Monsieur Pamplemousse and the French Solution (7 page)

Monsieur Pamplemousse stared at the photograph. It showed the inside of a restaurant and bore many of the telltale signs of having been taken on a mobile phone.

A small section of the original must have been blown up out of all proportion. Pixels were in short supply.

‘It is a good one of Pommes Frites,’ he admitted, holding it down for him to see. ‘He looks very pleased with life.’

‘As well he might be,’ said the Director grimly. ‘
Poularde de Bresse en Vessie
, if I am not mistaken.
Helped on its way by a bottle of Montrachet. I trust it was a good year.’

‘I remember the occasion,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse defensively. ‘We were in Lyon and I ordered the
poularde
because it is one of the chef’s specialities. I was handing Pommes Frites his share while I thought no one else was looking. Clearly, I was mistaken, although why anyone would wish to take a picture of us, I don’t know. May I keep it?’

Monsieur Leclercq heaved a deep sigh.

‘I fear not, Pamplemousse,’ he said severely. ‘We may yet need it for what our lawyers will undoubtedly refer to as Exhibit “A” when a case is brought to court.

‘As for why anyone should wish to photograph the scene in the first place, the answer is simple. It was sent to one of France’s most illustrious
journaux
, along with an article by an unnamed freelance journalist. Fortunately, the editor happens to be an old friend of mine and he has promised to hold back on the story for the time being.

‘The writer of the article stated categorically that we are in an even worse state than Michelin. He says we are now so short of inspectors we have had to resort to using dogs to do the field work for us!’

‘But …’ Monsieur Pamplemousse stared at the Director, ‘that is ridiculous …’

‘Ridiculous it may be,’ said Monsieur Leclercq. ‘However, you know as well as I do, Aristide, that once the media get hold of a story like that there will be no holding them. They will have a field day.
Ultimately, it could spell ruin for
Le Guide
.’

‘I would back Pommes Frites’ opinion against anyone else you care to mention,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse loyally. ‘His powers of observation are second to none. Many times over the years I have had to amend my reports following something he has noticed. It is not so much a question of taste – the food generally goes down at such a rate it barely touches the side of his throat. It is more a matter of scent. The preliminary sniff says it all. If there is anything the slightest bit untoward, you can forget it. I have often thought of writing an article on the subject of animals and food for the staff magazine.

‘In fact,’ he held the picture up to the light, ‘this is the kind of shot Calvet is always on the look-out for the front cover of
l’Escargot
. He has a theory that once you have seen one snail you have seen the lot.

‘That is not to criticise
Le Guide
’s logo of two
escargots
rampant,’ he added hastily. ‘But when they have their heads inside their shell it is hard to tell what they are thinking or, indeed, whether they are coming or going, and they probably feel the same way. I daresay Trigaux would be able to liven it up a bit in his lab. He loves getting his teeth into that kind of problem.’

‘And what did Pommes Frites think of the wine?’ asked Monsieur Leclercq, pointedly. ‘I haven’t had your P38 report downloaded, Madame Grante is away at the moment, but it looks to me very much like an ’86 from Sauzet. That is also one of his favourites, I presume?’

‘We happened to be in a three Stock Pot establishment, monsieur; one that prides itself on its wine list. To have ordered a glass of the house white would have drawn attention to our table. Suspicions would have been aroused.’

‘There is such a thing as a happy medium,’ said the Director grumpily.

It struck Monsieur Pamplemousse that the rumours might be true and Monsieur Leclercq really was engaged in a financial blitzkrieg. The lack of a water bowl for Pommes Frites could be part of a
cost-cutting
exercise. However, there were limits.

Besides, it didn’t gel with his engaging the services of a doubtlessly highly paid security guard at the gates.

He tried one last ploy. ‘As you have so often pointed out in the past, monsieur, “good wine is never expensive, only bad wine”.’

‘In any case,’ he continued, ‘Pommes Frites simply had his usual sniff of my glass under the table. That hardly counts as sharing. Apart from birthdays and Christmas, he is, to all intents and purposes, teetotal.’

‘Others are not cognisant of that fact, Pamplemousse,’ said the Director. ‘For all they know he could have been on his second or third bottle.’

‘Apart from a soupçon in his water bowl at Christmas, wine is not his particular forte, monsieur,’ continued Monsieur Pamplemousse defensively. ‘He is hardly in line to become an honorary member of Alcoholics Anonymous.

‘Occasionally, if it is a vintage red that has thrown some sediment, he stretches a point and has a morsel on some bread for his memory bank, but that is as far as it goes. He prefers to keep his sensory perceptions unsullied by alcohol, honed and ready for action at all times.’

‘All that may be true,’ said the Director. ‘However, I fear certain parallels can be drawn between the picture you are holding in your hand and Michelin’s recent problem with the ex-member of staff we were talking about earlier.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse wondered if the same person could be responsible for the latest picture, but he kept his thoughts to himself.

‘Clearly, monsieur,’ he said, handing it back, ‘there are problems that need to be addressed.’

Monsieur Leclercq’s face cleared. ‘I’m glad you are of like mind, Aristide. With that end in view I have engaged outside help.’

‘So I am given to understand,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse warily.

‘Speaking personally, I was fully prepared to put your case on the back boiler for the time being, but my adviser makes the very valid point that should the picture ever be published, your own anonymity, so precious when working for
Le Guide
, will be blown.

‘In short, I fear Pommes Frites will have to go.’

Having finally made his point, Monsieur Leclercq busied himself with some papers on his desk.

For the second time that day, the principal subject
of his words gave vent to his feelings. Seeing the picture of the chicken portions after the prolonged absence of any kind of food whatsoever since breakfast, was bad enough. Now, having caught sight of the look on his master’s face, he simply couldn’t help himself. His long drawn-out howl captured the prevailing mood in a way that mere words could never have achieved.

As for Monsieur Pamplemousse; he was temporarily struck dumb.

Monsieur Leclercq was quick to take advantage of the silence. ‘It only serves to confirm the wisdom of the old adage, Aristide,’ he said gently. ‘There is no point whatsoever in buying a dog and then barking yourself.

‘There is nothing more to add. Pommes Frites has said it all.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse took a deep breath as he rose to leave. ‘In that case, monsieur,’ he said, enunciating his words slowly and distinctly, thus leaving no room for doubt, ‘you will have no further need of my services either. As I see things, it spells the end of the road for both of us. If monsieur would be kind enough to say when he wishes us to leave …’

Reaching for a notepad and pen, Monsieur Leclercq scribbled a few hasty words before glancing at his watch.

‘I think now is as good a time as any, Pamplemousse,’ he said, handing the scrap of paper across the table. ‘Before you leave the building I suggest you clear your
IN
tray.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse pocketed the paper. ‘That will not be necessary monsieur,’ he said stiffly. ‘I went through it when we arrived. There is nothing outstanding.’

‘That being the case,’ said Monsieur Leclercq, ‘I can but wish both of you
bonne journée
.’

‘Is anything the matter, Aristide?’ asked Doucette. ‘You’ve hardly touched your dinner. After all that rich food you’ve been eating over the past few weeks, I thought you might be glad of something more down to earth.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse raised his eyes heavenwards. It was one of the hazards of his occupation. In much the same way as an author renders himself an object of deep suspicion in the eyes of the tax authorities if he enters ‘visits to the Folies – Bergère x 4’ on his tax return while researching a book on folk dancing, so the commonly perceived view of anyone working as an inspector for
Le Guide
was that life must be one long gastronomic holiday.

Even one’s nearest and dearest took it for granted you were living it up all the time, completely ignoring
the simple fact that the ten thousand or so entries in
Le Guide
represented the cream of French cuisine. Reporting on the many others who, for one reason or another didn’t make the grade, was the downside of the job.

Many small hotels, once the backbone of the business, had fallen on hard times. The bedrooms, with their worn-out carpets and mattresses sporting a permanent dip in the middle, remained ice-cold in winter and sweltering hot during the summer months because their one-time mainstay, the
voyageurs commerces
, were themselves fighting a losing battle with customers who were now placing their orders via the Internet.

On the gastronomic side, it took no account of those restaurants whose over-elaborate menus meant only one thing; prefabricated frozen meals. Often, if the truth be known, well beyond their ‘consume by’ date.

To cap it all, at the end of every day, five hundred boxes in
Le Guide
’s questionnaire covering every item from Ashtrays in the bedroom to Zabaglione in the restaurant, had to be marked with a tick or a cross, comments being added where necessary.

‘I’m sorry, Couscous,’ he said. ‘My mind was on other things.’

‘Well,’ remarked Doucette, ‘whatever it was, Pommes Frites seems to have caught the bug as well. He’s hardly touched his plate. Don’t tell me he has his mind on other things as well. Just look at his face. Knowing he doesn’t like fish, I got him something different.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse pulled himself together. Doucette was right. It must be extremely galling to go to so much trouble over a meal, only to have it treated with a lack of respect.

For the time being, he relegated his problems to what Monsieur Leclercq would have called the ‘back burner’.

Doucette had chosen well. What he fondly called ‘the prawn dish’ fitted his mood after a long day behind the wheel; the bottle of white Corbières Vieilles Vignes from Roland Legard, just what the proverbial doctor might have ordered.

‘Couscous,’ he said, ‘you are
une perle
; and adventurous with it, branching out into unknown territory all by yourself like this. The Languedoc is a vast area.’

Doucette went a becoming shade of pink. ‘I am not married to a food inspector for nothing.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse returned to the matter in hand.

Although he had nicknamed it the ‘prawn dish’, he might just as well have called it the ‘egg dish’, or ‘the one with the sliced tomatoes’; for all three ingredients were combined in separate layers. Enveloped in a cheese sauce, capped by a layer of breadcrumbs, and cooked in the oven until the top was golden brown, it was a dish for all seasons.

Spearing a particularly large prawn, he held it up to the light. ‘
Parfait
!’ he exclaimed.

Their good friends, the Pickerings, whose recipe it
was, maintained the dish was at its best in the early part of the year, when it could be accompanied by peas fresh from the garden and roast potatoes. But then,
les Anglais
were wedded to what they called their ‘two veg’.

Being French, Monsieur and Madame Pamplemousse were content to accompany their version with a fresh, green salad.

There were other minor differences of course; the prawns in particular were a good example. According to Mr Pickering, theirs were deep frozen and rarely, if ever, recovered their distinctive taste after being shelled by machine somewhere or other on the far side of the world, whereas the Pamplemousse’s were
sea-fresh
from the local
poissonnier
.

But wasn’t that so with most recipes? A flourishing industry had been built up satisfying the insatiable need of people who invested heavily in cookery books hoping that something magical would happen, only to blame anyone but themselves when it didn’t. In the end it wasn’t only a matter of fresh ingredients; the hands that melded them together were important too.

‘I am very lucky’, he said, ‘that you have the touch, Doucette. It is something you were born with, unlike some.’

The ‘unlike some’, was a reference to her sister Agathe, who had certainly missed out on that score with her
tripes à la mode de Caen
. It was a case of being wise after the event, but in retrospect he often wished he hadn’t been quite so lavish with his praise
the first time they met when he had been on his best behaviour. From that moment on he had always been given it as ‘a treat’

Realising he still hadn’t answered his wife’s question, he helped himself to a second portion while trying to condense the story into as few words as possible.

Doucette listened in silence until he reached the point where Monsieur Leclercq delivered his bombshell regarding Pommes Frites.

She gazed across the table at her husband.

‘But can he do that? Surely there are laws …’

‘Pommes Frites is not a member of staff,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse simply. ‘He has no rights.’

‘But that is terrible, Aristide. You cannot let it happen.’

‘You see my dilemma, Couscous,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘And to give the Director his due, I can see his side of the argument. That being the case, I have no alternative but to resign.

‘Monsieur Leclercq is paranoid about his work. To him it is the beginning and end of everything. The word “failure” has no place in his vocabulary. Were
Le
Guide
to fail, the disgrace would kill him.’

‘But surely,’ said Doucette, ‘things cannot be as bad as all that. Most businesses have their ups and downs. People have short memories. Given time, it will all blow over …’

‘You don’t know the half of it, Couscous,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse sombrely. ‘For whatever
reason, someone has it in for
Le Guide
. Feelings are running high within the company. So much so, cars are being daubed with graffiti. Such a thing would have been unheard of a few weeks ago.’

‘It seems to me there are a great many sad people in this world who are out to destroy things merely for the sake of it,’ said Doucette. ‘
Les tagueurs
cannot see anything beautiful without wishing to cover it with spray paint, just as there are others who can’t bear to see something that is successful.’

‘It is a worldwide problem,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Not made any easier because generally speaking the perpetrators are often hard to catch.

‘In Grande Bretagne they have a theory that many of those who indulge in graffiti take pride in their work and want others to admire it, so whenever possible they erase it as quickly as possible, hoping that in the end they will give up.

‘In France, we agree with the theory, but feel perhaps the perpetrators should be as it were, privatised, and given a place where they can display their talents to the public in a more civilised fashion; hence the recent exhibition in Paris with a top prize of €1,500.

‘In America, science has been brought to bear on the problem. They have invented a device called the Tagger Trap. Strategically placed, it is activated by the fumes from spray cans which triggers off an alarm in the nearest police station.

‘But these are relatively minor things. When it comes to big business, especially with an organisation like
Le Guide
, where accuracy is paramount, the problem is entirely different. Monsieur Leclercq is right. It takes years to build up a reputation, but mud sticks and it can be destroyed overnight.’

He speared another prawn.

‘In many ways
Le Guide
is not unlike the recipe for this dish; it is the sum of its many parts. Take away one and the rot sets in.

‘Currently,
Le Guide
is suffering from the presence of a suspect crustacea. Such a thing is insidious, for it only takes a single bad one to affect the whole.

‘The culprit in this case is not hard to find. It comes in the shape of a so-called business efficiency expert; a person who, it seems, is able to come and go in their own time and is certainly in a position whereby they can put into effect all manner of little changes, many of which threaten to undermine the very foundations of what, until now, has been a happy and successful company.

‘These things take root and in no time at all begin to multiply, growing like a cancer unless they are caught and dealt with at an early stage.

‘It is what Monsieur Leclercq, fresh from his seminar in the United States, calls the “trickle down” effect.

‘Madame Grante’s refusal to come into the office is a prime example: according to Glandier, expense sheets are piling up, and that in turn means approval of claims is being delayed, which is no small matter.’

‘But, surely …’ Doucette could hardly contain her impatience, ‘if you know the problem, the solution is easy.’

‘I suspect it is more complicated than that,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘I am only giving you the edited version.’

‘You have met this so-called expert?’ asked Doucette.

‘Not yet,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘And now, perhaps I never shall.’

He glanced down at the selection of cutlery left on the table. ‘It is something I intend to get to the bottom of before too long, but in the meantime, what other delights have you in store for me tonight?’

‘
Fruit de saison
,’ said Doucette. ‘Or
yaourt
.

‘They are both very good for you,’ she added, seeing the look on his face.

‘Especially after all you have been eating. If only you had let me know you were coming I might have done better …’

‘There has been a lot of catching up to do, Couscous,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse contritely. ‘Talking of which, have there been any messages for me while we have been away?’

Doucette began clearing the table. ‘Someone was enquiring after you the other day. They asked the concierge if you were still living here, but whoever it was, they didn’t leave a name. He rang to tell me and I went out onto the balcony, pretending I was watering the plants, but I couldn’t see anyone.

‘Also, Véronique phoned. She would like to see you as soon as possible. She said she will be at home this evening …’

‘When was that?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse looked up in surprise.

‘It must have been shortly after you left the office,’ said Doucette. ‘It sounded urgent, but I didn’t say anything before because I know you. It would have spoilt your dinner. You would either have bolted it down as though there were no tomorrow or else gone without it altogether.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse drained his glass. ‘As far as my problem with Pommes Frites is concerned, I am afraid the chief had a point,’ he said. ‘There is only one way to stop it. Find the person who sent the photograph, and take it from there.’

‘Who could it possibly be?’ said Doucette.

Monsieur Pamplemousse shrugged. ‘Perhaps Véronique has some ideas.’ Rising from the table, he disconnected his phone, which had been on charge, and waved towards the darkened balcony. ‘But whoever it is, they must be out there somewhere.’

‘Wrap up well,’ said Doucette in a resigned tone of voice. ‘The nights are still cold.’

Slipping out of the room, she returned a moment later armed with his coat and scarf and a piece of paper.

‘Véronique said you know her address, but she gave me the entry code.’

‘I’m sorry, Couscous,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse,
kissing her goodbye. ‘It is good to be home, but perhaps you could ring her and say I am on my way.’

‘Take care …’

‘I happen to think
Le Guide
is worth preserving,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, simply. ‘Come what may.’

‘Even though you are no longer working for it?’

Monsieur Pamplemousse nodded.

‘I suppose that is one of the reasons why I married you,’ sighed Doucette.

‘And I thought it was for my looks and my money.’

‘One out of three isn’t bad,’ said Doucette, doing up the top button of the overcoat. ‘Will you be taking you know who?’

Monsieur Pamplemousse hesitated. Glancing down, he saw a pair of enquiring eyes. While his wife’s back was turned he gave a brief nod in her direction and in return received the canine equivalent of ‘
d’accord
’.

Given that he had already done enough driving for one day, he set off on foot rather than take his car. As he left the apartment block he gave a quick look round the immediate area, before turning sharp right.

In direct contrast to the southern slopes of Montmartre, where everything went on far into the early hours, the northern side of the Butte was usually deserted at night and the news that some unnamed person had been enquiring after his whereabouts was unsettling to say the least.

Whoever coined the phrase ‘the dark is light enough’ must have been an incurable romantic. Romantic it
might be in the right company. Reassuring it was not.

Reaching a flight of stone steps leading down to the rue Caulaincourt, he thought he heard the sound of footsteps coming from an alleyway running alongside the deserted boules park to his left.

A little voice inside him having whispered ‘watch it, Pamplemousse’, he waited in the shadows for a moment or two before deciding he must have been mistaken.

Part of him regretted leaving Pommes Frites behind, but in the circumstances he felt it was the right decision. There was also the fact that anyone in the know would automatically associate the one with the other; whenever either one of them appeared on the scene, the other wouldn’t be far away. One couldn’t be too careful.