Gourmet Detective (2 page)

He “pfft'd” again, derisively this time. “When they say a month, they probably mean ten days. Still…” he pondered a moment then he said, “There's a New York man, a millionaire who has a lot of people visiting London for his business. He always advises these people to eat at either my restaurant or at Le Trouquet d'Or. Just say that Mr Winchester told you to ask for a table—they'll fit you in.”

“Winchester?
THE
Harold Winchester?”

“This too will be kept confidential,” he admonished. He began manoeuvring himself out of the chair which sighed in woody relief. “I'll expect to hear from you in a week,” he said.

“You will.”

I escorted him to the door, watched him out and went back to my desk where I took another look at the cheque. It looked just fine.

As it was now late afternoon, the banks would be closed. Depositing the cheque would have to wait until tomorrow. Even as I fingered the cheque, enjoying its nice valuable feel, a few niggling doubts lingered.

Why had Raymond come in person? Wasn't this the kind of mission he would delegate to a subordinate? A chef of his reputation would surely not want to have his name associated with the lifting of a recipe from a rival restaurant—even if it was done without any illegal or unethical actions. He had checked me out carefully—there was no question of that. Only someone with a lot of excellent contacts in the trade could have found out about Tattersall's and the Château Yquem that had gone to the Ritz. Still, he was taking a risk and an unnecessary one at that.

Aside from that—could I do it? Could I learn the closely kept secret of Oiseau Royal and enable Raymond to duplicate it? I was less concerned about that. It was a challenge but I was sure I could do it. The time was not a problem either. If the secret could be learned at all, it could be learned within a week.

As for the money—well, that would be extremely welcome. Business hadn't been overactive lately. I had had a period when things were fairly brisk but clients aren't notoriously swift in paying bills for the kind of services I provide. I had been preparing for a lean month or two—this fee would tide me over very handsomely.

It was the final thought that was disturbing and it wasn't one I wanted to dwell on … but why had Raymond asked me if I carried a gun?

T
HE NEXT DAY WAS
Wednesday. I was in the office early after a light breakfast of fresh-squeezed Martinique grapefruit juice, curried eggs with Virginia ham, toasted rye bread and Cuban coffee. Arriving at the office early is no problem for me. The office is near Hammersmith Bridge and I have only a five minute walk from my flat in Shepherd's Bush. I detest cars and refuse to own one. I find them virtually useless in today's London with its streams of barely moving traffic, its agonies and aggravations, the high cost of petrol and the even higher cost of parking. The Tube gets me around most of the time and when I am on a case, expenses cover taxis. Getting to the office is my first exercise of the day.

I worked until 9.30 then walked up to King Street to deposit Raymond's cheque in the bank. I returned feeling reasonably affluent. About the case itself I was still mildly uneasy but couldn't think of anything I could do about it.

My office is small—some would describe it as miniscule. A desk and a swivel chair plus another chair for visitors (I had examined it and there seemed to be no permanent damage resulting from Raymond's brief if punishing occupancy), a wall of file cabinets (each in a different style and none matching)—and nothing else. Certainly nothing personal—I'm a private person as well as a private eye. In my flat, I have a silhouette drawing of Sherlock Holmes' profile, a lithograph of Allan Pinkerton and a photograph of Auguste Escoffier and have contemplated putting them on the wall of the office. But I've never done so—keep clients guessing, I'd decided.

The day's work was clear-cut. Take care of as much of the correspondence as possible then review all of the jobs in hand and establish which I could wrap up quickly and which could be put on hold. I intended to spend as much of every day as I could on Raymond's assignment so that I could meet the week's deadline I had set.

The first letter I opened had been a beauty. I get a lot of correspondence now that I am becoming known as a gourmet detective. Some of it is crazy, some even bizarre. A few requests are preposterous while others are impossible. There are still the few that are intriguing and this first letter was one of those.

“We are a U.K. company,” it began, “small but ambitious. We have had modest success in bringing to the British market such products as mangoes, saffron, girolles and wakame.

“We are now embarking on a programme to put snails on to restaurant menus and wish to start with some in London.

“Can you help us? We would welcome a proposal from you and an outline of your terms and conditions.”

The letter touched on a subject that was dear to my heart because I had often pondered over the mystery of why the French should eat snails when the British don't. I know the French eat some foods that are strange to the British palate but in defence of our island race, we are much less prejudiced against foreign foods than was the case just a few decades ago. Frogs' legs are no longer considered to be unusual on a British menu. Salami, pasta, olives, garlic, sweetbreads, bamboo shoots … The list of the foods we now accept was lengthy and growing.

So why not snails? We used to eat them. The Romans introduced the edible snail on to the South Downs and the Cornish coast where they thrived. Working people ate them and loved them right up to the turn of the last century.

The French, on the other hand, haven't always liked them. In the 14th century, snails were only for the very rich but in Rabelais' day, everybody consumed them. In the 18th century, they were regarded as food for the peasants only but they came back into favour when the Czar of Russia was served snails at a banquet held in his honour at Versailles. During the famine that followed Napoleon's downfall, snails were greatly prized as of course was anything eatable but in the case of snails, being reasonably available, they regained their popularity and it has not waned in France to this day.

Snails are not difficult to raise and they live as long as five years. They lay a hundred eggs at a time and these hatch out in four weeks. Plenty of opportunity here for raising them and I could see why my correspondents were enthusiastic about the business possibilities.

Could I help them? It would require a great deal of careful thought but it was certainly a project I would enjoy. Besides, an amount of tasting would be essential. I put the letter under the red paperweight—meaning highest priority.

Next was a letter from the Wine Advisory Panel of which I am a member. It gave the date of the next meeting and stated that the subject would be “Sparkling Wine—its Future”.

This was a meeting I would have to attend. Some of the burning questions in the wine business would be at the heart of the debate. Questions such as “How can sparkling wines take more of the champagne market?” and “Are there sparkling wines as good as champagne?” and “Can sparkling wines be made as good as champagne?”

Champagne producers are adamant in affirming that sparkling wines don't taste like champagne and never will but the issue gets complicated after that. Most of the champagne houses have huge financial investments in areas producing sparkling wines. Could they therefore not make sparkling wines close to champagne quality if they wished? Or do they want to suppress the quality level of sparkling wines and thus protect their primary market of champagne?

It would be a great meeting with all kinds of accusations and criticisms being hurled around. Invective and insult would fill the air, personal feelings and professional reputations would be bruised and a wonderful time would be had by all. The atmosphere of bonhomie, camaraderie and knives in the back would be greatly aided by a liberal flow of wine supplied by the more generous (or cunning) vineyards. Would it be champagne or sparkling wine on this occasion? Certainly not both—neither party would want to allow direct comparisons to be made. What a terrific evening!

The next letter was from a metallurgist who said he was writing a book on cobalt. He knew all about its use as an alloying element and in cutting tools but he wanted his book to be complete. Did cobalt have any effect on the human body? What foods was it in? Should we avoid it or eat more of it?

Much is known about many metals and their significance in food. Aluminium, magnesium, selenium, lead, copper, zinc, manganese, sodium, potassium and the notorious mercury have been documented in recent years and research continues. Cobalt was a new one to me and one I should have to investigate. In my line of work, it is just as necessary to know which food ingredients are dangerous or even harmful and I made a note to start checking on cobalt.

Would I endorse a new health food diet? asked the next one. That was easy—no, I wouldn't. Another was a plaintive request from a hotel in the Lake District. A guest was suing them for inefficient service during a stay. Did they have any defence? Probably not, was my immediate answer but it was a matter for a lawyer, not a private eye. I made a note.

I plodded on, wading my way through the reasonable and the ridiculous. At 10.45, I took a folder up to the next floor of the building where the Shearer Secretarial Agency is located. They type all my letters and I brought them some to be working on. The truth is that I have a refrigerator and a cupboard—but they are both in Mrs Shearer's premises—my theory being that if they were in mine, I might be tempted too often. So I keep them up there and make a schedule of taking up a folder of work twice a day, mid-morning and mid-afternoon. At the same time, I permit myself a refresher or a pick-me-up or whatever euphemism seems appropriate at the time.

Mrs Shearer, short, beaming, bustling—runs her place like a cross between a convent and a sweat-shop. She looks after her girls but she makes them work. I looked at them now, about thirty of them, fingers flashing over keyboards, the only sounds the rustle of paper and the whirr of electronic equipment. Mrs Shearer told me that Theresa, who usually does my typing, was out with the flu but a new girl, Mary Chen would do it. Mrs Shearer pointed across the big room to an attractive Oriental girl with lustrous black hair.

I said I would have another batch of work this afternoon and then got myself a half bottle of Asti Spumante from the fridge. I drank it looking down on the hordes of traffic battling for position to go around Hammersmith Broadway so that they could gain a few seconds before entering the next traffic jam. It was a bit like a Roman chariot race but at greatly reduced speed and no prizes except survival.

The remainder of the morning was notable only for a phone call from Norman, an old friend who now ran an Italian restaurant. Norman is from Barnsley and has been having a love affair with Italy and all things Italian since he was a boy. When the growing-up process encompassed food, Norman became so passionately fond of Italian cooking that he set as his life's ambition the establishment of the best Italian restaurant in Britain. He hasn't reached that peak yet but he is making good progress despite the fact that his chef and all his waiters are English. There is, in fact, nothing at all Italian about Norman's restaurant except its name and the food. It is Norman's chutzpah which is carrying it through on a wave of boundless enthusiasm and determination.

Norman said he had some Italian customers who had been asking for Orzo e Fagioli, a hearty bean-and-barley soup, popular in the north of Italy. They had enjoyed it but told him that it wasn't exactly the way they remembered it. He had tried various ways but just couldn't get it right—at least not the way it presumably tasted in Bologna. We discussed it for a while then I put my finger on it. “A prosciutto bone,” I told him. “You have to cook the soup with a prosciutto bone to develop the full flavour.” He thanked me and promised me the best Italian meal in Britain. I asked where he wanted to take me but hung up before he could summon any Northern vituperation.

At 11.30, I phoned Le Trouquet d'Or. A French accent was already informing me politely that I was wasting my time asking for a reservation when I dropped the magic name of Winchester. Raymond was right. The voice immediately became subservient and I was informed that they would look forward to seeing me tomorrow evening. I had made the reservation for two people, not wishing to give any cause for suspicion. Who would I take? I occasionally take Theresa when I need a companion for professional purposes. A man alone could arouse some suspicion. I had forgotten she had the flu … well, it was nearly lunch-time and I would have to tackle the problem later.

The question of where to go for lunch is always made simpler when I know what I am going to do in the evening. Today I knew so I caught a number 391 bus to Kew where I had a modest but very satisfying lunch at a bistro near the railway station.

I don't doubt that there is a school of thought which preaches a) never eat in Kew, b) never eat near a railway station and c) avoid any restaurant called a bistro. All of this proves that schools of thought can be wrong and generalisations should be avoided. There are many excellent small and unsung establishments which may never get into any of the guides but serve delicious, well-cooked and inexpensive lunches. I had mussel soup and then rack of lamb with roast potatoes and haricots verts. Andrew and Paula don't sound—or look—like chefs but they produce a superb meal. I usually skip dessert at lunch-time so after a cup of coffee and a complimentary cognac which I couldn't turn down, I went back to work.

The afternoon was much the same as the morning, ploughing through invitations to events I didn't want to attend, foods I didn't want to sponsor, wine tastings promoted by vineyards who made wine I wouldn't brush my teeth with and people asking me questions when I knew I wouldn't get paid for the answers.