The Second-Worst Restaurant in France

by Alexander McCall Smith

  They had reached a large sign advertising the presence ahead of the supermarket. “We go in here,” said Audette. “You can park round the back. There’s a special place there. You wait while I go inside.”

  Paul felt he had to correct her impression. “I think you should know something—” he began.

  Audette interrupted him. “I told you. I don’t care.”

  “But—”

  She was not listening, and he had to park the car.

  “You wait,” she said. “I won’t be long.”

  10

  Soupe à l’oignon

  Chloe’s eyes opened wide. “She did what?” she exclaimed.

  They were at breakfast together, Paul having returned from his morning trip to the boulangerie. Four fresh croissants, glowing buttery, were in a small bread basket in front of them. Milky coffee steamed in the wide drinking bowls; a newspaper, which neither would look at until later in the day, lay folded at the far end of the table. The front-page headline, though, could be made out: Rail strike in third day—President warns…

  Chloe had not come in from the restaurant until late the previous night, well after Paul had gone to bed. Now he told her about his trip to the supermarket with Audette.

  “She stole the lot,” he said. “Or at least I think she did. I didn’t go inside. I didn’t see the actual stealing.”

  “You waited in the car?”

  “Yes. She said that she had to see one of her former workmates. So I sat and listened to the radio until she came out again only about ten minutes later. She was carrying a large box.”

  “And it was all in there?”

  “Yes, everything. She went back in for two more boxes—there were three in all. Baby supplies. Cans of food. Washing powder. Everything.

  “I helped her to load the boxes in the car, and then I drove her back. I didn’t know at that stage, of course—it was only on the way back that it all came out. It was as if she didn’t care who knew. She was brazen.”

  Chloe rolled her eyes. Paul, watching her, thought: I must have been wrong. I misunderstood. Dr. Pangloss was a joke, perhaps, not intended to be taken seriously.

  “How did she put it?” Chloe asked.

  “I asked her whether she was going back to work in the supermarket once the baby was a bit older. She said she was not—she had handed in her notice, she said. It would cost her, she went on to say, because food was getting no cheaper and that was one of the perks of the job.”

  “That’s one way of putting it,” Chloe said wryly.

  “Yes. I asked if she got a discount as an employee, and she laughed. She said the discount was one hundred per cent. And then she said that everybody enjoyed the same discount. I asked her if the management minded, and she made one of those monosyllabic sounds the French love. Bof, I think. Or pfff. Or something similar. Then she said that all that was required was discretion. If people didn’t abuse the system and take too much, then the management turned a blind eye.”

  Chloe took a sip of her coffee, momentarily closing her eyes with pleasure. “Divine,” she said. “Warm morning sun. This coffee. And look out there.” She pointed out of the window to where a line of poplars marked the end of the garden. Beyond the trees, a field of hay had recently been cut, the grass now stacked in orderly sheaves. A small flight of pigeons, three or four birds, described a low, erratic arc across the sky.

  “You can forgive anything in a place like this, Paul. Or at least I can. It’s all very different here, don’t you think?”

  He knew what she meant. Moral probity, perhaps, was a northern concept—a concomitant of a Protestant conscience and a Protestant landscape. Soft hills, warmth, thyme-scented air made a nonsense of the diktats of probity. Relax. Don’t worry too much. Rules are an effort that need be neither observed nor sustained.

  But something within him rebelled against this, no matter how persuasive were the temptations of the south. And in this mood he said, although he had not planned to do so, “This Dr. Pangloss…did he exist?”

  Chloe put down her bowl of coffee. He noticed that she spilled a small amount. A shaking of the hand? He looked away, embarrassed.

  She took time to answer, and when her reply came it was in measured tones. “Did you take me seriously? Oh, I’m sorry. I thought that you would see the joke.”

  He snatched a glance at her, and then quickly looked away again. “Of course I saw the joke. But then I thought: Well, maybe there really was a Dr. Pangloss. I see now that I was wrong.”

  There was an almost immediate draining away of tension. Chloe visibly relaxed, and took another sip of coffee. Her hands were steady now. “I did know somebody who was a bit of a Pangloss,” she said. “He was an optimist. His name was Macintyre, but I always called him Pangloss.” She paused and directed a smile at Paul. “I didn’t marry him.”

  “Then you never were Mrs. Pangloss,” said Paul.

  “Of course not,” said Chloe. “Had I been, I would have hung on to the name. How could one resist? It would be delicious. Imagine having one’s name called out at an airport. Will Mrs. Pangloss kindly report to the ticketing desk? Imagine.”

  “Except that nobody these days would recognise the reference,” said Paul. “Nobody reads Candide any longer.”

  Chloe’s response was tossed off quickly. “I don’t expect them to. But I thought the definition of an educated person was one who at least knows what’s in the great books he or she hasn’t read.”

  This was a return of Chloe to form, and Paul smiled as he helped himself to a croissant and a refreshed bowl of coffee. The action of putting jam on the croissant, and the tearing of it into bite-sized pieces, gave him the opportunity to think. He felt relief. It had been an absurd suspicion on his part, and he felt ashamed of himself. Chloe had been nothing but kind to him. She had lent him the flat in Edinburgh and now she was sharing with him her house here in France. She had not even asked for a contribution to the housekeeping expenses; Paul had already tried to pay his share, and had been rebuffed; now he was planning to press the money on her. He should not have doubted her.

  * * *

  —

  That morning Paul gave Claude the first of his promised master-classes. Chloe was there, half listening to what was said, but for the most part busying herself with what she described as a deep cleaning of the kitchen. Cupboards were opened, contents taken out, sniffed, and in some cases tasted before being replaced or peremptorily tossed into the bin. Paul was struck by Claude’s acceptance of this gross interference in his kitchen by one who was no more than a temporary, unqualified waitress—and a volunteer at that. He found it difficult to imagine a French chef of any standing tolerating such behaviour, but then he reminded himself that Claude was not a chef of any standing at all—he ran what, after all, was known locally as the second-worst restaurant in France; he was on notice from the local doctor that he might be reported to the health authorities; and his kitchen had only recently doubled up as a maternity ward. In such circumstances he was in no position to resist.

  From the cupboards, Chloe moved on to the saucepans. These were of some antiquity, bought from the kitchens of some crumbling and unloved chateau, made of copper, and hung on pegs along one wall. Taken down, they were stacked in the sink while Chloe methodically scrubbed each one before returning it to its peg.

  “How dirt accumulates,” she said cheerfully, peering into the largest of these pans. “Whole generations of bacteria here. Look, Paul. Take a look. This might explain your recent discomfort.”

  Paul was embarrassed at Chloe’s apparent lack of concern for Claude’s feelings. He himself had glossed over the debacle with the mussels when Claude had repeated his apology. It was not helpful, he thought, to bring up the issue afresh.

  Once again, Claude seemed to accept the criticism without demur. “You’re right,” he muttered. “I must be more care
ful about that sort of thing.”

  “Yes,” said Chloe. “You must. It’s probably that pretty little boy of yours.”

  “My nephew,” began Claude. “Yes…”

  “His nephew,” Paul whispered to Chloe. “His nephew, Chloe.”

  “I know that,” snapped Chloe. “But that’s no excuse.”

  “I’ll speak to him,” promised Claude.

  Paul scrutinised Claude’s expression. There was no resentment that he could see, which fitted, he felt, with Chloe’s supposition that Claude was in love with her. And looking at him now, Paul thought that this was probably true. The chef’s eyes were fixed on Chloe, and whenever she glanced in his direction, they lit up. It was strange, Paul thought, how there was light behind the eyes, and how ready was that light to shine when confronted with an object of desire. Yes, Claude had fallen for Chloe—that was utterly apparent—and she…well, that was more difficult to read. She clearly liked Claude, although her treatment of him now seemed to be inspired by something akin to tough love. A man might be admitted to the circle of her affection, it would seem, but only if his copper saucepans passed muster. That, Paul thought, had not yet happened.

  While Chloe continued with her cleaning mission, Paul, with one eye on the clock, went over the proposed lunchtime menu with Claude. They did not have much time, it already being ten o’clock, and the first customers for lunch being likely to arrive shortly after twelve. Claude had various courses in mind, including a mushroom quiche he had made the previous day. This was examined and quickly condemned.

  “The pastry,” said Paul, “is inadequately cooked. It’s soggy.”

  Claude looked crestfallen. “One does not want pastry to be too dry and crumbly,” he said.

  “Nor raw,” said Paul, prising a small section off the edge of the quiche. “Look. This is sticking to my fingers.”

  Attention passed to the soup, which was onion-based, and which had been made three days earlier. The bread that can accompany such a soup had been put into the pot at the time of initial preparation, with the result that it had now totally disintegrated, joining at the bottom of the liquid the cheese that had been transformed into a glutinous mass. For some reason that Paul could not fathom, this soup, which should have been brown, was of a curious green colour.

  “We have the time to begin again,” Paul said as he laid down the spoon used to taste the soup. He tried but did not entirely succeed in suppressing an expression of shock on registering the taste of the curious green offering.

  “You don’t like it?” asked Claude. He leaned forward nervously to examine his own creation.

  “It’s not that I don’t like it,” said Paul hurriedly. “It’s just that it’s somewhat unusual—for soupe à l’oignon.”

  Seeing Claude’s crestfallen look, Paul added, “There are different views about this sort of soup, you know. Some people make it without beer and wine. Some people even leave out the vinegar.”

  Claude looked panicky. “Beer? Wine?”

  “Let me show you,” said Paul. “Where are your onions?”

  Chloe, who had caught some of this exchange, replied from the other side of the kitchen. “I think you might be looking for these,” she said, producing a few undernourished onions, most of which, having been picked too early, were still green. Paul took them and examined them. “I’m afraid these won’t do,” he said. “This soup is onion-based. Onions are at the heart of it.”

  Claude looked at his watch. “Could you give me ten minutes?”

  Paul was doubtful. “We don’t have much time.”

  “Just ten minutes,” Claude insisted. “My sister—Hugo’s mother. She lives in the village. She always has onions.”

  “And a few bottles of beer?” asked Paul. “Dark beer? Amber’s best.”

  Claude nodded. “Her larder is always well stocked.”

  Once Claude had slipped out, Chloe gave Paul a thumbs-up sign. “He just needs a little encouragement,” she said. “Cooking’s a question of confidence, don’t you think?”

  “Confidence and the right ingredients,” Paul replied. “These onions…” He gestured hopelessly to the small and bedraggled pile.

  Chloe returned to her cleaning tasks. Now it was the turn of the chopping boards, which she began to scrub energetically in soapy water. That task took longer than she had imagined, as years of fat had been worked into the wood. This now emerged like the lower layers of a palimpsest, to be scoured off and washed away. Paul watched with the fascination of distaste, but was impressed by Chloe’s non-judgemental cheerfulness. He felt proud of her, and of her no-nonsense willingness to roll up her sleeves and tackle so potentially dispiriting a task. And he was impressed, too, that the goal was the benefit of others, and not personal gain of any sort.

  Paul tackled the grating of cheese and the slicing of garlic. By the time Claude returned, everything was ready for the softening of the onions in one of the newly cleaned pans—a process that Paul intended that Claude should perform under close supervision. It was an elementary skill, but such was his lack of confidence in Claude’s ability that he wanted to ascertain that he knew enough to distinguish between caramelisation and the state of being burned. He found it hard to believe that anybody could be so inept and still be in business; perhaps local opinion was right—perhaps this really was the second-worst restaurant in France.

  Claude was not away long. He had found a good supply of onions—four long strings of them, in fact, neatly plaited in the way of the Breton countryside, in perfect condition and ready for use. But he had also found his nephew, who was now with him, holding a couple of these onion strings and taking in, with visible astonishment, the transformation that was being effected in the kitchen.

  “My nephew is back,” announced Claude, nodding towards the young man. “He has thought things through.”

  Smiling, Paul offered a handshake. “Would you care to help us?” he said. “We’re working on a couple of dishes for lunch.”

  Hugo nodded, and went to retrieve an apron hung on the back of a door. This brought a shaking of Chloe’s finger. “That apron’s filthy,” she said. “Here.” She extracted a freshly laundered white apron from a bag she had brought with her. Hugo took it and donned it with satisfaction.

  “Better?” asked Chloe.

  “Much better,” muttered Hugo.

  “It’s all a question of attitude,” said Chloe. Turning to Paul, she suggested that the master-class resume. “Make large quantities of that soup,” she said. “There’ll be plenty of takers, and we can all have a bowl ourselves for our own lunch before people arrive.”

  Paul began. He noticed that although Claude was participating, his attention was wandering and was focused, he thought, more on Chloe than on the master-class. In contrast, Hugo was watching his every move with rapt attention. After a while, it was Hugo to whom he addressed his remarks; Claude appeared not to mind, and slowly distanced himself, drifting over towards Chloe to help her with one of her cleaning tasks.

  The young man showed himself to be a responsive pupil. The soupe à l’oignon was not an unduly complicated dish, even according to the more intricate traditional recipe that Paul was following, and it was soon prepared and ready for serving. The other dishes planned for lunch were a wild mushroom roulade, made with ceps that Paul had acquired at the market the previous day, guineafowl with a red wine jus, and sole served with sauce Dugléré.

  The sole Dugléré that Paul proposed brought a reaction from Hugo. “Dugléré,” said Hugo. “Adolphe Dugléré was a very great chef.”

  Paul looked at him with interest. “You know about him?”

  Hugo nodded. “Yes. I’ve read about him.” Then he added, “I prefer sole Véronique, though.”

  Paul could barely conceal his astonishment. “You do, do you?”

  “Yes. And we have grapes outside that we could
use for that. They’ve been growing against the wall back there. They’re ready.”

  Paul looked thoughtful. “Are you interested in the great chefs?”

  Hugo nodded. “Yes, of course. I have books about some of them.”

  “Sole Véronique?” asked Paul.

  “Auguste Escoffier,” answered Hugo. “He invented that. It was something to do with an opera called Véronique, I think. But it may have been different.”

  “Oh yes?”

  “There are some who say that Mallet, who was chef at the Ritz in Paris, invented it and named it after another chef’s new daughter.”

  Paul smiled. “I didn’t know that.”

  Hugo glanced at his uncle, now on the other side of the room. “Uncle was never really interested in that sort of thing. He’s always said that food is just food.” He paused. “I don’t think that way, monsieur. I think it’s a whole lot more.”

  “Well, you’re absolutely right,” said Paul.

  “I wanted to work at one of the big restaurants,” Hugo continued. “That restaurant in Vienne, for instance, the one where Monsieur Point was chef. He was a great man.”

  Paul knew about that. “A very great man,” he said. “But why didn’t you get a job somewhere like that?”

  Hugo looked down at his hands. “My father’s blind,” he said. “We have an orchard. My mother can’t cope with it. She needs to look after my father, and I have to help her. I can’t get away.”

  “I’m very sorry,” said Paul. “Has he…Has he been like that for long?”

  “Four years,” said Hugo. “I was sixteen when it happened. He was cutting a branch of a tree with a chainsaw when the chain broke. It snapped back across his face.”

  Paul winced.

  “They couldn’t save his eyes. They tried, but they couldn’t. So now he’s blind.” He paused. “Uncle gave me a job so that I could stay here. I shouldn’t have left the other day, but I was just so fed up. He never let me do the cooking. He had to do it all the time. I was just to be his assistant.”