Gourmet Detective 01 - The Gourmet Detective Read online

  She smiled, showing excellent teeth, one of her best features.

  “The Circle needs us entrepreneurs and marketeers—we’re a much needed balance against all these writers and talkers.”

  I knew what she meant. From a background of magazine publishing (which was where I had first met her) and a dead husband’s legacy, she had founded a company making and selling quick-frozen foods. The big step had found the market sceptical but she had gained a surprisingly strong foothold and her company was reputed to be growing rapidly.

  Maggie swirled her glass. “Not drinking? You don’t have to pay for them here, you know.”

  “Just on my way to get one,” I assured her, thankful that she was not going to press for a reason for my presence,

  She nodded and I moved away. Talking earnestly with two men was Per Larsson, a stocky Swede. I would have guessed he would be there even if I had not seen the attendance list from François. The high priest of food, the guru of cooking and travel, he was universally known for his Larsson’s Guide to Hotels and Restaurants, the bible of many eaters and travellers.

  I was not a bit surprised to see Benjamin Breakspear and would have heard his resounding voice and recognised him immediately although I had never seen him in person before. He was known to millions of film and TV viewers as King George the fifth, Nero, one of James Bond’s adversaries and Hermann Goering among other memorable roles.

  The bulbous eyes, the stylised gestures, the hammy mannerisms and the plummy enunciation were no longer in such demand due to his advancing years. He had kept his place in the public eye by becoming a regular on TV quiz and game shows. He wrote books, mainly autobiographical, which some critics insisted should appear under a fiction label.

  “—just got back from America” he was saying to a small group. “I was in this restaurant in South Carolina and the waitress asked me, ‘How many hush puppies would y’all like, honey?’

  “‘One for each foot—if I wanted any at all,’ I told her but of course, she did not understand my impeccable English and returned with a huge bowl containing dozens of the things.”

  “And what are they?” asked an obliging bystander.

  “Balls of corn bread, deep-fried a golden brown. They got their name supposedly from a hunter who didn’t give his dogs any of his bounty. They howled and whined so much that he fried bits of corn mush and fed them, saying ‘Hush puppies’.”

  “You were lecturing over there, Benjamin?” asked Goodwin Harper. Rotund and red-faced, he ran what many believed to be the most English of English restaurants and the home of traditional roast beef.

  “Yes.” The famous smile beamed and the whole face lit up. “Larger than life over there, dear boy, larger than life. I was invited to what they call a Happy Hour. Would you credit it? A happy hour and it lasted from six till nine p.m.!”

  “Pick up any good recipes?”

  Benjamin shuddered.

  “Wouldn’t want most of them.”

  “Can we quote you on that?” asked someone mischievously.

  “Good gracious, no. I’m going back again in August. No, if you want to quote me, say how enormously impressed I was with the enormously wide variety of food there. Maine—with its rocky sea coasts, Illinois with its magnificent steaks, Wisconsin with some of the—”

  I moved on. Another group was arguing over diets. Dr Hay’s 1929 book Health via Food was being compared with Dr Frank’s more recent Beverly Hills Diet. “They’re the same,” a voice I didn’t know was saying. “Both advocate the same thing—don’t eat starch in the same meal as meat or fruit. And it’s nonsense. Both books are based on the theory that the digestion of starch needs alkaline conditions. That’s false, completely false.”

  The speaker made the mistake of pausing for breath and a little man with wire spectacles promptly said, “What I always say is—eat anything you like and let the food argue it out in your stomach.” There were laughs while the original speaker tried to get back to his point.

  I was still tempted to head for one of the bars but I recalled that cops always declined the offer of a drink under such circumstances. “Not while I’m on duty, ma’am” they always said. But surely that was official police? It was probably in their handbook. Private eyes were different. Few of them were abstainers. Quite the reverse—most of them were out-and-out boozers. But then wasn’t it their drinking that often got them into trouble? A couple too many and they found themselves in a rat-infested cellar about to be flooded unless half a ton of dynamite exploded first.

  I compromised and got some grapefruit juice in a whisky glass. The room was full now. The doors had been closed so I presumed everyone had arrived. The bartenders were coping manfully and the conversation level was making it necessary for voices to be raised. Benjamin Breakspear was having no problem though. He was some distance away but I was still receiving him loud and clear.

  I passed François. He gave me a look and I gave him a nod. I assumed his look to be asking “Is everything all right?” and I hoped that he was interpreting my nod as saying “Yes”.

  Mad Mike Spitalny was holding forth to another group and I edged near enough to hear. His restaurant, The Bohemian Girl was one of the showplaces of the London eating scene. Mike, like Benjamin, was louder than most but that was to be expected. He had a reputation for volatility of character and was said to insult diners who didn’t heap enough praise on his food. I had always doubted that he did any such thing but he was a good enough showman to have created the myth.

  “Wars are not fought in vain,” Mike was saying. “In India, Britain learned the secrets of curry and tandoori. France lost Indo-China but gained 3,000 Chinese restaurants—then they lost Algeria but gained couscous.”

  Next to him was another restaurateur with whom I had no acquaintance but recognised readily. Ted Martin, distinguished, relaxed, was general manager of Middleton’s and he said:

  “I hear Luis wants to join the Circle.”

  “Don’t admit him,” said Mike Spitalny promptly. “The Spanish have never produced a dish worthy of note.”

  Nelda Darvey, also in the group, I knew well. Food columnist for the London Gazette, she was as outspoken as Mike. “Gazpacho soup,” she said and I knew she was being controversial and not stating an opinion.

  “Gazpacho soup!” said Mike scornfully. “It’s cold soup. How can it be soup if it’s cold? You eat it and are left with the feeling that if you had come earlier, you could have had it while it was still hot.”

  A latecomer was being admitted. Over the heads, I could see Roger St Leger, a familiar face. He was a former television cook who had had a tremendous following with his amusing and informative programme. His pleasing personality and casual breezy style had been in welcome contrast to some of the more stern-faced and serious media cooks who behaved as if they were in a cathedral rather than a kitchen.

  His television series had ended and he had been unable to get another. Even the satellite networks, usually avid to snap up the cast-offs, had not made any offers. His many fans looked forward to his return but right now he seemed to be “between engagements”.

  He was fair-haired, with a pleasantly masculine face and a square jaw. He was tall and well-built and carried himself easily. His expression, friendly and relaxed when he was on the box, was now tense and almost grim.

  He seemed to be pushing his way through to the bar—but no, he was grasping the arm of yet another individual I recognised. This time however, it was a face I had seen only on television.

  Ivor Jenkinson had made himself famous with his programme “IJ”. These were his own initials but he had originally called himself “The Investigative Journalist” and his show was now so well-known that “IJ” identified both it and him to millions.

  He was good at his job, supremely good. His speciality was exposing skullduggery wherever and however it occurred. He had a nose like a bloodhound, the tenacity of a bulldog and the instincts of a ferret. He had caused a sensation in the business world
with his exposé of inside trading and countless Stock Exchange heads had rolled as a result. IJ became a household word with his next programme which revealed dirty work in the insurance world. He was soon firmly established as a British Ralph Nader and it was said that captains of industry and trade tycoons held their breath until his next target was revealed.

  Lean and very intense, a pale face and a narrow nose, thin hair swept straight back, he never smiled. His grim visage must be terrifying if you knew or suspected that you were on his list. But what was he doing here? I didn’t know anything about him beyond his television persona but he didn’t seem like a gourmet.

  I watched as Roger St Leger took an envelope from his pocket and handed it to IJ. He opened it and studied its contents. He nodded with satisfaction and the look that passed across his face was probably as close to a smile as he ever achieved. He said a few words to St Leger who answered briefly and walked away. IJ put the envelope into his pocket and gave it a reassuring pat. What was all that about? I wondered. They seemed an unlikely pair but they did have the common background of television. Well, that was what I was here for—to observe. What else was happening?

  Deep in serious debate was a trio of personalities. Bill Keating, lanky, loose-limbed and owner of a chain of wine and spirit outlets, Ray Burnaby of Burnaby Wine Imports, older, pot-bellied but still personally active, and Sally Aldridge.

  Sally was known—no, she was notorious—for her outrageous best-seller Any Gourmet Meal in 30 Minutes. If she was a member of the Circle, she must have been admitted before her book exploded on the food scene. Her name also appeared frequently in the magazines where she delighted in offering startlingly controversial viewpoints on any subject connected with cooking or restaurants.

  Sally was petite with masses of dark hair which cascaded around a deceptively elfin face. The slightly gap-toothed smile and the determined pug nose made up an attractive package.

  She was asking, “Why do people drink the wines they drink?”

  “They read about them in wine magazines if they want expert opinions,” said Ray Burnaby.

  “Expert?” challenged Sally.

  “Yes. Impartial reviews by authoritative wine writers.”

  “But wine magazines get 95 per cent of their revenue from advertising so how can it be impartial?”

  Bill Keating joined in. “Wine writers don’t do it for the money. They do it because they love wine. They love drinking it primarily but secondarily, they love writing about drinking it.”

  Sally was warming up now. She could be a tigress when she got into a discussion like this. “There are two kinds of wine writer. There are wine specialists who write about wine. They know about wine but can’t write. Then there are the writers who like wine. They may be able to write but they are ignorant when it comes to wine. Give them both the same bottle to taste and they’ll give you two completely different opinions.”

  “Wine’s not a science—it’s an art.” Ray Burnaby was digging in his heels. “Why shouldn’t two experts have different opinions?”

  “What does the reader about wine really want?” Bill Keating asked. “To learn something helpful about wines so he knows which ones to choose? Or does he want to read an interesting article?”

  “The wine business is all hype and advertising,” Sally said. “It’s easy to pull the wool over the eyes of the average wine drinker—that’s obvious from the successful campaigns that have persuaded people to drink rubbish like Beaujolais Nouveau, Côtes du Rhone Primeur, Blush wines and those dreadful coolers.”

  “There’s some truth in that,” admitted Bill Keating. “Drinkers—beer as well as wine—are no longer guided by their own taste but by media promotion. They drink what they are told to drink. Image is more important than enjoyment.”

  “Nonsense,” said Ray stoutly. “Wine is a production-oriented commodity not a market-oriented one. Taste and quality are two of its inherent characteristics and always will be.”

  “You published an in-house wine magazine, Ray,” Bill reminded him. “You should know.”

  “He doesn’t know at all,” scoffed Sally. “His writers push whichever vintages Ray wants to get rid of.”

  “That’s not true,” Ray puffed. “Only sincere and well-informed people write for me.”

  I could see Sally’s eyes glinting. “Can your wine-tasters really tell—when they taste a wine today—what it’s going to taste like in ten years’ time?”

  “Its potential? Of course they can. That’s their job.”

  Sally had her mouth open to say something vulgar as I moved on. I strolled through more groups of gourmets, gourmands and guests, not always knowing which were which. Repeating a ploy that already proved effective, I walked into the kitchen while trying to cultivate a look suggesting I was seeking a toilet.

  Chapter Eight

  ON THIS OCCASION, I was not apprehensive about the staff—as I had been before. I wanted only to pass muster among the guests and avoid any queries about my presence. I didn’t really need to worry, the kitchen staff were all so busy they didn’t notice me.

  The place was a turmoil of steaming pans, vats of aromatic juices, rich aromas, all elbowing bustle and impatient voices. It was pandemonium to a layman’s eye but I had spent sufficient years cooking to be sure that it would all come together in the right way at the right time. Klaus Klingermann was directing operations like Captain Bligh on the foredeck of the Bounty. I knew that François had been in the kitchens until minutes before the banquet, preparing and organising. The strategic planning done, all was now in the hands of the tactician, Klaus.

  I walked down the corridor and peeked out into the alley. It was grey and grim and looked like rain. Normal weather. I looked up and down the alley. It was normal too.

  Back in the banquet room, there was light, gaiety, the throb of anticipation and the pulsing beat of conversation.

  Benjamin Breakspear was still going strong. His face was growing redder and his voice was louder. I had to listen.

  “—hog jowls, turnip greens and black-eyed peas. They’re staple food in the South—no wonder they lost the Civil War! Eat them? Certainly not! Oh yes, I tasted them—just so I would be able to tell you how awful they are. Do they have any good food in the South? Their breads and their desserts are excellent—can’t fault them at all.”

  “What about the steaks, Benjamin?” someone asked. “Are American steaks still the best?”

  “I have to admit it, yes. Steaks are very good there. They don’t always treat them properly though. For instance, they have ‘Turf and Surf’.” He shuddered and his whole substantial body quivered. “It’s steak and lobster! Together! Can you imagine? Criminal waste of both in my opinion. I told the proprietor so in one establishment but he just laughed and said that Americans like catchy titles. “More than food?” I asked him and he laughed again.

  A dazzling red-head walked by but joined a group before I could move to intercept. She must have been well-known for everyone greeted her warmly.

  Circulating further, I caught the tail-end of another discussion. I would like to have heard the beginning but all I got was “—but that’s because in France, cooking has grown out of the marrow of the nation, just like music in Germany, sport in Australia and art in Italy.”

  I picked up a little more of the next one. “When a top French chef lowers his standards then the decline of French cooking is obvious.”

  “In what way is he doing that?” asked an elderly lady with a heavily made-up face. I told her in detail.

  “And what about the cat food manufacturers who invited French restaurateurs to advertise their produce on television?” asked another.

  “Oh no!” was the horrified chorus.

  “Well, they have refused but who knows what will happen if the offer is raised?”

  There were shrugs, mutters, dark looks and dire forebodings from the group. It was getting grim. I moved on. I could see Raymond some distance away, looking as angry as ever. A lady wi
th blue-rinsed hair was telling him a story with hand accompaniments.

  Nearer at hand, Larry Leopold was speaking, his pointed beard wagging.

  “Of course you should drink a different wine with every meal. After all, wasn’t it our spiritual founder, Antonin Careme, who said ‘Economy is the only enemy of the gourmet’?”

  “But doesn’t drinking so many different wines give you a headache the next day?” asked a timid soul who was surely not a member.

  “No,” replied Leopold promptly. “It’s only drinking indifferent wines that does that.”

  The laughter that greeted this comment was interrupted by a muted gong. The guests began moving slowly towards the tables, seeking their name cards.

  François passed me. We exchanged another look and another nod. The movement was general now and many were sitting. The Circle was a well-trained organisation—or else they were anxious for François’ cooking.

  François had done his work well, he must have friends in high places in the Circle for I was surrounded by people I didn’t know. More to the point, none of them knew me. He had shown me the guest list and I had ticked off the names I recognised but even so he had been very efficient.

  My table companions included a jolly man who said he owned several pastry shops, a visiting lady journalist from Australia, the proprietor of a restaurant in Paris and the general manager of a travel agency which specialised in gastronomic tours. The opportunity for any probing questions as to who I was and why I was there was fortunately cut short by the arrival of dishes of Tartelettes à la Dijonnaise. These were tiny tarts of tomato, cheese and onion with garlic and herbs. They had been heated precisely long enough to bake the pastry and heat the tomatoes while melting the cheese to form a crispy golden crust. The man with the pastry shops heaped praise on the timing.

  The wine waiters were pouring the first wine. It was a Deidesheimer Kieselberg Kabinett, apple-fresh, marginally low on acid but lively and piquant. Champagne would have been an unimaginative alternative.