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Authors: Terry Southern
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directions, and causing quite a snarl indeed until cranes and derricks could be brought up from the East River to pry the big cars out.
New York authorities were quick to respond to the flood of protests and got out an injunction to prevent Black Devil Rocket Corp. from further production.
“Personally,” said one high-ranking city official, in an off-the-record remark in defense of the court’s ruling—which was, after all, a flagrant infringement on the rights of free enterprise—“. . . personally I frankly think the car is an ugly car and a . . . a pretentious car, and, as experience has shown us, it is an impractical car. I’ll bet it’s plenty expensive to run, too.”
At last account though, Grand—himself fairly well in the background—was carrying on, pressing his fight to get the go-ahead and swing into full production with the big baby.
XII
“Y OU MUST STAY to dinner, Ginger,” said Agnes. “And there might be a nice bit of fillet for our Bitsy,” she added knowingly. “Do let me tell Cook you will!”
“But, my dear, we simply couldn’t,” said Ginger, casting a look flushed with girlish pride down at her own great scanty costume. “What about your nigras?”
“Cook and kitchen staff?” said Agnes, genuinely surprised. “Why, Ginger, really! But what’s your feeling on it, Guy?”
“Sorry, don’t follow,” said Guy.
“Well, Ginger seems to think that our servers might be . . . might be . . .”
“Might be sent straight off their rockers with bestial desire, you mean?” asked Grand tersely. “Hmm—Ginger may be right. Better safe than sorry in these matters I’ve always said.”
Guy liked playing the fool, it’s true—though some say there was more to his antics than met the eye. At any rate, one amusing diversion in which he took a central role himself was when he played grand gourmet at the world’s most luxurious restaurants.
Guy would arrive in faultless evening attire, attended by his poker-faced valet, who carried a special gourmet’s chair and a large valise of additional equipment. The chair, heavily weighted at the bottom so it could not be easily overturned, was also fitted with a big waist strap which was firmly secured around Grand’s middle as soon as he was seated. Then the valet would take from the valise a huge rubber bib and attach it to Guy while the latter surveyed the menu in avid conference with a bevy of hosts—the maître d’, the senior waiter, the wine steward, and at least one member of the chef’s staff.
Guy Grand was the last of the big spenders and, as such, a great favorite at these restaurants; due to his eccentric behavior during the meal however, the management always took care to place him at a table as decentralized as possible—on the edge of the terrace, in a softly lit alcove, or, preferably, at a table entirely obscured by a canopy arrangement which many restaurants, after his first visit, saw fit to have on hand for Guy’s return.
Following the lengthy discussion to determine the various courses, the waist strap was checked, and Guy would sit back in his chair, rubbing his hands together in sophisticated anticipation of the taste treats to come.
When the first course did arrive, an extraordinary spectacle would occur. At the food’s very aroma, Grand, still sitting well back from the table, as in fanatical self-restraint, would begin to writhe ecstatically in his chair, eyes rolling, head lolling, saliva streaming over his ruddy jowls. Then he would suddenly stiffen, his face a mask of quivering urgency, before shouting: “Au tablet” whereupon he would lurch forward, both arms cupped out across the table, and wildly scoop the food, dishes and all, towards his open mouth. Following this fantastic clatter and commotion—which left him covered from the top of his head to his waist with food—the expressionless valet would lean forward and unfasten the chair strap, and Guy would bolt from the table and rush pell-mell
New York authorities were quick to respond to the flood of protests and got out an injunction to prevent Black Devil Rocket Corp. from further production.
“Personally,” said one high-ranking city official, in an off-the-record remark in defense of the court’s ruling—which was, after all, a flagrant infringement on the rights of free enterprise—“. . . personally I frankly think the car is an ugly car and a . . . a pretentious car, and, as experience has shown us, it is an impractical car. I’ll bet it’s plenty expensive to run, too.”
At last account though, Grand—himself fairly well in the background—was carrying on, pressing his fight to get the go-ahead and swing into full production with the big baby.
XII
“Y OU MUST STAY to dinner, Ginger,” said Agnes. “And there might be a nice bit of fillet for our Bitsy,” she added knowingly. “Do let me tell Cook you will!”
“But, my dear, we simply couldn’t,” said Ginger, casting a look flushed with girlish pride down at her own great scanty costume. “What about your nigras?”
“Cook and kitchen staff?” said Agnes, genuinely surprised. “Why, Ginger, really! But what’s your feeling on it, Guy?”
“Sorry, don’t follow,” said Guy.
“Well, Ginger seems to think that our servers might be . . . might be . . .”
“Might be sent straight off their rockers with bestial desire, you mean?” asked Grand tersely. “Hmm—Ginger may be right. Better safe than sorry in these matters I’ve always said.”
Guy liked playing the fool, it’s true—though some say there was more to his antics than met the eye. At any rate, one amusing diversion in which he took a central role himself was when he played grand gourmet at the world’s most luxurious restaurants.
Guy would arrive in faultless evening attire, attended by his poker-faced valet, who carried a special gourmet’s chair and a large valise of additional equipment. The chair, heavily weighted at the bottom so it could not be easily overturned, was also fitted with a big waist strap which was firmly secured around Grand’s middle as soon as he was seated. Then the valet would take from the valise a huge rubber bib and attach it to Guy while the latter surveyed the menu in avid conference with a bevy of hosts—the maître d’, the senior waiter, the wine steward, and at least one member of the chef’s staff.
Guy Grand was the last of the big spenders and, as such, a great favorite at these restaurants; due to his eccentric behavior during the meal however, the management always took care to place him at a table as decentralized as possible—on the edge of the terrace, in a softly lit alcove, or, preferably, at a table entirely obscured by a canopy arrangement which many restaurants, after his first visit, saw fit to have on hand for Guy’s return.
Following the lengthy discussion to determine the various courses, the waist strap was checked, and Guy would sit back in his chair, rubbing his hands together in sophisticated anticipation of the taste treats to come.
When the first course did arrive, an extraordinary spectacle would occur. At the food’s very aroma, Grand, still sitting well back from the table, as in fanatical self-restraint, would begin to writhe ecstatically in his chair, eyes rolling, head lolling, saliva streaming over his ruddy jowls. Then he would suddenly stiffen, his face a mask of quivering urgency, before shouting: “Au tablet” whereupon he would lurch forward, both arms cupped out across the table, and wildly scoop the food, dishes and all, towards his open mouth. Following this fantastic clatter and commotion—which left him covered from the top of his head to his waist with food—the expressionless valet would lean forward and unfasten the chair strap, and Guy would bolt from the table and rush pell-mell
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