Monsieur Pamplemousse Hits the Headlines by Michael Bond Page B

life.’
    And you, thought Monsieur Pamplemousse again, must be a Leo to be so sure of yourself.
    ‘What happened yesterday afternoon? You followed the same routine?’
    ‘Yesterday there was even less to do. Claude didn’t go in until much later than usual. As I say, he only had the single oyster to take with him. The seaweed was provided by the studio.’
    A sudden breeze funnelling through neighbouring buildings caused a slight downdraft and as the leaves began to rustle he saw what looked like a minotaur peering at him from behind a colonnade. A bird pecking at a piece of bread took flight, carrying what was left in its beak.
    Claudette gave a shiver. ‘At least it meant we had more time together. Perhaps you are right when you say some things are meant. I cannot believe it was simply a coincidence , any more than your being here today is. That is why I feel I need your help. You are so much more thorough than the police. They hardly asked any questions.’
    Monsieur Pamplemousse shrugged. ‘Everyone has their methods. I am a Capricorn. Capricorns may take their time, but they get there in the end.’
    The meat course was compote of baby rabbit in vegetable aspic, along with mushroom, button onions, tiny carrots and herbs – he detected tarragon, chervil and chives.
    The gelée itself had been well clarified; clear and sparkling, it kept its shape without being at all rubbery.
    With it came red Bordeaux. A Château Pichon-Longeville Baron ‘90. He wondered if Claudette always lunched as well, or whether she was putting on a special display for his benefit. Obviously it must be the former since he had arrived unannounced. The loss of her husband certainly hadn’t affected her appetite.
    He was longing to get at the notebook he kept concealed in the right leg of his trousers for just such occasions. The whole thing was such an unexpected bonus. If Yang did open a restaurant it could be a welcome addition to Le Guide ; a feather in his own cap for being first with the news.
    ‘May I offer you a cup of drinking chocolate?’ 
    Once again she seemed to be reading his thoughts. ‘I follow the Montignac method of keeping fit. Three good meals a day, with nothing in between. Don’t totally give up what you really crave for, but enjoy it in moderation. Chocolate being his particular weakness, he manages to include it in his regime. He maintains it is good for the digestion. Provided it is over 70% pure cocoa, of course.’
    ‘Of course,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse drily, then went on: ‘But cooking can also be an art; a matter of inspiration , a performance. It is like acting. In a world that is populated by countless millions of people, some actors have only to utter a few words and you know at once who it is.
    ‘Chefs speak with their food. Their world has an infinite variety of ingredients, but there are the select few who are able to combine them in such a way that their voice is immediately recognisable. That is where actors have the advantage. Their voices can be recorded; great meals are things of the moment; created only to be consumed.
    ‘I am not surprised your chef is Japanese. Up to now it has been more a case of French chefs spending time in the Orient. Fusion cookery is now the current buzzword. There is no reason why there shouldn’t be a movement in the opposite direction: Japanese chefs coming over here and taking us on at what we believe to be our home ground.’
    ‘You seem very knowledgeable on the subject.’
    Monsieur Pamplemousse realised he had better soft-pedal his connection with food. Not for the first time his enthusiasm was getting the better of him. A few minutes earlier he had been racking his brains trying to think of a way of turning the conversation to suit his own purposes, now he had taken it up another blind alley.
    Claudette did it for him. Raising her sunglasses until they rested on top of her head, she leaned forward, gently touched his knee and gazed into his