Monsieur Pamplemousse Hits the Headlines Read Online Free Page B

establishments.
    ‘… each time you enter a Supermarché and buy a packet of genetically modified, chemically adulterated, irradiated food fed by white-clad operatives into some giant machine in the middle of nowhere before being spewed out into plastic containers containing exact pre-set portions, you are guilty of dumbing down not only yourself, but your children too.’
    Cued by the floor manager – soft-soled suede shoes, combat trousers – a kind of uniform in which the common thread was a dark blue tee shirt, again with the company logo emblazoned on the front in gold lettering – the audience dutifully signalled their approval.
    ‘You are also guilty of knocking another nail in the coffin of what makes French cuisine so special,’ continued Mademoiselle Odette, ‘the freshness of its ingredients and the livelihood of small farmers who grow food not simply for money but out of love for their work… It is a matter of going back to basics…’
    Once she had the bit between her snow-white teeth there was no stopping her.
    Monsieur Pamplemousse found his attention drawn towards the girl who had brought the clock on. She was now quietly busying herself in the kitchen. Having filled three glasses with water, she half-filled a saucepan, placed it on the stove, and applied a match to the burner.
    Hardly rising much above the level of the hotplate, she was what Guilot, another of his colleagues, would have called “a pretty little thing”. Guilot invariably added a gloomy rider to the effect that the pretty little things of today often turned into the viragos of tomorrow. No one had ever met his wife, but everyone suspected he spoke from bitter experience, especially as he listed hiking as his favourite pastime.
    Consulting a clipboard with the script and running-order typed out on yellow paper, the floor manager began to look anxious as first his circular wind-up signals, then his throat-cutting signs were ignored. He tried tapping his wrist watch.
    Monsieur Pamplemousse glanced over his shoulder towards the long window of a production gallery in the wall at the back of the studio. Behind it he could see a glow from a row of monitors. Someone was on their feet looking through the window at the studio floor below. He could guess what was being said. The air would be blue.
    It was left to others to do the dirty work. Hand outstretched , Claude Chavignol rose from the settee, terminating the interview in no uncertain manner.
    As a call boy escorted Mademoiselle Odette off the set, he crossed over to the kitchen area. If he was thrown by the slight contretemps it didn’t show. 
    A remotely controlled overhead camera on rails tracked in from a wide shot of the studio over the heads of the audience, panned down to the cooking area, then zoomed in to a closer shot as the host entered. At the same time other manned cameras moved in and took up their working positions.
    ‘On the subject of going back to basics…’ Having first checked that all was ready, Monsieur Chavignol gave a nod of approval, ushered the girl towards the portable cabinet and opened the door.
    As she disappeared into inky blackness he essayed a quick pat on her derrière . She gave a squeal. ‘Mind you don’t get too near any hot fat, chérie ,’ he advised.
    This time the laughter was spontaneous.
    Closing the door behind her, he turned a key in the lock, returned to the working area and picked up a small tray which he held up towards the nearest camera. A red light came on and a picture of three eggs appeared on the monitors .
    ‘…there is nothing else in the world as basic as an egg, or as useful. Full of protein… rich in vitamins… an egg is a meal in itself, and yet… Alors ! Hands up all those in the audience who can say, hand on their heart, they are able to prepare a perfectly boiled egg… every time.’
    There was a noticeable lack of response.
    ‘The simplest things,’ continued Monsieur Chavignol, ‘…a steak… pommes