Gourmet Detective 01 - The Gourmet Detective Read online

  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 a
nd 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.

  Taking the afternoon folder up to Mrs Shearer reminded me that I didn’t have a companion for the dinner at Le Trouquet d’Or. Would Theresa be recovered from her flu? I asked. No, not a chance was the reply. Mary Chen was proving to be very efficient though—was there something she could do? I decided not. The meal tomorrow must be low profile and Mary Chen was too noticeable.

  I phoned Lucy who works in the cheese department at Fortnum and Mason’s. No, they told me, Lucy was in Savoie. It was a good place to buy cheese but of no help to me. I was tempted to try Margaret at the British Tour Centre but the last time I had invited her to dine had been when I was on a case too. (I give out invitations more often when an expense account is operative.) Margaret had declined on that occasion, giving as her reason that it was her yoga night. I recovered my speech in due course and reminded her that this was dinner at a good restaurant and not at the corner hamburger place. Again she declined and I have still not determined whether I should strike her off my list permanently. A girl with no sense of priority is highly suspect.

  Still pondering the problem, I walked home. My flat consists essentially of a very well-equipped kitchen, a large storage area (part of it refrigerated) and a room full of books. There’s a bedroom, a bathroom and so on tucked away there somewhere.

  I drank a leisurely Pisco Sour while assembling the ingredients for dinner. Then I cooked a langoustine soufflé with some fresh asparagus and ate it along with a bottle of Berncastler Doktor. I sliced some Packham pears, heated them and poured malvasia over them. A cup of Paraguayan maté completed the repast and after thirty minutes to fully digest, I set off for a meeting.

  P.I.E. meet twice a month in a room off Horseferry Road. It used to belong to the Ministry of the Environment and one of our members got it for us at a very low fee. When the Ministry moved out to Haywards Heath (to a better environment presumably), some bureaucratic oversight left it available for us to use. Consequently we haven’t paid anything for about a year. One day I expect we will get a bill which we will refuse to pay.

  The initials P.I.E. confuse everybody and those who know me as a gourmet detective automatically assume that at the P.I.E. we make good culinary use of apples, rhubarb, blackcurrants and probably steaks and kidneys. They are quite mistaken.

  Private Investigators Etc is a club which was originally established as a sort of union where private eyes could protect their rights, put together rules for their profession and get together periodically for some socialising and shop talk. Eventually membership declined, not because there were less private eyes, there were in fact more, but because the newcomers were not individuals but organisations which felt they didn’t need the umbrella of P.I.E.

  To keep our group active, we opened membership to non-detectives as long as they had some connection. As a result, we now had two book editors, both specialising in crime fiction; a historical novelist who had been trying for a year to write a private eye novel; an engineer who worked for an electronics company making sophisticated gear for surveillance, eavesdropping and such; a girl who worked in a forensic laboratory, was a private eye devotee and had, a few weeks ago, shown a video of a Quincy episode from television and had accompanied it with some well-informed comments on TV versus reality in forensic medicine. Most of the others had some tenuous connection but were basically PI fans.

  I said hello to Tom Davidson. He is a marine insurance investigator who lost his job because of excessive drinking, joined AA and recovered both his self-respect and his job.

  “How’s business?” I asked him.

  “Ships keep sinking,” he told me.

  “Enough of them under suspicious circumstances to keep the wolf from the door?”

  “Just enough. How about you? Still finding the impossible spice, the missing flavour?”

  “Always on the trail of the lonesome vine,” I assured him but further conversation was curtailed as we were joined by Miss Wellworthy, a prim, elderly spinster who fancies herself as a Miss Marple and drops repeated hints about a conspiracy at her local town hall which she is determined to uncover.

  “Any progress in the investigation, Miss Wellworthy?” Tom asked mischievously.

  “They’re very clever, you know.” Her steel-rimmed glasses glinted and it was woe betide any conspirators. “There’s nothing in the files. Oh yes, they’re clever. The annual reports don’t show anything either.”

  “It’s understandable they wouldn’t want anything to appear in one or the other,” Tom agreed. “What’s your next move?”

  “I shall have to interview that girl who resigned last August,” said Miss Wellworthy grimly. “Trouble is, I think she went to Cornwall.”

  “Knows something, does she?”

  “Why else would she resign?” demanded Miss Wellworthy but Tom and I were saved from having to answer by the rapping of Ben Beaumont’s gavel summoning us to take our places.

  One of the reasons I had stayed on as a member of P.I.E. after it had thrown open its membership to non-detectives was that it gave an equal amount of time to the private eyes of fiction—one of my weaknesses. I had over three hundred novels featuring all the great eyes of fiction and I loved discussing them. Tonight, I could see from the blackboard that we were going to have a talk on “The Female Eye”. With some surprise, I noted that it was to be given by Francine Drew. Francine was in her thirties and personal assistant to a famous crime novelist. Francine was not unattractive and could be a dazzler if she would wear make-up, dress properly and have her hair fixed. She was her usual mousy self tonight though as she stepped up on to the platform. I awaited the outcome with curiosity as public speaking didn’t seem to be one of her attributes.

  Ben Beaumont introduced her. Ben is our genial president—at least he would have enjoyed hearing himself described that way. He had served thirty years in the regular police force, retired and then conducted a successful private investigation service before retiring again.

  Red-faced, beaming, Ben completed his introduction and waved to Francine to take over. We gave her a polite handclap of welcome and she looked as if she needed encouragement for she was a little nervous and flustered at first. She got herself under control though and launched into her subject.

  “Private eye novels have been dominated by men for too long. The expression ‘private eye’ means to most readers Sam Spade or Philip Marlowe, Lew Archer or Mike Hammer.

  “The balance is now being adjusted and we are seeing female private eyes. Tonight, I want to talk about two of them—and both created by women writers.”

  I leaned forward eagerly, anxious to hear who she would choose.

  She continued, still slightly breathless but enjoying herself.

  She chose Kinsey Millhone, a double divorcee from California who drives a VW, carries an automatic and lives in a converted garage. The creation of Sue Grafton, the daughter of two China missionaries, Kinsey Millhone was tough, female and believable. Her other choice was V.I. Warshawski, a former insurance investigator who now has an office in Chicago’s Loop, is skilled with a variety of weapons and is an expert at unarmed combat. Her creator, Sara Paretsky, is a Ph.D.

  Francine talke
d for about fifteen minutes, got a nice round of applause and a couple of complimentary comments. I followed her over to the drinks dispenser where she was sipping thirstily at a lemon tea.

  “That was great, Francine,” I told her.

  Her face lit up. “Did you really think so?”

  “I did. If I’d had to guess who you were going to talk about though—I think I’d have said Sharon McCone.”

  “Yes, she was one of the first, wasn’t she? Did you know she’s part Indian?”

  “Shoshone, I think.”

  She made a wry face. “I might have known you’d know that. But then you’re a surprising person.”

  This was the first time we’d talked and I raised an eyebrow.

  “Surprising?”

  “Well, yes. I mean, you’re a real private eye and yet you know all the fictional detectives.”

  I basked a little. After all, a detector of rare spices and a hunter for exotic foods doesn’t always get the credit he deserves.

  “One’s a business and the other’s a hobby.”

  “Yes,” she said, “but it’s unusual when they are both on the same lines.”

  “You ought to give another one of these talks,” I suggested. “This time, tell us about the sexy female private eyes.”

  “Such as?” she asked, open-mouthed.

  “How about Honey West, Angela Harpe and Alison B. Gordon?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Have you read them?” I asked her.

  She nodded.

  “So how about a talk on them?”

  She sipped reflectively at her tea.

  “I suppose because they’re too much sex and not enough detective.”

  “A good enough reason.”

  “What do you like about Sharon McCone?” she asked.

  “Marcia Muller is one of my favourite writers. She has created a very credible female eye in Sharon McCone. She stays on the right side of the law and co-operates with the police.”