“Are you sad to be leaving France?”
“No. Not at all, now that everything’s been sold off. Did I tell you that I found buyers for the hotel? It’s a sweet retired couple. I hope they know what they’re getting themselves into.”
“And I understood that the sale of the faïence went very well.”
“Yes, I have more than enough to buy a small apartment in New York. But I understand everyone in New York lives in impossibly small apartments.” She laughed happily at the prospect of starting a new life. Then, like a dark cloud covering the sun, her mood changed. “You know the commissaire-priseur decided that four of Jean-Louis’s pieces were fakes and removed them from the sale?”
“What did you do with them?”
“I gave them to Jean-Louis’s father. Actually, that solved a problem for me. I had wanted to give him a memento of his son. At first I thought I’d give him the best pieces—the baron used to be a collector—but then I decided that would be cruel.”
“Cruel?”
“Because he’s so broke. It’s really awful. Jean-Louis took me to visit him two or three times. Jean-Lu would stuff the trunk of the car full of food. The baron’s refrigerator was always filled with horrible-smelling scraps wrapped in greasy butcher’s paper. Way worse than what you’d find in the Dumpster behind the restaurant. Jean-Lu would throw it all out. I knew if I gave his father important pieces of faïence, the idea of selling them would torture him. He would want the money, but then he’d feel he couldn’t, because it was his legacy from his son. The fakes are worthless, so he won’t have that anguish, but he’ll still have a memento.” She paused, her eyes damp. “It’s a good time for me to leave France. I have nothing left here. Nothing at all.”
Capucine gently nudged the conversation around to the subject of life in New York, a city she knew relatively well. Even though she found it exhilarating but exhausting to the point of debilitation, the picture she presented to Delphine was of a utopian town where all the cars were yellow taxis, people always ran rather than walked, and food was so important to the populace that even the hot dog vendors on the street offered gourmet delights.
An hour later Alexandre and Ouvrard emerged from the study. Ouvrard looked as abashed as only the voice of reason can abash.
Flowers of French politeness were strewn, and Delphine and Ouvrard took their leave.
“So?”
“So, not so very much. I did my good friend Jean-Basile Labrousse a minor disservice and the worthy Prosper a major service, hopefully reducing my sentence in purgatory by at least a thousand years. And a good thing, too, since I have it on good authority the victuals there are now supplied by McDonald’s.”
Capucine recognized one of her husband’s hobbyhorses arriving at a brisk trot and bridled it before it had the chance to take off at a full gallop.
“What was Labrousse’s offer?”
“A rather appealing one, actually. Apparently, Jean-Basile has decided to open a restaurant in New Orleans. He’s becoming the quintessential American. They all do, sooner or later, don’t they? It’s the American virus of ambition. Anyway, he wants to help revitalize the city. It’s not a bad idea. Louisiana is virtually French, after all. His cuisine would fit right in, and he’d definitely get the right kind of press on the project. He wants Ouvrard to be the chef de cuisine.”
“So you told him to take the job?”
“Good Lord, no. Quelle idée!”
“I’m confused.”
“Ouvrard is a very talented chef. But, naturally, he was beaten into submission by Brault. His job was to imitate Brault’s cooking to such a degree of perfection, no one could tell Brault wasn’t in the kitchen. That’s what sous-chefs do. Labrousse is ten times more authoritarian than Brault ever was. This is going to be his restaurant where he won’t be there all day long, hovering and making damn sure everything is done exactly the way he wants it. He’s going to be over a thousand miles away in New York. Can you imagine the pressure he’d put on Ouvrard? His life would be hell. And on top of that, Labrousse would lap up all the glory. The bushel basket would be back over Ouvrard’s nascent little flame, but this time it would be a heavy load, one he might never get out from under.”
“But you didn’t convince him, did you?”
“Nope. But I planted enough seeds of doubt for him to turn it down in the end. In his heart he knows it’s not for him, but it’s still going to be a difficult decision. You know how it is with children. They’re so easily attracted by glitter.” Alexandre’s smile collapsed into a pout. “Why on earth did you accept Jacques’s invitation to go to the so-called brand-new Chez La Mère Denis? You know how much I hate going to restaurants on Saturday night.”
“He called this morning and insisted we have dinner tonight. I suggested he come here, but he absolutely wanted to take us out someplace. Chez La Mère Denis was my idea. I wanted to see what it’s become, and I thought you might be curious, too, since you’re always telling me what a talent Aiko Kikuchi is.”
It turned out to be a disappointing choice. The transformation of the restaurant had not been a happy one. The restaurant had been rebaptized Chez la Mère Kikuchi in an attempt at wry sophistication entirely inappropriate to a quiet country lane. The elaborately carved oak paneling—a key prop in Brault’s quest to graft himself onto the Troisgros-Bocuse lineage—had been amateurishly whitewashed and decorated with oversized papier-mâché Kabuki masks. Clearly intended to be kicky, the look came across as cheap and tacky.
A long aperture had been cut into the wall between the kitchen and the dining room, and a counter set up for three sushi chefs, who maniacally assembled rolls of fish and rice in an almost frightening frenzy. Beyond, the kitchen, with its long racks of copper pots and three enormous piano stoves, was apparently unchanged. Svelte and shapeless as a preteen boy, Aiko could be seen bending over the stainless-steel counter, her black hair hanging in damp strands, concentrating on arranging a dish with her tiny fingers. She looked up, caught sight of Alexandre, blew a lock out of her eyes, and smiled weakly.
Jacques was perched on a stool at the bar, teasing a bartender who looked young enough to pass for Aiko’s niece. The girl giggled, covering her mouth with the flat of her hand and lowering her eyes modestly.
“This is Minako,” Jacques said. “She’s a mine of information on Japanese single malts.” Jacques winked theatrically at Alexandre. “Minako, give this thirsty gentleman some of the nectar you’ve been plying me with.”
The bartender giggled shyly behind her hand but managed to pour a shot glass full of dark brown liquid and place it in front of Alexandre as delicately as if it were a cherry blossom.
“K’m’m’g’gay,” she said, rapidly enough to make it sound like a discreet belch.
“Minako is telling you she’s giving you Komagatake,” Jacques said. “It’s a twelve-year-old single malt that is not quite a Yamazaki of that age but is very impressive, nonetheless.”
Minako descended into well-screened giggles. Capucine resisted the impulse to check her ID to see if she was old enough to serve alcoholic beverages.
During this dialogue the maître d’hôtel hovered in a suit two sizes too large, oozing passive aggressiveness thinly disguised as exaggerated deference. The instant Alexandre turned to look at him, he brightened like an electric lamp abruptly turned on.
“Table?” he asked hopefully and, almost skipping, led them off to a corner of the dining room. When they sat down, the maître d’ shook out their napkins and placed them on their laps.
With a toothy grin Jacques said, “Touch me there again and you’ll have to marry me.”
Not understanding, the maître d’ grinned sycophantically, nodding like an automaton. Two waiters arrived at a trot in high-necked, ill-fitting pajama-like uniforms, one with a tray of house cocktails, a sticky-smelling concoction of sake and mango juice heavily laced with nutmeg, the other with menus. The simultaneous reflex of Capucine, Alexandre, and Jacques was to push their drinks, unt
asted, to the center of the table.
Jacques stood up and waved in the general direction of the bar. Minako arrived promptly with three shot glasses on a cork-covered tray.
A sense of crushing sadness descended on Capucine. The eradication of Chef Brault was far more complete than if the restaurant had been merely gutted. His oeuvre was like a delicate pencil line drawing that had been sloppily erased by a child and scribbled over with greasy crayons.
Alexandre’s and Jacques’s chuckles drew her out of her reverie.
“Lobster roll with a sauce of tobiko caviar.” Jacques smirked, reading his menu.
“Duck confit spring roll with a hoisin dipping sauce,” Alexandre countered.
“Sushi made with wild rice,” Jacques riposted.
With a giggle, Capucine added, “And don’t forget Valrhona chocolate tempura for dessert.”
It took a good number of minutes for their hilarity to subside enough for them to be able to order. But when the food came, it was surprisingly good. Capucine opted for the lobster roll, which turned out to be a complex creation wrapped in a soybean sheet, while Jacques’s Kobe beef hamburger was a very rare hamburger steak cooked in a brioche wrapper en croûte with a very gingery ketchup-like condiment made of shouga and gari. Alexandre pronounced the confit de canard spring rolls excellent. They were wrapped in an egg roll wrapper, gently grilled, topped with goat cheese, candied walnuts, and oven-fried pineapple chunks, and served with a glowing chrome-yellow sauce with a Sauternes base.
Just as Alexandre was rising through the clouds of a minor epiphany, Aiko left her kitchen to do a tour of the front of the house. She stopped next to Alexandre.
“What do you think?”
“Your creations are brilliant, genuinely original, inspiring.”
For a brief second Aiko’s lips turned up in a spindly smile.
“But what about the restaurant? What do you have to say about that?”
Alexandre said nothing and took a sip of sake that had been served in a small wooden masu box.
“It’s the reverse of your success at Dong. There the food was not so brilliant as what you’re doing here, but the décor was out of this world.”
Aiko’s face turned to stone. She moved her face to within ten inches of Alexandre’s. “It’s that bastard Brissac-Vanté. He’s swindled me,” she said in a viperous whisper. “I’d like to skin him alive.”
“Swindled you?”
“He sweet-talked me and took me to dinner at his other restaurants and then offered me a two-year contract with an attractive signing bonus. But when I arrived here, there was no money for redecoration. There was no money for anything. It was always going to arrive next week. With all that paneling, the place looked like a funeral home. So I did what I could and painted the walls with some pals and had an artist friend make the Kabuki masks. Since there wasn’t even enough money for half the staff I need, I’ve had to get my family to help out. The bartender is my sister’s daughter.”
Aiko looked defiantly at Capucine, who, she well knew, was a police officer.
Capucine ignored the hostility. “But you must have enough budget for quality produce,” Capucine said. “My lobster roll was out of this world.”
Aiko laughed. “You don’t need cash for that. I’ve known all my suppliers for years. I order and pay them at the end of the week from the receipts. The problem is that interior decorators don’t work that way.”
“So what are you going to do?” Alexandre asked.
“If Brissac-Vanté doesn’t cough up by the end of next month, I fully intend to walk out. He can sue me all he wants, but he’ll be in here all by himself, rolling his own goddamn sushi.” Aiko turned and stalked back to her kitchen.
“That must be why she covers her mouth when she laughs. She doesn’t want you to see her fangs,” Jacques said.
A damp pall descended on the table.
“Let’s go get a drink somewhere that’s loud and cheerful. There’s a taste I need to get out of my mouth, and it’s not from the food,” Capucine said.
Half an hour later they were standing at a small horseshoeshaped bar, sipping cognac in a tiny bistro on the rue Vieille du Temple, not far from Capucine and Alexandre’s apartment.
“That was painful,” Jacques said.
Alexandre nodded sagely, finished his cognac, tapped his miniature snifter for the barman to pour him another. “It illustrates a truism about food—the vessel often has more impact than the contents. Even the finest grand cru will taste mediocre if it’s served in a jam jar.”
“You’re so right, cousin,” Jacques said, smoothing the lapel of his cashmere blazer with gold-plated basket-weave buttons. “The wrapping always provides its own substance.”
Capucine ostentatiously examined the ceiling, eyebrows raised, shaking her head in dismay.
Alexandre leaned forward, looking intently at a bar across the narrow street. It was a popular watering hole that sold books—mainly avant-garde poetry and fiction—but also had a thriving bar business. Alexandre peered keenly.
“Look at that. What a godsend. That’s Aiko Kikuchi’s new book.”
Capucine could see that the left-hand window of the bar contained a cardboard poster of a waiflike Aiko in kitchen whites, wearing an endearingly timid smile, an enormous steel skillet hanging limply in her left hand.
“This is going to solve a problem for me. I’m going to read the book tonight and write a review in the morning, making all sorts of comments about her new menu. That way I’ll be spared writing a piece on how ghastly that restaurant is. The poor girl certainly doesn’t deserve that. I’ll be back in a flash.” He darted out the door.
Jacques and Capucine turned and put their elbows on the bar. He leaned up against her and bent his head to whisper seductively in her ear, for all the world a young swain courting.
“You came up again in this morning’s senior staff meeting.”
A sardonic comment formed itself in Capucine’s mouth, but she clamped her lips before it could get out.
“It would appear that the Olympian powers are impatient.”
“The poor dears,” Capucine said sweetly.
“Yes. You see, a decision was taken that the DGSE were not to stick their fingers in the cogs and gears of the Police Judiciaire apparatus.”
“And electronic eavesdropping is not the same thing as poking your fingers where they don’t belong?”
“Hardly. Not the same thing at all.”
“In other words, you’re telling me that your poor impatient powers can’t interfere with my case until they have something to interfere with. Is that it?”
“Actually, there is hope on high they won’t have to interfere at all.”
“Well, then, if it’s a nice day tomorrow, I might just get around to making an arrest or two.”
CHAPTER 42
David sat in his boxy little sit-up-and-beg rental and watched the mechanics walk through the garage door at the back of the Peugeot dealership. They all had exactly the same gait: a “Fuck the world, how cool am I” saunter warring with a desperate “Please don’t let me punch in late” trot. Antonin was easy enough to spot. He was the only one who genuinely didn’t give a damn. The one who knew for sure he wouldn’t be there in a few weeks.
David came back at quitting time and waited. Antonin came out, his shoulders pushed back aggressively, looking like he had just had words, maybe even a punch or two, with someone. As he approached the car from behind, David opened the passenger door wide enough to block him.
“Get in, Anou.”
Antonin stopped. His face flattened, and his eyes became slits. David produced his police ID wallet and held it up.
“We can either have a beer at the café or do this down at the brigade. One way or the other, you’re going to get in the car.”
“How did you find me?”
David lied. “It wasn’t all that hard. Records had you working at a Mercedes dealership here in Toulon a few years ago. The dealership
filed a complaint against you after you took a wrench to your foreman. I guessed you wouldn’t go far and you’d stick to German luxury cars. None of the Peugeot or BMW dealers had a Brault on the payroll, so I figured I’d hang around and see if I could spot a temp who was getting paid cash. And there you were.”
“I thought I’d disappeared for good.”
“The only way to do that nowadays is to join the Foreign Legion.”
Both men grunted a laugh.
A few blocks away David found a café with a terrace that looked out on a dusty, beaten-earth square, vaguely reminiscent of Le Marius in La Cadière. The terrace was nearly empty. A waiter arrived, flicked his side towel impatiently, nodded with indifference, and was dispatched for pastis.
“I’m having a real hard time believing you’re buying me a drink because you want to hear all about how I tapped my last foreman a good one on his sciatic with a monkey wrench.”
David took his time with the liturgical ritual of adding water to his pastis. “I want to talk to you about Jean-Louis.”
“My little brother? Yeah, I saw about that in the paper. Poor little fucker.”
“Let’s start with Fanny Folon.”
“I haven’t seen her in nearly twenty years. She lives in Bandol now.”
“I understand you had an evening’s fun with her just before she left.”
“More like she had an evening’s fun with me and my buds.”
“Now that we’ve got that settled, you can tell me all about it.”
“Not much to tell. I was out cruising with my pals. We didn’t have enough money to go to the café, so I decided we’d go check out this little stand of pines on the hill behind the village. A lot of guys would take their girls out there to give them a reaming, and I thought we might have a few laughs. Sure enough, there’s Fanny and this dork she was hanging out with, Felix Olivier, going at it. Fanny was giving him a hard time, telling him to be a man and show more enthusiasm. He was arguing back. See, there’s the two of them going at it while they’re having a fight. Funniest goddamn thing I ever saw. So we’re laughing fit to bust a gut, and Fanny hears us and starts to put on an act. She shoots her legs up in the air and starts moaning like she’s really coming. All the while she’s looking at me and smiling. You know, the big come-on.” Antonin fell silent. He had worked himself up to tell the story with all the trimmings but suddenly realized he was telling it to a police officer.
Death of a Chef (Capucine Culinary Mystery) Page 24
