Monsieur Pamplemousse Aloft Read Online Free Page B

blanched parsley had been added to the butter in which the trout had been cooked and made a golden foam as it was poured over the top at the last moment. The
pommes frites
were as perfect an accompaniment as one could wish for.
    But it was the dessert which was undoubtedly the
pièce de
résistance.
When Monsieur Pamplemousse saw a man at a nearby table – obviously a regular – tucking into a jam omelette with such gusto and dabbing of the lips with his napkin that it was like a cabaret act, he’d quickly succumbed.
    As with the trout, the omelette arrived at his table at exactly the right moment. Piping hot, the icing-sugar on the top caramelised in a criss-cross pattern by the use of a red-hot metal skewer, the
confiture
inside of a quality which indicated it had never seen the inside of a shop let alone a factory. He could still taste it.
    Even Pommes Frites, not normally a jam-eater, had signalled his approval, which was praise indeed. The look on his face as his master slipped him a portion said it all. Even so, with a long journey ahead of them, to have indulged in a second helping had been folly of the very worst kind. A feeling of somnolence had set in uncomfortably soon after they set off on the last part of their journey. Snores had started to issue from the back of the
Deux Chevaux
long before they reached the N23.
    Driving along, Monsieur Pamplemousse had fallen to thinking about his work, and that, too, had slowed him down. Deep inside there was the usual conflict which began when he came across somewhere new, a battle between the desire to share his pleasures and a selfish wish to keep them to himself. He had no doubt that Glandier felt the same way too. All too frequently, discovery and a mention in
Le Guide
brought success, but with success came different pressures and often changes for the worse. It would be sad to come back another year and find the tranquil field at the side of the hotel turned into a car park smelling of petrol fumes, disturbing the peace and quiet of this lovely backwater with the sound of revving engines and slamming doors. But you couldn’t have it both ways.
    He gave a sigh as he regarded his 2CV. He couldn’t have it both ways either. Normally he prided himself on his reactions at the wheel, but they had been dulled by over-eating; over-eating and, he had to admit, perhaps one glass of wine too many?
    On the other hand, who would have expected to encounter in an area such as the
Marais Salant
– a vast unrelieved mosaic of grey salt pans, flat as a pancake as far as the eye could see – a car travelling on the wrong side of the road. He felt very aggrieved. It wasn’t as though it had been driven by some maniac English tourist admiring the view – there would have been some excuse then; it had been full of nuns. Nuns who had so far forgotten the basic tenets of their calling that they hadn’t even bothered to stop to make sure he was unharmed. For all they knew he might have needed the last rites. That they had seen him drive into the ditch he hadn’t the slightest doubt; at the very last moment he’d caught a glimpse of two white faces peering out at him from the rear window of the car as it disappeared in a cloud of dust.
    He wondered what the world was coming to. A few well-chosen words in the ear of the Mother Superior would not come amiss, but he’d been so taken aback by the whole incident he’d failed to register the number of the car – an old Peugeot 404. Given his background and training that was unforgivable. He must be getting old.
    The really galling thing about the whole affair was that he’d seen the car coming towards him long before it arrived, starting as a tiny speck on the horizon and growing in size until it had loomed inescapably large as they met on the corner, forcing him to take evasive action at the last possiblemoment by driving into the ditch.
    Fortunately no great damage had been done, and apart from looking somewhat dazed, Pommes Frites