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Authors: Michael Bond
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matter and allow his subconscious to do some of the work. Monsieur Pamplemousse was a great believer in the subconscious.
It had, in fact, already been at work. Even while he’d been dialling the office number it had sent out a message reminding him of something else the Director had said; a promise made, and one which he fully intended taking advantage of. The promise of a bottle of the d’Yquem ’45 when his mission had reached a satisfactory conclusion.
Deep down, Monsieur Pamplemousse was only too well aware that he had only really begun to scratch the surface of his problem, but scratches could widen into cuts, cuts into fissures, fissures into crevasses. There was no question of failure. Failure was not a word in his vocabulary; consequently it never entered his mind.
The evening had not been entirely without success. He now had things to work on. It was a cause for celebration. As a digestif and an aid to peaceful sleep while his subconscious got to work, he could think of nothing better than a glass or two of Sauternes.
He reached for the telephone again and pressed the button marked ‘Room Service’. It was more than likely that Les Cinq Parfaits, for all the riches which graced the pages of its wine-list, riches which reached back to long before he was born, would be unable to meet his request. It was asking a lot, but it was worth a try.
‘ Monsieur is fortunate. We have only three bottles left. When they are gone we shall be reduced to the ’62s.’
‘Bring me two,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse in a sudden mood of recklessness. He would have one to be going on with and keep one for later, depending on the final outcome. It would help make up for a spoilt holiday and the absence of the Soufflé Surprise he’d been so looking forward to.
If the man was surprised there was no sign of it in his voice. It might have been the kind of order he receivedevery night of his life. If there was any emotion at all it was one of respect; respect mingled with the faintest hint of regret.
‘Perhaps,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘you would care to share a glass with me as a nightcap – a little boisson prise avant de se coucher ?’
‘It would be an honour, Monsieur .’ He knew from the tone of the man’s voice that he had made a friend for life. Wine was a great leveller; a breaker-down of barriers.
The discreet knock on the door came sooner than expected. An assistant sommelier, still wearing his green baize apron, his badge of office – the silver tastevin – round his neck, entered the room pushing a trolley on which reposed two ice-buckets and two glasses. There was also a plate of wafer-thin biscuits. A palate cleanser.
Having circumnavigated Pommes Frites with scarcely more than a passing glance, he withdrew a bottle from one of the ice-buckets, holding it up with care for Monsieur Pamplemousse’s inspection.
Monsieur Pamplemousse assumed a suitably reverent expression, and then watched with approval while the sommelier went to work. From the painstaking way in which he removed the lead foil in one piece, pressing it out flat with obvious pleasure, he guessed the man must come from his own area. Only someone from the Auvergne would go to so much trouble over something which to most people would be relatively unimportant. It was strange how different areas produced people who gravitated towards certain jobs. Half the restaurants in Paris were owned or staffed by Auvergnese. If it was a Frenchman behind the wheel of a taxi, rather than an Asian, the chances were he would be from Savoie. He resolved that when the wine was finished he would replace the foil and add the bottle to his collection, a reminder of his time at Les Cinq Parfaits. Something else for Doucette to dust, as she would no doubt tell him.
Cork withdrawn, passed below the nose in an automatic gesture, the sommelier ran some pieces of ice round the inside of the glasses, then dried them and began to pour. Against the white of the
It had, in fact, already been at work. Even while he’d been dialling the office number it had sent out a message reminding him of something else the Director had said; a promise made, and one which he fully intended taking advantage of. The promise of a bottle of the d’Yquem ’45 when his mission had reached a satisfactory conclusion.
Deep down, Monsieur Pamplemousse was only too well aware that he had only really begun to scratch the surface of his problem, but scratches could widen into cuts, cuts into fissures, fissures into crevasses. There was no question of failure. Failure was not a word in his vocabulary; consequently it never entered his mind.
The evening had not been entirely without success. He now had things to work on. It was a cause for celebration. As a digestif and an aid to peaceful sleep while his subconscious got to work, he could think of nothing better than a glass or two of Sauternes.
He reached for the telephone again and pressed the button marked ‘Room Service’. It was more than likely that Les Cinq Parfaits, for all the riches which graced the pages of its wine-list, riches which reached back to long before he was born, would be unable to meet his request. It was asking a lot, but it was worth a try.
‘ Monsieur is fortunate. We have only three bottles left. When they are gone we shall be reduced to the ’62s.’
‘Bring me two,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse in a sudden mood of recklessness. He would have one to be going on with and keep one for later, depending on the final outcome. It would help make up for a spoilt holiday and the absence of the Soufflé Surprise he’d been so looking forward to.
If the man was surprised there was no sign of it in his voice. It might have been the kind of order he receivedevery night of his life. If there was any emotion at all it was one of respect; respect mingled with the faintest hint of regret.
‘Perhaps,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘you would care to share a glass with me as a nightcap – a little boisson prise avant de se coucher ?’
‘It would be an honour, Monsieur .’ He knew from the tone of the man’s voice that he had made a friend for life. Wine was a great leveller; a breaker-down of barriers.
The discreet knock on the door came sooner than expected. An assistant sommelier, still wearing his green baize apron, his badge of office – the silver tastevin – round his neck, entered the room pushing a trolley on which reposed two ice-buckets and two glasses. There was also a plate of wafer-thin biscuits. A palate cleanser.
Having circumnavigated Pommes Frites with scarcely more than a passing glance, he withdrew a bottle from one of the ice-buckets, holding it up with care for Monsieur Pamplemousse’s inspection.
Monsieur Pamplemousse assumed a suitably reverent expression, and then watched with approval while the sommelier went to work. From the painstaking way in which he removed the lead foil in one piece, pressing it out flat with obvious pleasure, he guessed the man must come from his own area. Only someone from the Auvergne would go to so much trouble over something which to most people would be relatively unimportant. It was strange how different areas produced people who gravitated towards certain jobs. Half the restaurants in Paris were owned or staffed by Auvergnese. If it was a Frenchman behind the wheel of a taxi, rather than an Asian, the chances were he would be from Savoie. He resolved that when the wine was finished he would replace the foil and add the bottle to his collection, a reminder of his time at Les Cinq Parfaits. Something else for Doucette to dust, as she would no doubt tell him.
Cork withdrawn, passed below the nose in an automatic gesture, the sommelier ran some pieces of ice round the inside of the glasses, then dried them and began to pour. Against the white of the
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