Chapter 10
King Louis’ stag party begins. Extra help arrives in the kitchens. Knowledge of certain indiscretions proves useful to Dorf in getting to where he wants to go. There is a certain amount of cheating. Eugene D’Orbergene makes fool of himself and, in an unexpected manner, Beowulf joins the party.
Madame Gertrude Frappedelapins was the undisputed and absolute ruler of the kitchens that serviced the Holy Gambling rooms at the Monastery of Monte San Carlos. Brother Dominic le Brunours was nominally and notionally in charge; as was only right and proper in a Monastery, but in all practical matters Mme Frappedelapins reigned supreme. This happy arrangement allowed the elderly Brother Dominic to sleep peacefully and gratefully in his office, while Mme Frappedelapins was able to run things properly. It was she alone who decided what was on, or off the menu; it was her regimen of cleaning and preparation that set the standard for behaviour in the kitchen; and she, and only she who was allowed any say in the hiring, firing and allocation of the staff. It was therefore a huge surprise to her, that early in the evening of the Royal Stag Party, which was one of the most significant events in the history of the Monastery kitchen, she was disturbed from her lengthy (and necessary) preparations by Brother Simone, the underchef.
‘Madame Chef…’ the young man approached her nervously, for although Mme Frappedelapins was a slightly built lady, who stood slightly under a metre and a quarter tall, she was amply endowed with the self esteem, temper, vitriol and vocabulary of the master chef that she was. She turned to him slowly, favouring him with the expression that her staff knew as ‘the icy glare’,
‘Is the parsley picked and prepared?’ she asked quietly.
Brother Simone made to answer, but before he could, she had moved on,
‘Are all the girolles cleaned? Are they individually prepared, hand dried and placed in neat, little lines like I like?’
She paused to allow him to try to squeeze in an answer. As soon as he opened his mouth she continued,
‘Are the mussels debearded? Are the potatoes turned and sliced into perfect dodecahedrons?’
Brother Simone had given up trying to answer and was just waiting with his mouth slightly open, (this was a practical measure which he employed to enable him to gain a head start in speaking, in the unlikely event of Madame Chef pausing for long enough to actually allow him to interject.)
‘I suspect,’ she continued with rising tone, pace and venom, ‘that the answer to these simple questions is “no.” Yet that should not be the answer; the answer to these simple questions, if you are thinking of disturbing me when I am working (and, of course I am working, for being a great chef is nothing but work, work, work!) should be a simple, straightforward, resounding, “Yes Madame Chef, everything is as it should be”, but it is not, is it? Is it, Brother Simone? No, it is not, for while I am working, while I am labouring to create the true culinary dream, while I struggle to raise the standards of this kitchen to make it fit for the great work I do, there are those in this kitchen who are standing uselessly by, with their mouths hanging open while ALL THE WORK HAS STILL TO BE DONE!’
At this point, having reached the peak of her crescendo, she shifted gears and began to sob,
‘Why is it that I and I alone, appreciate what is is needed here? I have a dream. I have the greatest desire to make the most beautiful food, but all the time I am let down. I am sabotaged, I am betrayed’
Clearly Mme Frappedelapins liked the word ‘betrayed’ and creatively she used this as the theme for the next section of her monologue,
‘Yes, I am betrayed! I am abused by the lazy farmers who send their inadequate produce, the foolish monks who cannot see that the kitchen is properly equipped and supplied so that a genius such as I can work. Here I remain; unappreciated by the clods that eat my food like horses in a field, never valuing the great art that is put before them daily; betrayed, yes!’
She paused and then treated Brother Simone, to the expression known as ‘the hot glare’ as she reached a dramatic conclusion, mixing the themes that she had earlier explored to create a virtuoso, cacophonous and thoroughly satisfying (at least to her) finale,
‘These betrayals I accept, I have to accept them, I have no choice, I am a slave to my art; but here, in my own kitchen, from my own staff, from those I have picked, and trained, and nurtured, and loved, (as a mother loves her children) must I accept betrayal and failure from such as these? This is the cruellest cut; when so much needs to be done, when so much that must be done is undone, when there is so very little time and each moment is precious in pursuing that dream, must my time be wasted by such as you?’
There was a silence. Brother Simone realised too late that this had been the moment when he was required to speak.
‘Spit it out! I have not got all day to spend waiting for you to gabble your foolish business!’
‘There are girls here,’ said Brother Simone, ‘they want to serve the food.’
This was irregular. There were girls who served the food, but they were already here. Mme Frappedelapins was concerned,
‘Bring them here, to me; now!’ she commanded. Simone scuttled off and swiftly returned with Amarilla and Emsie. Mme Chef was suspicious; she dismissed Simone,
‘Parsley, Mushrooms, Mussels, Potatoes; strive always for perfection!’
‘Yes, Madame Chef.’
She scrutinised the girls, Amarilla thought that she might get to speak, but she was too slow; Mme Frappedelapins struck like a snake,
‘Neither of you were invited. Neither of you work here.’
She pointed at Emsie,
‘You have experience in food preparation, but at a level so inferior to my own that I cannot credit that your produce is actually consumed by patrons.’
She pointed at Amarilla,
‘And you? You have never held a ladle in anger. You are not a servant. You are an imposter, a spy. You are probably here with your little friend to steal my recipes, my ideas my methods. I shall have you thrown out, or possibly, fed to the dogs!’
She gathered her breath to shout for her attendants; but Amarilla could speak swiftly when she wanted to,
‘You are right Madame. Of course you are right! We are not who we appear to be and it was very foolish for us to try to trick one of your experience, competence…’
‘Magnificence!’ helped out Emsie.
‘Yes,’ agreed Amarilla, ‘that is not too strong a word. We should have straight away explained our problem and thrown ourselves on your mercy. You see Madame, we, I mean I, really need your help!’
‘And why would I help two girls?’ asked Mme Frappedelapins, not quite as belligerently. Amarilla’s flattery had begun to work.
‘Because, tomorrow she becomes the Queen of France!’ said Emsie.
Mme Frappedelapins sensed that there could be a troublesome situation developing.
‘So, what is it that you want? Explain to me. Why would the Queen of France want to serve food; even the exemplary output of my kitchens?’
Amarilla went blank; she was not prepared to explain about the fake King and trying to keep an eye on any exchanges and she couldn’t think of anything else to say. She looked hopefully at Emsie,
‘Summarise?’ she pleaded.
‘Mme Chef,’ said Emsie instantly, ‘this is the lady Amarilla De Cassiones. She is to marry the King tomorrow, but she suspects that he is having an affair. I am sure that this is not so, but I cannot convince her. So, I said to her, “let us go and spy on him, during his stag night and you will see what a fine an honest man he is. Then you will be able to marry him with a happy heart in the morning.” So we came here, to try and pass ourselves off as serving girls, so that my friend, this beautiful lady, may know peace of mind once more and look forward to her marriage. Please help her Mme Chef. I fear for her sanity if her doubts are not assuaged!’
Amarilla rolled her eyes to try to give the impression of a woman whose sanity might be feared for,
‘It’s all true!’ she agreed, ‘tha
t’s it!’
Mme Frappedelapins considered,
‘It is for a romantic reason, that you practice this deception; an affair of the heart?’
Emsie and Amarilla nodded.
‘Then I must help you! Romance is the basis of art; almost as much as fresh local produce and unshakeable technique. I am an artist; I am an artist of the kitchen. Music is not the food of love: food is the food of love! If you must spy on your boyfriend, then I must help you. Follow me, you will need to get changed and be warned; although I am willing to help you; if you drop any of my dishes then I will hit you with a ladle, Queen of France or not. That is fair?’
The girls agreed that this did indeed sound fair and followed Mme Chef to prepare.
The British delegation to the stag party had arrived and this presented a pair of problems. Firstly; as a delegation from a barbaric and degenerate nation, they had not been invited at all, and, secondly; one of them was a woman. Heinrich’s solution to both problems was the same: not to let them in.
Boo Dikka, Dorf, Caractacus Carruthers (who had arrived late in the afternoon) and Lewis (who was still disguised as a servant) were giving him and his guards a most uncomfortable few minutes.
‘Let us in, you jumped up watchman. The Queen needs to party!’ shouted Dorf, whose broken nose and rough appearance were not helping the case for admittance.
‘If your name is not on the guest list, then you are not coming in,’ he explained, ‘I don’t care if you are the Princess of Patagonia, or the Duchess of Dortmund, if you are not invited by his Royal Majesty King Louis, then you are not coming in!’
Boo Dikka was used to surly servants; after all, she came from Britain.
‘I am used to surly servants, after all I come from Britain,’ she exclaimed, ‘but you, sir, are beyond the pale! I am not your Princess of Patagonia, nor your Duchess of Dortmund, I am the Queen of the Britons, and I, and my retinue have been invited by the lawful monarch of France, through his great esteemed friend and colleague Cardinal Mascarpone!’
‘I very much doubt that the Cardinal is acquainted with anyone from a primitive island where the people paint themselves blue as preparation for “a good night out!”’ said Heinrich, offensively.
Dorf squared up with the intention of hitting Heinrich, but was restrained by Caractacus and Lewis. He had to content himself with shouting,
‘Send for him then, you insolent flunkey! Then you will be apologising to my gracious Queen!’
‘It is, how he says it is,’ said Boo Dikka politely, ‘why don’t you get him and see. No one wants anyone to put an axe in anyone, but we are Britons abroad and this is a party.’
She winked at Heinrich, which further upset him.
‘All right,’ he agreed, ‘If the Cardinal vouches for you, you may come in-‘
‘And if not,’ agreed Boo Dikka, ‘we will go quietly.’
‘No axes?’
‘Not even a little dagger.’