Read Online The Magic Christian by Terry Southern - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Terry Southern
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towards the kitchen, covered and dripping with food, hair matted with it, one arm extended full length as in a congratulatory handshake, shouting at the top of his voice:
“MES COMPLIMENTS AU CHEF!”
Upon his return to the table, he would be strapped into the chair again, hosed-down by a little water pump from the valet’s case, and dried with a big towel; then the performance would be repeated with each course.
Restaurants who used a special canopy to conceal Grand from the other diners did so at considerable risk, because at the moment of completing each course he would bolt for the kitchen so quickly that, unless the waiters were extremely alert and dexterous in pulling aside the canopy, he would bring the thing down on his head and, like a man in a collapsed tent, would flail about inside it, upsetting the table, and adding to the general disturbance, or worse, as sometimes did happen, he might regain his feet within the canopy and careen blindly through the plush restaurant, toppling diners everywhere, and spreading the disturbance—and, of course, if he ever reached the kitchen while still inside the canopy, it could be actually calamitous.
The open-mouthed astonishment of waiters, diners and others who were witness to these scenes was hardly lessened by the bits of bland dialogue they might overhear between the ma?tre d’, who was also in on the gag, and the valet.
“Chef’s Bèarnaise pleased him,” the maître d’ would remark soberly to the valet, “I could tell.”
The valet would agree with a judicious nod, as he watched Grand storming through the restaurant. “He’s awful keen tonight.”
“In the Bèarnaise,” the maître d’ would suddenly confide in an excited whisper, “the peppercorns were bruised merely by dropping them!” And the two men would exchange dark knowing glances at this revelation.
By the last course Grand would be utterly exhausted, and the exquisite dessert would invariably prove too much for his overtaxed senses. At the first taste of it, he would go into a final tantrum and then simply black out. He always had to be carried from the restaurant on a stretcher, leaving waiters and diners staring agape, while the maître d’ stood respectfully by the door with several of his staff.
“Boy, was that guy ever nuts! Huh?” a wide-eyed young waiter would exclaim as he stood with the maître d’, gazing after the departing figures. But the latter would appear not to have heard.
“The last of the grand gourmets,” he would sigh, and there was always a trace of wistful nostalgia in his face when he turned back from the door. “No, sir, they don’t make taste buds like that any more.”
Connivance with the maître d’s of these top restaurants was an expensive affair, and there was a shake-up in more than one veteran staff due to it. Those who lost their jobs though were usually in a position to open fairly smart restaurants of their own—assuming, of course, they didn’t care to buy the one from which they were fired.
XIII
“I N LITERATURE, OF course,” Ginger Horton was saying, “the best writing comes out of the heart, and not the head!”
“ I’ll buy that!” agreed Guy Grand, coming forward on his big chair in ready interest, his voice going a bit taut with feeling as he continued:
“For my money the best . . . the very best darn writing is done right out of the old guts, by God!” And he gave his budding paunch a short slap to strengthen his meaning.
“Good Heavens,” said Esther crouching forward into a sea of giggles.
“And no rewrite!” said Guy strongly, “. . . right out of the old guts onto the goddamn paper!”
“Guy!” exclaimed Agnes, “really!” It was well known that Ginger Horton did write—wrote unceasingly—relentless torrents of a deeply introspective prose.
“Sorry,” muttered Grand, sitting back again, “get a bit carried away sometimes, I expect.”
“Feeling and passion!” agreed Ginger Horton in a shriek.
“MES COMPLIMENTS AU CHEF!”
Upon his return to the table, he would be strapped into the chair again, hosed-down by a little water pump from the valet’s case, and dried with a big towel; then the performance would be repeated with each course.
Restaurants who used a special canopy to conceal Grand from the other diners did so at considerable risk, because at the moment of completing each course he would bolt for the kitchen so quickly that, unless the waiters were extremely alert and dexterous in pulling aside the canopy, he would bring the thing down on his head and, like a man in a collapsed tent, would flail about inside it, upsetting the table, and adding to the general disturbance, or worse, as sometimes did happen, he might regain his feet within the canopy and careen blindly through the plush restaurant, toppling diners everywhere, and spreading the disturbance—and, of course, if he ever reached the kitchen while still inside the canopy, it could be actually calamitous.
The open-mouthed astonishment of waiters, diners and others who were witness to these scenes was hardly lessened by the bits of bland dialogue they might overhear between the ma?tre d’, who was also in on the gag, and the valet.
“Chef’s Bèarnaise pleased him,” the maître d’ would remark soberly to the valet, “I could tell.”
The valet would agree with a judicious nod, as he watched Grand storming through the restaurant. “He’s awful keen tonight.”
“In the Bèarnaise,” the maître d’ would suddenly confide in an excited whisper, “the peppercorns were bruised merely by dropping them!” And the two men would exchange dark knowing glances at this revelation.
By the last course Grand would be utterly exhausted, and the exquisite dessert would invariably prove too much for his overtaxed senses. At the first taste of it, he would go into a final tantrum and then simply black out. He always had to be carried from the restaurant on a stretcher, leaving waiters and diners staring agape, while the maître d’ stood respectfully by the door with several of his staff.
“Boy, was that guy ever nuts! Huh?” a wide-eyed young waiter would exclaim as he stood with the maître d’, gazing after the departing figures. But the latter would appear not to have heard.
“The last of the grand gourmets,” he would sigh, and there was always a trace of wistful nostalgia in his face when he turned back from the door. “No, sir, they don’t make taste buds like that any more.”
Connivance with the maître d’s of these top restaurants was an expensive affair, and there was a shake-up in more than one veteran staff due to it. Those who lost their jobs though were usually in a position to open fairly smart restaurants of their own—assuming, of course, they didn’t care to buy the one from which they were fired.
XIII
“I N LITERATURE, OF course,” Ginger Horton was saying, “the best writing comes out of the heart, and not the head!”
“ I’ll buy that!” agreed Guy Grand, coming forward on his big chair in ready interest, his voice going a bit taut with feeling as he continued:
“For my money the best . . . the very best darn writing is done right out of the old guts, by God!” And he gave his budding paunch a short slap to strengthen his meaning.
“Good Heavens,” said Esther crouching forward into a sea of giggles.
“And no rewrite!” said Guy strongly, “. . . right out of the old guts onto the goddamn paper!”
“Guy!” exclaimed Agnes, “really!” It was well known that Ginger Horton did write—wrote unceasingly—relentless torrents of a deeply introspective prose.
“Sorry,” muttered Grand, sitting back again, “get a bit carried away sometimes, I expect.”
“Feeling and passion!” agreed Ginger Horton in a shriek.
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