Monsieur Pamplemousse Aloft Read Online Free Page A
Author: Michael Bond
impregnable than her store cupboard. It is where she keeps her
doudounes
!’
The Director clutched at the door frame for support. ‘This bodes ill, Pamplemousse!’ he exclaimed. ‘I am not by nature a superstitious man, but I fear this bodes ill for us all.’
2
A S URFEIT OF N UNS
Monsieur Pamplemousse focused his Leica camera on the off side of his 2CV, or the little of it which could still be seen above the top of a ditch, and operated the shutter several times. As he did so he pondered, not for the first time in his life, on the immutability of the laws of fate which decreed that following a series of seemingly unconnected events one should, for better or worse, find oneself at a certain spot at a certain time, not a second before nor a split-second after that moment which had all the appearances of being pre-ordained.
His present situation definitely came under the second category. If fate had indeed had a hand in things then someone, somewhere on high, had it in for him. His star was not in the ascendant.
He shivered a little, partly from delayed shock and partly from the cool breeze which was blowing in from the sea. He licked his lips. They tasted of salt. Glancing up he registered the fact that the same breeze was bringing with it a bank of dark rain clouds and he hoped it was only a passing storm. The sky to the west still looked bright enough and the long-term forecast was good, but even a minor shower would be bad news in the circumstances. Short of getting back in the car – which wouldn’t be easy – shelter was non-existent. Pommes Frites would be all right. At least he had his inflatablekennel, but there certainly wouldn’t be room in it for both of them.
If only he hadn’t decided on the spur of the moment to branch off the D99 at Guérande. It hadn’t even been a short cut; a voyage of remembrance rather than one of discovery, an exercise in nostalgia. If he’d stuck to the main road he would have been in Port St. Augustin by now, sampling the delights of
La Cuisine Régionale Naturelle.
Long before that there had been lunch.
Not that he regretted his meal, but it had been a far more protracted affair than he’d intended. One of his colleagues, Glandier, had left a note in his tray back at the office concerning a little restaurant he’d come across on the bank of one of the Loire’s many tributaries. Any recommendation from Glandier was worth following up, and on the strength of it he’d made a detour.
In the event it had exceeded all his expectations. Over a Kir made with ice-cold
aligoté
and served at a little table under a tree by the river, he had been able to watch the work going on in the kitchen, while making the first of many notes to come during the meal.
The first course – a cucumber salad – had been exactly right. Peeled, split down the middle, its seeds removed, the cucumber had been cut paper thin and sprinkled with salt to draw out all the excess liquid, leaving it, after draining, limp, yet deliciously crunchy. The vinegar and oil in the dressing had been of good quality with just the right amount of sugar added to counteract the natural bitterness. But it was the addition of the few freshwater crayfish which had lifted the dish above the norm.
With a basketful of crisp, fresh bread and a glass or two of sparkling Vouvray to help it down, he’d been of a mind to call it a day; a refreshing break in an otherwise long and tedious journey. But then he’d caught sight of some trout being brought to the back door of the restaurant by someone he had earlier seen fishing further along the river bank and the temptation to explore the menu still further had proved too greatto resist.
It had been a wise decision.
Coated in oil and rolled in flour before being seared in hot butter – quickly enough so that it didn’t stick to the pan, but not so hot that the flour formed a crust – the fish had arrived at the table golden brown. A little lemon juice and some fresh
doudounes
!’
The Director clutched at the door frame for support. ‘This bodes ill, Pamplemousse!’ he exclaimed. ‘I am not by nature a superstitious man, but I fear this bodes ill for us all.’
2
A S URFEIT OF N UNS
Monsieur Pamplemousse focused his Leica camera on the off side of his 2CV, or the little of it which could still be seen above the top of a ditch, and operated the shutter several times. As he did so he pondered, not for the first time in his life, on the immutability of the laws of fate which decreed that following a series of seemingly unconnected events one should, for better or worse, find oneself at a certain spot at a certain time, not a second before nor a split-second after that moment which had all the appearances of being pre-ordained.
His present situation definitely came under the second category. If fate had indeed had a hand in things then someone, somewhere on high, had it in for him. His star was not in the ascendant.
He shivered a little, partly from delayed shock and partly from the cool breeze which was blowing in from the sea. He licked his lips. They tasted of salt. Glancing up he registered the fact that the same breeze was bringing with it a bank of dark rain clouds and he hoped it was only a passing storm. The sky to the west still looked bright enough and the long-term forecast was good, but even a minor shower would be bad news in the circumstances. Short of getting back in the car – which wouldn’t be easy – shelter was non-existent. Pommes Frites would be all right. At least he had his inflatablekennel, but there certainly wouldn’t be room in it for both of them.
If only he hadn’t decided on the spur of the moment to branch off the D99 at Guérande. It hadn’t even been a short cut; a voyage of remembrance rather than one of discovery, an exercise in nostalgia. If he’d stuck to the main road he would have been in Port St. Augustin by now, sampling the delights of
La Cuisine Régionale Naturelle.
Long before that there had been lunch.
Not that he regretted his meal, but it had been a far more protracted affair than he’d intended. One of his colleagues, Glandier, had left a note in his tray back at the office concerning a little restaurant he’d come across on the bank of one of the Loire’s many tributaries. Any recommendation from Glandier was worth following up, and on the strength of it he’d made a detour.
In the event it had exceeded all his expectations. Over a Kir made with ice-cold
aligoté
and served at a little table under a tree by the river, he had been able to watch the work going on in the kitchen, while making the first of many notes to come during the meal.
The first course – a cucumber salad – had been exactly right. Peeled, split down the middle, its seeds removed, the cucumber had been cut paper thin and sprinkled with salt to draw out all the excess liquid, leaving it, after draining, limp, yet deliciously crunchy. The vinegar and oil in the dressing had been of good quality with just the right amount of sugar added to counteract the natural bitterness. But it was the addition of the few freshwater crayfish which had lifted the dish above the norm.
With a basketful of crisp, fresh bread and a glass or two of sparkling Vouvray to help it down, he’d been of a mind to call it a day; a refreshing break in an otherwise long and tedious journey. But then he’d caught sight of some trout being brought to the back door of the restaurant by someone he had earlier seen fishing further along the river bank and the temptation to explore the menu still further had proved too greatto resist.
It had been a wise decision.
Coated in oil and rolled in flour before being seared in hot butter – quickly enough so that it didn’t stick to the pan, but not so hot that the flour formed a crust – the fish had arrived at the table golden brown. A little lemon juice and some fresh
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