Deadly Reception

Deadly Reception

by

C.M. Albrecht

published by Write Words Inc. at Smashwords

copyright C.M. Albrecht

Publishers Note: This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of the book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Author or Publisher, excepting brief quotes to be used in reviews.

WARNING: Making copies or distributing this file, either on disk, CD, or over the Internet is a Federal Offense under the U.S. Copyright Act, and a violation of several International Trade Agreements.

Also by C.M. Albrecht

The Little Mornings

Marta’s Place

River Road

The Albemarle Affair

Tape

And the Steve Music Trilogy:

Music

Evidence

Still Life with Music

So comes a reckoning when the banquet’s o’er,

The dreadful reckoning, and men smile no more.

—John Gay

Part One

Chapter 1

Chef Merle Blanc carefully tugged at one of his slender and unrealistically black mustaches with the tips of his pudgy fingers, unconsciously making certain they were perfectly straight. His attention remained focused on the sauce Gilbert was preparing at the range.

Around them the bright kitchen at Le Merle Blanc hummed with activity. All wearing spotless white, men and women busily chopped, sliced and diced while others stirred pots at the ranges and checked their ovens. The kitchen positively radiated delicious aromas. And at the center of this activity, the round little man with the mustachios and thick glasses, despite his attention to his acolyte, nevertheless always stayed closely tuned to every sight and sound and scent in his kitchen.

Chef Blanc’s magnified blue eyes twinkled brightly behind his absurdly small square glasses. His pencil-thin black mustachios extended horizontally like arrows to either side beneath his round nose, and his red lips curved in an almost constant smile.

Ah… he murmured.

The younger man nibbled nervously at his lower lip. Acutely aware of the chef’s eagle eye, he continued adding butter, but he was rapidly losing his concentration. A thin chap of twenty, he had barely begun to shave. However, as Chef Blanc firmly believed, this Gilbert, he was born with the talent to become a great cook.

The chef sighed and held out his hands. "Ah no no, mais no… The butter, you introduce him too rapidly into the sauce, Gilbert. I have told you before. Chef Blanc smiled broadly and extended his arms. Is this how you make love to the woman, mon gars? Ah…I hope not. He smiled, tilting his round head slightly. He held out one hand with chubby extended forefinger and spiraled it gently up and around beneath Gilbert’s nose. Carefully, Gilbert. You must cook carefully—and with love."

Gilbert’s youthful face reddened. He was young. He had much to learn.

"This making of the sauce, it is just like making love to the woman, Gilbert. Doucement; slowly, gently—but with passion. Remember, love the sauce and the sauce she will love you back."

Red-faced and fully embarrassed now, Gilbert sputtered an apology, I—I try, Chef. I just go too fast sometimes. I know that. I get nervous. I don’t want you to think I’m slow or lazy. His thin face twisted in concern. Not that he worried about being fired. No one ever accused Chef Blanc of pettiness, but Gilbert did so want to please his employer.

Chef Blanc smiled tenderly, laying one hand on the shoulder of his student. "Remember old branch, this is not the Quarter Pounder at McDo. We do not serve the hamburger, the fries and the milkshake in this house. To dine at Le Merle Blanc it costs the eyes from the heads of our customers, and this they pay of it willingly, because they come here not for the quick lunch on the thumb, or for some—some rubber vegetable that soaks for hours and hours on the steam table; au contraire, they come here for the perfectly prepared repast, for the ambience, for the dining experience they will talk about, not just tomorrow, but perhaps for months or even years to come. Every dish a triumph in itself. Ah…only recently I received a letter from a guest who writes to tell me she still remembers with great fondness the anniversary dinner that I prepared for her and her husband fifteen years ago at the Ritz in London. I—"

Dad, came the voice of the chef’s son, Jack, we all know about the letters. Boy, do we know. He smiled showing beautiful teeth. But we’re in America now. By the way, over here we don’t say something costs the eyes from our heads, but an arm and a leg.

"Ah bon, the chef said, smiling now at his son. Arm and a leg, eh? Arm and a leg… His smile broadened. Yes, I like that." He continued to smile, perhaps faintly embarrassed at having gotten carried away. In his preoccupation with Gilbert and the sauce he had failed to notice the approach of his son, Jack, and Jean Luc. Both wore black jackets and long spotless white aprons.

Jack, although born in France, had been raised in the United States during a critical time during his development so that he felt much more American than French.

Jean Luc Thierry, on the other hand, was a tall slender man of many years experience. A man with a few more than the chef’s forty odd years, his dark eyes, slender face and long beaked nose gave him a distinctive Gallic air, while the graying at his temples added a certain note of distinction that enhanced his reputation for being a ladies’ man.

The chef flashed briefly back to his first acquaintance with Jean Luc some years earlier when they both worked at the Tour d’Argent in Paris. He remembered how he often laughed at the Jean Luc’s efforts to impress the ladies. Chef Blanc had been delighted to receive an e-mail from Jean Luc a few months earlier in which the waiter expressed his desire to come to America. Almost immediately upon his arrival Jean Luc had become one of the chef’s favorites, a waiter who often served Chef Blanc’s most important guests.

Ladies’ man that he might fancy himself to be, Jean Luc was an excellent waiter who took his profession very seriously. Today of course, working under the unfortunately still absent headwaiter, Alphonse, he would help coordinate and oversee all the other waiters for this special function.

Ah, the chef said, tell me, Jean Luc, will this boy ever be a waiter?

Jean Luc smiled enigmatically. I teach him everything I know, Chef. He is a good boy. But now I leave him in your hands for the moment. I have the preparations. From an inner pocket he brought out the small folding ruler he used to measure the correct placement for each piece of silver and each plate at each setting.

And this Alphonse, the chef said. I do not understand. He is never late. Never. Yet no one answers his telephone.

Ah, he will arrive, Jean Luc replied. "One can always depend on Alphonse. Bon…le devoir parle."

As Jean Luc turned away and headed for the dining room, Jack frowned, oblivious to the murmur of pots and pans around him. You know, I keep telling you, it’s not really my major goal in life to be a waiter, pops. Taller and thinner than his father, Jack had the more chiseled features of his mother, Annie. I mean, I know Jean Luc is very proud of his profession and all, but personally speaking, I’m going to college to become a journalist, not a waiter, remember?

His father nodded while keeping one eye on Gilbert at his side. I remember.

I’m sorry Pops, I mean, I don’t mind helping at the restaurant in between to do what I can to help pay for my keep, but using a ruler to make sure everything is lined up just right! I mean anybody with half a brain can eyeball it—besides, I bet the customers don’t know the difference. And don’t care either. He sighed. I guess I’m just not cut out to be to be a waiter.

No, you will never be a real waiter when you continue with such an attitude. The chef sighed. Can you not be both a good waiter and a good journalist, my boy? In France to be a waiter, it is a profession, not merely a job. Waiters are proud that they do their job well.

Yeah, I know…but even Jean Luc gets sick of it sometimes. He told me so himself. And he sure doesn’t think much of today’s menu either.

He said that?

Jack smiled. He didn’t exactly say anything. But I could tell. He’d be afraid to actually say anything to you.

Ah no, he is not afraid, Jack. It is not fear that keeps my friend silent; it is respect. The chef smiled. I think that Jean Luc he is slow to adapt to modern ways.

Well, he’s adapted himself to the Internet, Jack said. Every time he gets a free moment, he’s on that computer.

Yes, I know, the chef replied. Sometimes he spends too much time on the famous Internet. It ties up my little office. He smiled knowingly. "I think he chats with the ladies. He likes these chat rooms. Ah là? là?…One can only imagine the histoires when he is giving to the ladies of the boniment, the famous Jean Luc Thierry!"

You think? Jack looked thoughtful; then smiled, Yeah, he’s full of soft soap all right. I can see him now, telling some chick he’s with Interpol, or he’s a CIA agent on some discreet and delicate mission. Or maybe he lets drop hints that cause people to think he’s a famous celebrity chatting incognito. Sounds like him at that. He snickered. Well, anyway he’s still slow to change his ways when it comes to how things should be done in the dining room. Jack paused. Oh, I guess he’s right, but boy, he sets a high standard. Jack looked thoughtful for a moment and then added: Just like you.

Of course, Jack’s father said with a smile. "And I understand his feelings about the dinner. For such an important event Jean Luc would desire something more typically French, some magnificent special creation. Something superb. Hélas, what can I do? I too, if I had the carte blanche, I might prepare something more…more spectacular. But Madame desires to celebrate the wedding here—excellent idea. Still, her husband likes only the plain cooking. Nothing too elaborate. He smiled satanically. It is perhaps like that emission on the télé, Designing for the Sexes, hein? He wants this; she wants that… The chef’s shrug was eloquent. We compromise. Besides, in France too, the plain cooking, she comes before the haute cuisine. The good home cooking, she is the backbone of the French cuisine, let me assure you. His blue eyes twinkled behind the tiny square lenses. Good French cooking, but family style: of this you might find in any good French household. He spread his short arms. Now, had Madame come to me and said, ‘I place myself in your hands, Chef’, ah, then my imagination, my inspiration, they might have soared, of this I am certain, but… Chef Merle’s shoulders as well as his voice fell, Ah, we all have our days. I don’t blame Jean Luc. Perhaps part of his dismay is because here in America the waiters don’t receive the respect they enjoy in France.

Over there, he went on, a bit of nostalgia revealing itself in his voice, the patrons they respect the waiter. They ask his advice. They respect his opinion. They listen to him. The waiter is their personal advisor and assistant while they sit at his table, and the good waiter does his utmost to make their visit a pleasant one. Here however, it is different. Waiters are seldom really trained. They are students who work their way through school by posing as a waiter. He smiled again, Just like you my son. Ah, yes. Besides, if the waiter suggests a certain dish in America, the guest imagines the restaurant trying to get rid of something. He feels the waiter is working for the house and has only the interests of his employer at heart. Bah, this is nonsense. I do not believe any waiter is particularly concerned with the interests of his employer. And here too the guest usually just points to something on the menu and says, ‘How is the Coquilles St-Jacques this evening?’ and the uncaring waiter says, ‘Quite good, sir,’ while he is in reality thinking about how long it will be until he can slip into the rest room and smoke another cigarette. Bah, never mind. The chef sighed again. Just be ready for the wedding, Jacko. That cannot take a long time, and afterward the reception. Then the dinner. We must make certain to have a wonderful experience for the newlyweds.

Funny, people their age getting married. Jack laughed. They must have kids as old as I am.

As old as you? His father smiled, the satanic twinkle back in his eyes. I believe their elder son, Nathan is even older than I. He sighed and spread his hands expressively, But love…

Uh oh, Jack said as he spied an aggressive group of casually dressed people homing in on them. Here comes your gay producer slash director.

"Ah bon," the chef said without enthusiasm as he watched the advancing Tyrone Johnson surrounded as usual by his entourage of equipment-bearing technicians, hangers-on and assorted gofers. His ‘people’, as he called them. The chef smiled at the thought.

"Bonjour Chef," Johnson smiled, revealing large very white teeth that contrasted brilliantly against his black skin. Most of the crew wore jeans and other casual attire, but over his pale yellow silk collarless shirt, Tyrone Johnson wore a loose shapeless velvety charcoal silk suit with an apple green lining that revealed itself in the sleeves that Tyrone had rolled up just above his wrists. A heavy gold chain bearing some sort of pendant hung at his throat. An immense gold bracelet accented one bare wrist while a huge diamond-encrusted watch adorned the other. He wore soft leather slippers without socks and had turned his pant legs up as if perhaps expecting a flood in the kitchen.

"Bonjour, Tyrone, the chef replied courteously. I am sorry I have no time just now, but today you see, I have the wedding—"

Right, Chef, ri-hi-ght, Tyrone cut in. He flashed his huge white teeth. And that’s exactly why I’m here. Naughty Chef, you didn’t tell me, but Tyrone knows everything. Everything. His eyes twinkled merrily as he wagged a finger at the chef. His smile faded as he became serious again. But look, when we run the titles for your program, we need a cool background, you know what I’m saying? We want to run the titles over a montage of scenes from different aspects of your work. The more the better. You know, he smiled broadly again, shots of you stirring a sauce, placing a dish on the counter, talking to a satisfied customer, tying on your apron, smelling the aroma of a pot…whatever. And this wedding idea, hey that was sheer genius. I mean, if I’d had more lead-time I’d have thought of something like that myself. It’s perfect. We’ll tape the entire wedding and see if we can’t get some good footage to work into our opening credits, get it? And we need plenty of footage for the closing credits too. Besides, he finished with an even broader smile, I’m sure the bride and groom will be thrilled to have the whole thing professionally videotaped. I’ll personally make sure they get a complimentary DVD.

Complimentary from you, M. Tyrone, the chef thought, but moi, somehow I think I pay. Chef Blanc opened his mouth, but without giving the chef a chance to say a word, Tyrone turned quickly to one of his assistants.

Let’s get some light over there, Willie, he said, pointing toward the area where cooks continued to busy themselves over their hot ranges and ovens. Whooh! All this stainless steel; it’s good, but shiny. We have to be careful. His voice rose. We’ve got to get more light over here too. He waved another manicured hand. Lacresha, can you get me some coffee—I mean the good Merle Blanc stuff, and added, you know what I’m saying? He winked at the chef.

Lacreasha, a stick thin black model type wearing the shortest short shorts the chef had ever seen, swooped down on the espresso department to the left.

Don’t touch that bitch, Tyrone said, winking again, she so bony you’ll get splinters. But fortunately the chef’s attention was on other things, and amid this new pandemonium, he sent Jack on his way and tried to turn his attention back to Gilbert, taking up where he had left off.

"I do not think you are slow or lazy, p’tit. You know I do not demand the speed, but rather, of the excellence." He turned slightly away from Gilbert and surveyed his busy domain, his eyes following the video crew as they moved busily about.

Yo, my man— Tyrone was saying —let’s get some footage of the cooks here doing their thing. He waved at someone among his entourage and several people leaped forward to help.

His ‘people’ began setting up lighting, translucent reflectors and, despite the activity and obvious discomfort of the cooks, got right to work.

Chef Blanc resisted a sudden urge to go hide in his little office. That was the only place where he might talk quietly on the telephone. He had his computer as well, although try as he might, Chef Blanc had never quite had the patience to master its intricacies. However, glancing at the clock above the cashier’s stand that stood on a raised platform between the swinging doors that led to the dining rooms, he quickly resisted the urge.

I would never have the cashier in the dining room, he once explained to a reporter, nor the clock. I want my guests to forget everything and think only of the food and the drink. And when they leave, I hope they will remember only their agreeable experience at my table. However just now, since the arrival of the production crew, the thought of an agreeable experience was the furthest thing from the chef’s mind.

He sighed. Well, one must do what one must do. After all, he had permitted himself to contract to do this television show. And, en fin de compte, it would after all be a wonderful opportunity to express some of his ideas to more persons than he normally might do working only in the kitchen.

The kitchen was already so white and bright that the chef could scarcely see the need for more light. Nevertheless it was obviously not enough light to please the demanding Tyrone. The chef smiled at the director’s concerns. Chef Blanc realized that this was a good quality to have: the desire for perfection. Just as he too, had this same desire. In his restaurant, everything had always to be perfect.

Even purveyors and others who had business in the back of the restaurant knew this and came in with their mouths watering; and they seldom left disappointed. Chef Blanc might invite them to taste a bit of a gteau au chocolat, or perhaps something as simple as a bit of crusty fried bread topped with blue cheese and a dollop of the homemade apricot jam that the chef’s Aunt Agnè?s-Christine would on occasion send over from Provence. Or, if the purveyor were lucky, perhaps it might be a taste of a new creation centered on tender medallions of veal. The chef’s pté of wild duck had become so popular in the kitchen that Chef Blanc had to prepare extra quantities just in order to assure an ample supply for his paying guests. His confit de canard had become legendary, and of course no one went away without a small glass of some petit wine or another. But only one. Chef Blanc had the good sense to refrain from sending purveyors out to drive their trucks in too relaxed a condition.

The staff too never lacked for a glass; Chef Merle was careful not to hire employees who might abuse the privilege. The wine was to enhance their work; not to impede it.

All the busy cooks, men and women alike, wore stiff spotless white chefs’ coats. There was Blanche, Marie and Émile. Chubby René and—ah… The chef smiled faintly. It was like a small army. It has been said that Napoleon knew the names of all his soldiers, he once confided to an acquaintance, but for me, I confess, I often find it difficult to keep the names of even my little brigade straight.

High on the upper left chest of the cooks’ double-breasted jackets, a small white bird wearing a chef’s hat perched daintily above the name, Le Merle Blanc, and of course all the cooks wore long white aprons that fell to the tops of their shiny black shoes. The chef dressed in the same fashion as well, save that his chef’s coat had a blue-white-red chevron at the collar and displayed blue piping down the double breasted closure along with a couple of gold pins honoring his work in Europe. And although it was against the law, Chef Blanc often forgot to wear his toque, the tall white chef’s hat that many American cooks consider the emblem of their profession. Of course he always took care to don it before venturing into the dining room. All being well-groomed, most of the other cooks went hatless as well; the arrival of the health inspector, a gourmet in his own right, was never an unexpected event since he always called ahead for a (free) luncheon reservation, so the staff had plenty of time to think about toques before the health inspector’s satisfied and mellow appearance in the kitchen, a visit less concerned with inspection than with