Monsieur Pamplemousse Hits the Headlines Read Online Free Page A

(1902–1967) would have joined in. Monsieur Pamplemousse recognised “life always comes to a bad end” as being a quotation from one of his more bizarre works for the simple reason that a bronze statue based on his book The Man Who Could Pass Through Walls protruded from a wall outside their apartment block. Pommes Frites had left his mark on it many a time.
    Oozing insincerity from every pore, master of all he surveyed , the term “television personality” fitted the programme’s host much like his immaculately tailored, dark blue, buttoned up to the neck, Nehru suit.
    Seeing him in the flesh for the first time, Monsieur Pamplemousse realised that in one respect at least the description “manufactured” did him an injustice, for his hands were long and slender and beautifully manicured. They were a magician’s hands.
    All that apart, he certainly wouldn’t have wanted to work for him. Those under him probably led a dog’s life. It showed in his choice of warm-up artiste: a little-known comedian who was good, but not so good that he would take the shine off the host. After the first few jokes he had set about drilling the audience in the part they had to play. First the length and volume of their applause, then their enthusiastic echoing of “YUMS” – a word used by the host whenever he tasted one of his own dishes. 
    So far, the programme had been par for the course.
    First, the reminiscing about his childhood: helping in the kitchen. ‘There is nothing like the taste of raw cake mix – scraping out the mixing bowl – licking the spoon clean…’ A chorus of “YUMS” rang round the studio.
    Feigning being worn out by it all, Monsieur Chavignol filled a glass jug with water from a tap, took a Paris goblet and poured out a glass of red wine.
    Monsieur Pamplemousse wondered what his colleague, Glandier, would have to say about it. Born and brought up in the Savoy mountains, Glandier had often been snowed up for weeks on end and he had an extensive repertoire of tricks he’d perfected as a child.
    ‘One of the oldest in the book.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse could hear his voice. ‘First lace the water jug with some ferric ammonium sulphate, then make sure the bottom of the glass contains a similar amount of sodium salicylate. Add water, and Hey Presto – red wine! There’s nothing to it.’
    All the same, performed with practised style, as it had been on this occasion, it never failed.
    The hot tip of the week: what to do if a sauce Béarnaise goes wrong – had followed.
    ‘Never add warm water to a warm sauce. Add lukewarm water if the béarnaise is cold. Add cold water if it is tepid…’
    Brief and to the point, the filmed insert only lasted a couple of minutes, but during that time a group of scene hands invaded the kitchen area, assembled a cabinet the size of a telephone kiosk, placed it in position on a pre-marked spot, then vanished as fast as they had come. It was practically poetry in motion.
    Their place was taken by a scantily clad girl – extremely small, and more flesh than sequins. Having attached a large round clock to a lighting stand, she made sure all three hands were set to 12.00 o’clock, then turned it to face the audience.
    During that time Chavignol had changed into a regular two-piece suit. With it he wore a Hermès tie that looked as though it been specially designed, for it converted the maker’s horseshoe motif into the double interlocking C logo of the television company. If that were the case it must have cost a bomb.
    Brief was not something that could be said for the interview that followed. Having introduced the guest celebrity, Mademoiselle Martine Odette, owner of a chain of health food shops, Monsieur Chavignol had his work cut out getting a word in edgewise. Mounting what was clearly a favourite hobby horse, she launched into an attack on the tyranny of supermarket uniformity, at the same time unashamedly ploughing a well-worn furrow in praise of her own