Guilty Pleasures (22 page)

Serge prepared the ingredients for the escargot and the filet mignon, and proceeded to pour the dark batter for the chocolate cake into three tins, each slightly smaller than the other. He popped them into the largest convection oven and set the timer. Humming, he started rolling the coffee and chocolate truffle mixture into perfect spheres and dusting them with powdered cocoa and gold dust.
 

Lance peeled enormous quantities of fruit, which Serge carved into fanciful shapes himself.

Serge took from the pantry box after box of delicate chocolate confections in an astonishing array of colours and shapes. Greens, whites, pinks, vivid blues, orange, silver, saffron yellow and gold—all in addition to a bewildering range of browns, from the palest caramel to a glossy almost-black, which he placed on three large four-tier silver serving platters.
 

Lance stared in awe as Serge scattered sugared rose petals over the chocolates.

Next, Serge filled large silver engraved trays with the chocolates, garnishing the lot with posies of mint leaves and candied Parma violets. He removed the cakes from the oven and turned them out on cooling racks. He handed Lance a wickedly curved paring knife and proceeded to teach him how to core a pineapple, and otherwise dismember various fruit in an artistic manner.

Lance tried his best to keep up, both with the lessons and his stories.

Serge chattered nonstop, high on the intoxicating scent of the chocolate. “So my mother—apparently a cut-rate whore from Mogadishu—came aboard to service the crew members, went into labour, and stuffed me in the onion basket in the galley. My father, not biologically, of course, was the cook on that miserable tub and he found me after they’d already set sail. You would have liked him. He was a Russian émigré, a great chef at the court of Prince Orlov.”

“An interesting man, your father,” Lance said.

“Yes. He fled Russia in the twenties through the Black Sea, made his way to the Suez, then down to Zanzibar, and hooked up with that miserable tub as ship’s cook. He raised me, of course, and I grew up surrounded by the smells and the sounds of that kitchen.”

Lance began coring the pineapple.
 

Serge nodded, his eyes blazing bright with unshed tears. “I left that ship for the first time at thirteen. They based that movie on
me
, you know, that Tim Roth thing,
1900
, they called it. Bloody snobs! Cooking wasn’t arty-farty enough for
them
, had to make the fucker a pianist. A
white
jazz pianist, I ask you?” He waved a ladle viciously, barely missing Lance’s groin. “Willie, there are two great forces that drive the world: the need for food and sex! And I, Serge Moreno,
I
am a virtuoso at both.”

“And then what happened?”
 

“My father died, Willie, and the fucking captain—may he rot in hell—sold me to a dealer in exotics in Alexandria. I was treated like an animal, carried to Istanbul, and sold to a bordello specializing in the weird and the bizarre. A black dwarf was quite a draw. I was ill with grief and fear, but I learned quickly, Willie—to please, and to be pleased—so my life wouldn’t be an utter hell. Some of the girls and boys suffered terribly, I can tell you. Others, like the Thai, adapted, made the most of it, and eventually a regular bought her and she won her freedom. So did I. I made my way west, and finally settled on these here sunny shores.” He grinned. “And I tell you, Willie, I love it.”

“Moreno doesn’t sound very Russian.”

“No, Moreno is from the name of the ship, the
Rio Moreno
, flying under the convenient colours of Panama, but carrying the dregs of every nation. Serge—it was Sergei, after the Prince—I assumed here. Less Cold War, you know.”

“That’s quite a story, Serge. You’re a survivor.”

He smiled. “I’ve been blessed, Willie. Someone loved me with all his heart, and when you get that kind of love, you can overcome anything. The merit isn’t mine. It’s my father’s.” The dwarf turned away quickly and almost ran to the wine closet, returning fifteen minutes later with a dusty bottle of Napoleon brandy.

Under Lance’s fascinated gaze, he pierced the soft glossy rounds of chocolate cake with a long skewer and drizzled them with the brandy. “Every half hour, three times in all, Willie, so it’s really moist. Then we spread on the liquid truffle, the black cherries and the cream, and assemble the cake. The chocolate fondue for the fountain is done; get those frappés on ice, and give me that list.”

Lance nodded assent and obediently scurried off.

Serge quickly ticked down the list muttering comments to himself, and finally nodded. “Snack time, Willie Wanker!” he sang out. “Go get that pressed tongue and the rye bread, bring the Camembert and the green grapes, and I’ll go and get the wine.”

Later, sated and leisurely, they savoured the last of the wine.

Serge abruptly turned his sharp eyes on him. “What’s a man like you doing here, Will?”

“Here . . . oh! I needed the work,” Lance replied, flustered.

“Don’t fuck with me. You don’t want to talk about it, you say so. But don’t lie to me. I’ve been a whore. We pick up lies faster than crabs.”

Lance looked at him. “Serge, I don’t want to talk about it; not yet.”
 

“I respect that.” Serge reached over and solemnly offered Lance his tiny, broad hand.

They shook hands.
 

Serge leaned in, his fierce eyes boring into Lance’s. “There’s something brewing between you and Millie, Will. I can tell. I wish you luck that you’re sincere; if not . . .” A hideous grin deformed his face. “I’m handy with a knife, Will. Hurt my girl, and I’ll core your balls like rotten apples.” Serge’s hand was disproportionately strong. He squeezed Lance’s hand with bone-bending force, then released it.

“Noted, Serge.” Shaken, Lance hurriedly cleaned up the debris from their little feast, then nonchalantly held his aching hand under cold running water.

At eight that evening, Millie—in something silky black and clingy, and with long creamy pearls—came in followed by a thirty-something olive-skinned woman in a peculiar dress which seemed to be sewn from coin-sized discs of glossy chocolate strung together on fine golden Lurex.

“Serge, darling,” the woman said, running over and bending to air-kiss the dwarf on both cheeks. “I’m absolutely counting on you to blow me away!”

“Honour baby, I’ll do my best. Let me introduce you to my assistant, Will Pecklise. Will, this is Lady Honour Greerton.”

Lady Honour gave Lance the twice-over and apparently liked what she saw. She smiled seductively at Lance, whirling to display her scandalously short minidress to Millie and Serge, along with her mocha-coloured silk G-string. “Isn’t it just amazing? Best bitter chocolate, light as feathers.”

“Hate to tell you, Honour baby, but it’s gonna melt off your body.”

“No, no, it’s a special chocolate blend, engineered not to melt on the hottest body.” She licked her lips and glanced at Lance. “It only melts in your mouth.”

“Right. Well, come along, Honour. We have an hour before the Chocoholics arrive, and I want you to approve every detail of the buffet.” Millie escorted Lady Honour Greerton from the kitchen and out into the salon.

Lance watched, fascinated, as Serge constructed the Folly, a sensuous, obscenely decadent mound of chocolaty delight. He spread a thick layer of the chocolate/coffee crème, the glossy cherries and the snowy whipped cream, then laid out the next cake and repeated. He finished with an all-over covering of silky-smooth chocolate, and placed the gold-dusted truffles on the steps created by the concentric cakes. Finally he arranged a handful of brilliant cherries dusted with gold on the top, and ornamented the concoction with the golden orchids.

“Voilà! Mad Ludwig’s Folly,” Serge cried triumphantly.

Laughing, Lance applauded and Serge sketched a courtly bow. “Now we wait until they’ve gorged themselves silly, so we can go home.”

Hendricks’s team started taking out the trays and platters, and the chocolate fountain with the fantastical fruit garden blooming around it. First, they served the covered silver chafing dishes with the quail in their glossy sauce, then the escargot redolent of garlic and ginger and with just the slightest hint of chocolate. Then they served the succulent rounds of the filet mignon, oozing juices and nut and chocolate sauce onto the pale yellow slivers of mango underneath.

Last but not least, the pièce de résistance was served up. The huge Folly was carefully loaded onto the silver dessert trolley to be brought in at the last minute. The culmination of an evening unashamedly dedicated to chocolate and gluttony.

Wild cries of approval and rounds of applause greeted the entrance of the Folly. Millie dashed in to drag a reluctant Serge out to receive the adoring congratulations of the Chocoholics.

“Willie, thank God we don’t work with that end of it. Terrible, just terrible.” He shuddered. “Come, let’s get this under wraps so we can go home.”

A little later, Millie walked in. “All done, and, Serge, they want us to do the Chocoholics Anonymous International Congress in Spain next year. Quite a
coup
.”

“Great, Millie dear. You make sure you charge them big time.
And
I want star treatment.”

“After that Folly, they’ll name a city after you.” Millie smiled. “All right, boys, about tomorrow. We have one football player, his wife, and five kids coming who want to have their monthly family pizza dinner without paparazzi. On Thursday, we have Mrs. Belmont’s sixty-fifth wedding anniversary—you’ll enjoy this, Will—he’s dead and she brings the urn.”