had seemed wrong to launch into the subject before the meal, but now, well into the evening and mellow with wine, Henry felt that he could avoid it no longer.

  ‘Lampo?’ he said in a low voice.

  ‘Oh dear! Ominous change of tone,’ said Lampo. ‘H.E. Pratt (Orange House) is going into serious mode.’

  ‘Do shut up and listen. Lampo, I know that on the night of my sixtieth you didn’t go to an auction.’

  Lampo didn’t reply. His mouth opened slightly, and his skin looked as if it couldn’t decide whether to go white or to blush.

  ‘I phoned Christie’s, and there was no auction.’

  ‘Your deep interest in the details of my life flatters me, Henry. I happen to work at Sotheby’s.’

  ‘I rang Sotheby’s too, Lampo.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘There was no auction there either.’

  ‘No.’

  Lampo poured a little more Fleurie into their glasses, carefully, immaculately, ascetically. Their glasses had been far from empty, so it was obviously a displacement activity.

  ‘Oh dear,’ he said. ‘I really am most dreadfully sorry that you’ve found out. It must have hurt. Your sixtieth too, and I was very, very sorry to miss it. But it was quite unavoidable.’

  ‘I’m not talking about my sixtieth, Lampo. I’m not talking about me.’

  ‘Henry isn’t that self-centred, Lampo,’ put in Hilary.