Monsieur Pamplemousse and the French Solution (19 page)

So much had happened over the past few days it was like trying to assemble a giant jigsaw puzzle against the clock. His eyelids grew heavy, and before he was aware of what was happening, he fell into a dream involving the proposed tasting.

It was taking place in the Director’s office, and it involved a group of his closest friends and their pets, all of whom, including the dogs, were dressed for the occasion.

Towering above the competition, Pommes Frites seemed to have got it into his head that he was being tested on what
not
to eat. Blindfolded, he sank his teeth into what he clearly thought was a piece of sub-standard meat and, having discovered it was a dachshund, quickly spat it out. The victim gave a loud howl as it shot across the room, rebounded off a Chihuahua groping its way across Monsieur Leclercq’s desk, and landed face down in a waste bin.

Understandably frightened out of its wits, the Chihuahua leapt onto Monsieur Leclercq’s chair, where it relieved itself in no uncertain manner. Meanwhile, an Irish Terrier, not wishing to be left out of things, deposited a sizeable
bronze
on the carpet.

To cap it all, an immaculately clad miniature Italian Greyhound, having blundered into the offering while trying to escape, was so upset it elicited screams from all around as it began looking for something suitable against which it could wipe itself clean.

Above the hubbub he could hear Monsieur Leclercq’s voice shouting his name: ‘Pamplemousse! Pamplemousse, where are you?’

But by then he was too far away to answer, let alone care.

Having spotted Pommes Frites shedding his blindfold and making a bolt for it, he found himself careering after him on a bicycle.

Approaching a particularly steep section of a mountain road, Pommes Frites cleared it with a single bound, disappearing into a bank of low cloud.

Monsieur Pamplemousse was less fortunate. His bicycle having developed a squeak, the pedals became harder and harder to turn. His feet grew heavier and heavier with the effort, almost as though they were made of lead. And as the squeak turned into a groan, so the clouds got darker and darker, until they threatened to engulf him …

He tried brushing them aside, but they refused to move, and the more he tried the harder it became … until … he gave one last heave and woke to find he was clutching one of Pommes Frites’ paws.

Almost immediately, he heard the familiar sound of his key finder. It seemed to be coming from another room …

Struggling into a sitting position and forcing himself awake, his first thought was to reach for the light switch, but smelling gas and realising the slightest spark could cause an explosion, he felt for his torch instead.

Undoing the bedroom door, he rushed into the kitchen and shone the light towards the stove. Registering the oven door was open, he hastily turned off the tap and made a dive for the window.

Pommes Frites joined him, and together they took a deep breath. Never had a draft of cold air felt so welcome.

A quick search of the rest of the apartment proved fruitless, and the hallway outside their apartment was in darkness. A single sweep with the torch showed the bulb from the overhead light had been removed.

Nose down, Pommes Frites made his way towards the lift. It was a forlorn hope, but Monsieur Pamplemousse pressed the down button, stifling his impatience as it seemed to take forever to arrive.

As he feared, the trail petered out not far from their apartment block, suggesting that whoever the intruder was, he or she had used a car.

Returning to the living room, he automatically glanced up at the wall clock. Expecting it to show two, or perhaps even three o’clock, he was surprised to see it was still only a few minutes after eleven.

Checking through his list of dialling codes, he reached for the phone.

It was a long call and he had no sooner replaced the
receiver than there was an incoming one.

‘If I didn’t know you better,’ said Jacques, ‘I would say you were trying to avoid me.’

‘I was phoning Sicily,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Monsieur Leclercq’s wife has an uncle there …’

‘So I have heard tell.’

‘I thought it was time he was brought up to date.’

‘There are some things I would rather not know,’ said Jacques unhappily.

‘It might be as well if you did,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.

As succinctly as possible, he spelt out what had happened. ‘If it hadn’t been for Pommes Frites keeping guard I might not be here now.

‘I gave Chantal’s uncle your number,’ he continued, breaking the silence, ‘in case anything untoward happens. Uncle Caputo doesn’t waste time once he has his mind set on something, and there could be other things you would rather not know about.’

‘Thanks a heap,’ said Jacques. ‘Don’t think I’m ungrateful, but the only reason I rang was to let you know Dubois came out of prison six months ago. Good behaviour, so they say.’

‘It is all relative,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.

‘You should know,’ said Jacques. He hesitated. ‘Joking aside, I’m glad you’re all right, Aristide.’

‘I have Pommes Frites to thank for that,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Some of his presents come in very useful at times.’

Had Monsieur Pamplemousse been called upon to describe the scene in
Le Guide
’s fourth-floor boardroom the following morning, he would have been hard put to find the right words without resorting to his thesaurus. Even then, it certainly wouldn’t have come under the sub-heading of
TASTE
: meaning flavour, gusto, palate, relish or savour, but rather
UNSAVOURINESS
, and all that went with it: loathsome, nauseous, repulsion and sickening.

The reason was all too apparent. Apart from Pommes Frites, those taking part in the tasting were of a vastly different calibre to the ones in his dream.

A more motley collection of cross-bred canines of doubtful parentage would have been hard to picture. Where they had all come from was anybody’s guess. Straining and slobbering at their leashes, most
looked as though they were more used to feeding out of dustbins rather than the Limoges china bowls provided by
Le Guide
’s catering staff.

Each and every one appeared more than ready to wolf down anything that was laid before it without so much as a second thought, let alone a preliminary sniff.

Monsieur Leclercq and his lawyers had certainly gone to town in preparing the ground to their best advantage.

Peace and quiet was in short supply, and the small but elite gathering of adjudicators seated on the sidelines looked as though they couldn’t wait for the whole thing to be over.

He recognised several well-known names from the world of haute cuisine; among them Jay Corby, rotund food correspondent for a prominent American journal, who stood out from among a small group of well-known restaurant owners and their chefs, specially co-opted for the occasion.

Seated alongside them, although slightly apart, was a well-known judge; notorious for her short way with anyone who tested her patience, whether they were on the right side of the law or not.

Apart from Véronique, who was in charge of the tasting arrangements, she was the only female present. There was no sign of Maria.

The rest of the audience was made up of a small contingent from the fourth estate. Notebooks at the ready, they looked unsure as to why they were there at all.

At the appointed hour of 10 a.m. proceedings began with a dissertation by the renowned television pundit, animal expert and doyen of the canine show circuit, Oscar Durand.

A patrician figure in English tweeds, he had difficulty in making himself heard as he soliloquised on the sensitivity of dogs, notably bloodhounds, to smells … pause for a meaningful nod in Pommes Frites’ direction, followed by a further pause as his gesture met with sporadic clapping from the staff.

As Durand moved on to instancing particular case histories; the unique ability of certain breeds to search out narcotics and explosives, and the fact that, given suitable olfactory training, they could detect practically anything, from truffles to bedbugs, and – a recent exciting development – cancer in human beings, Monsieur Pamplemousse’s attention began to wander.

Anxious to get down to brass tacks, he wondered if he had done the right thing in giving Pommes Frites an extra helping of breakfast that morning. He had done so in order to take the edge off his appetite in case hunger got the better of his normal instinct to seek out the best.

His sense of smell certainly hadn’t deserted him. When they arrived at
Le Guide
’s Headquarters that morning, he had gone straight to work.

Although barely 7 a.m., the large double gates were thrown wide open and the inner courtyard was alive with vans coming and going. He couldn’t
help noticing that even in the somewhat mundane area of delivering food, there was a definite pecking order. Those bearing illustrious names in the world of
boucherie
metaphorically elbowed their way in front of others belonging to various
supermarchés
, as though it were a God-given right.

Canteen staff were already on duty helping to unload trays of meat;
Le Guide
’s resident chef, Claude Bouquet, armed with a clipboard, meticulously ticking off each new arrival. At its height, it could have been a miniature replica of Rungis market at dawn.

Ignoring all the commotion, Pommes Frites, nose to the ground, tail erect, made a bee-line for the gatekeeper’s lodge. Unfazed by the fact that the door appeared to be locked, he took off in another direction, following a trail that led him first of all to the Smart car, still parked in the same place, then towards the main entrance. Only when he came up against the revolving doors did his tail begin to droop, presumably because the scent merged with too many others to separate it.

If nothing else, it confirmed in Monsieur Pamplemousse’s mind the identity of the previous night’s visitor. Thank goodness it hadn’t been Doucette all on her own; although, having said that, given the time the break-in took place, the intruder must have been somewhere outside on the look-out for his and Pommes Frites’ return.

If the present trail were fresh, it must mean Dubois was somewhere on the premises, perhaps involved in
some way with the preparations, and he wondered what his reaction would be if and when he caught sight of them. It could bring matters to a head.

Suddenly realising Durand had stopped talking and the Director was about to hold forth, he tried to concentrate on the job in hand.

‘The procedure is simple,’ began Monsieur Leclercq. ‘Each of the dogs taking part will be presented with three bowls. For the sake of clarity they will be marked A, B, and C. The first round will involve cooked chicken, the second lamb, and the third beef.

‘On each occasion one of the bowls will contain a top quality product from a premiere supplier – a known specialist in that particular area. The other two bowls will contain a lower grade meat. The object of the exercise is to ascertain the animals’ reaction to being given a choice. Will they,
par exemple
, show any indication of singling out one as being preferable to the other two?

‘We are leaving our own Pommes Frites until last, as the object of the exercise is to demonstrate that he is a dog of taste and discernment and, after a preliminary inspection, will always, without any hesitation, choose the best.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse glanced at the clock on the wall. The thespian in Monsieur Leclercq was beginning to take over. Any moment now he would be back in his favourite role, that of Robespierre the Incorruptible.

In Monsieur Pamplemousse’s humble opinion,
anyone who believed the people of France should exist on a diet of lentils would have been a most unsuitable candidate for being Director of
Le Guide
.

Robespierre had undoubtedly been an orator
par
excellence
but, like Monsieur Leclercq, once he was in full flow, had been hard to stop. In the end, he was only silenced by his own hand when he shot himself in the mouth rather than be shouted down.

Far be it for him to dwell on such parallels, but as the Director paused to make sure all the points had sunk in, Monsieur Pamplemousse couldn’t help but feel proud of his use of the words ‘our own’ when referring to Pommes Frites.

In any case, his thoughts were interrupted by the Judge.

‘May I,’ she called, ‘be permitted to ask if the prime product will always be in the same lettered bowl?’

‘No, madame,’ replied Monsieur Leclercq. ‘The arrangement will be entirely at random. The only person to know the answer to that question will be my secretary.’ He motioned towards Véronique. She will announce it before each sitting.

‘How do we know your dog can’t read?’ asked a member of the press, eliciting giggles from the rest of the corps.

The Judge fixed the speaker with a freezing stare. Had he been in the dock, the poor man would undoubtedly have been sentenced on the spot for contempt of court.

‘I am sure Pommes Frites will happily submit to
being blindfolded,’ said Monsieur Leclercq hurriedly, ‘although I hardly think that is necessary.

‘For the benefit of those among us who have a vested interest in knowing where the prime products originate,’ he continued, ‘let me tell you the chicken is from Le Poulet de Bresse in the 16
^th
arrondissement
, the lamb is from Jean-Paul Gardil on the Ile St Louis – we are fortunate in that respect as the first of the seasons
agneau des Pyrénées
has just arrived. The beef is from Boucherie Jean-Jacques, also in the 16
^th
.’

There was a murmur of approval from the chefs, and pencils raced across pads as those in the press corps took their cue. Monsieur Pamplemousse couldn’t help thinking it might be well worth eating in the canteen for the next few days, assuming there was any meat left over.

‘And now, if the handlers will all move to the far end of the room,’ said Monsieur Leclercq, ‘we will arrange for the first dishes to be brought in.’

While this was happening, he moved across and joined Monsieur Pamplemousse.

‘I trust Pommes Frites’ taste buds are on song,’ he hissed. ‘A great deal rests on his shoulders.’

‘I am quietly confident,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘I don’t think he has much to fear from the opposition, although I doubt if their owners will thank you. They have probably never had it so good. Future appetites will have been whetted.’

‘The team assembling them excelled themselves,’ said Monsieur Leclercq. ‘As for the owners; people who
allow their dogs to roam the streets of Paris in the early hours are asking for trouble. That said, I doubt if many of those here today can lay claim to having an owner. They are probably counting themselves fortunate to end up with a free meal in pleasant surroundings, the like of which they probably haven’t experienced for a long time.

‘Perhaps we should have blind-folded them after all,’ he mused. ‘They will probably be hanging around in the rue Fabert for weeks to come. I must issue instructions to Bourdel.’

‘I didn’t see him this morning,’ ventured Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Is he in today?’

‘He volunteered to oversee security arrangements behind the scenes,’ said Monsieur Leclercq. ‘I have sent for Rambaud to help out. I hope he doesn’t take too long getting here. He isn’t always that quick off the mark and he is very set in his ways …’ He broke off as Véronique entered with the first of the dishes on a tray.

Knowing how ponderous Rambaud could be when he felt like it, Monsieur Pamplemousse felt the Director was being a trifle over optimistic and subsequent events proved him right.

Dog after dog obeyed Véronique’s call, and without pausing for breath, devoured the entire contents of the bowls; nearest first, furthest away last. Licked cleaned until it would have been possible to see their faces in them, all but one dish survived the onslaught. The exception fell victim to a Rottweiler with yellowing
teeth. Much to chef Bouquet’s evident disgust, it broke into several pieces. Worse still, when he tried to retrieve them, he narrowly escaped a mauling himself.

Monsieur Pamplemousse regretted not having armed himself with a camera. There were
Cartier-Bresson
moments galore.

For his part, Pommes Frites viewed the goings-on with detached interest.

Why Monsieur Leclercq should be throwing a party, asking all manner of stray dogs along, was beyond his understanding. He would much sooner have had a quiet meal with his master somewhere; just the two of them. On the other hand, there was no accounting for the way human beings behaved at times, and it was usually best to humour them. If the Director wanted to give him an early lunch, then so be it. He wasn’t complaining.

He pricked up his ears as Monsieur Leclercq began speaking again.

‘There are no prizes,’ he said, ‘for guessing which chicken will prove the best of the three. Bresse is the only poultry in the world to enjoy the protection of a controlled name:
Appellation d’Origine Controllée
. To acquire that accolade they have to meet strict criteria, not only in their breeding, but in the presentation. As the great French gastronome Brillat-Savarin once put it: “When fattened, the birds of Bresse are to cuisine what canvas is to painters, or the cap of Fortunatus to charlatans.”

‘All three birds have been cooked to perfection by
chef Bouquet. All that remains is for Pommes Frites to choose which, in his considered opinion, is the best.’

Resting his case, the Director signalled Monsieur Pamplemousse to release his charge.

‘It is in bowl B,’ said Véronique, breaking the hush that came over the audience.

Instinctively sensing what was required of him, Pommes Frites made a show of giving all three bowls a preliminary sniff, then made light work of the chicken in the middle one.

A round of applause went up as he returned to his master, licking his lips.

He was beginning to enjoy himself. Travelling the length and breadth of France with his master, he had been lucky enough to encounter a great many excellent meals over the years, but never before had he been applauded for eating one.

In the short time at his disposal he had worked out in his own mind what was happening. All the other dogs were there to be auditioned for his post. If that were the case, he would show them. Spurred on by his success, he couldn’t wait for the arrival of the next course.

‘This test, involving the lamb,’ announced the Director, ‘is a good deal harder. Apart from
agneau de
lait des Pyrénées
…’

‘Which is in bowl C,’ Véronique broke in on cue.

‘… we have also included a
pré-salé
lamb from Normandy, which, as I am sure you all know, is famous for the very special taste imparted by virtue
of the sheep having grazed on the iodine-rich flora of coastal pasturelands when the tide is out. However, in my opinion, it doesn’t hold a candle to lambs born from sheep that have spent the summer months grazing on the grassy slopes of the Pyrénées, rich in all manner of wild flowers and herbs. That, too, is a very special taste.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse felt a momentary unease, wondering if his friend and mentor would take one sniff and compare Chef Bouquet’s handiwork unfavourably with Martine’s.