Twelve Red Herrings

After a few more yards, I spotted a red-and-gold awning flapping in the breeze outside something called “Le Manoir.” My heart sank. I’ve always preferred simple food and have long considered pretentious French cuisine to be one of the major cons of the eighties, and one that should have been passé, if not part of culinary history, by the nineties.

Duncan led us down a short crazy-paving path through a heavy oak door and into a brightly lit restaurant. One look around the large, overdecorated room and my worst fears were confirmed. The maître d’ stepped forward and said, “Good evening, monsieur.”

“Good evening,” replied Duncan. “I have a table reserved in the name of McPherson.”

The maître d’ checked down a long list of bookings. “Ah, yes, a table for two.” Christabel pouted but looked no less beautiful.

“Can we make it three?” my host asked rather half-heartedly.

“Of course, sir. Allow me to show you to your table.”

We were guided through a crowded room to a little alcove in the corner that had only been set for two.

One look at the tablecloth, the massive flowered plates with “Le Manoir” painted in crimson all over them, and the arrangement of lilies on the center of the table made me feel even more guilty about what I had let Duncan in for. A waiter dressed in a white open-neck shirt, black trousers and black waistcoat with “Le Manoir” sewn in red on the breast pocket hurriedly supplied Christabel with a chair, while another deftly laid a place for her.

A third waiter appeared at Duncan’s side and inquired if we would care for an aperitif. Christabel smiled sweetly and asked if she might have a glass of champagne. I requested some Evian water, and Duncan nodded that he would have the same.

For the next few minutes, while we waited for the menus to appear, we continued to discuss Duncan’s trip to Bosnia, and the contrast between scraping one’s food out of a mess kit in a cold foxhole accompanied by the sound of bullets, and dining off china plates in a warm restaurant, with a string quartet playing Schubert in the background.

Another waiter appeared at Duncan’s side and handed us three pink menus the size of small posters. As I glanced down the list of dishes, Christabel whispered something to the waiter, who nodded and slipped quietly away.

I began to study the menu more carefully, unhappy to discover that this was one of those restaurants that allows only the host to have the bill of fare with the prices attached. I was trying to work out which would be the cheapest dishes when another glass of champagne was placed at Christabel’s side.

I decided that the clear soup was likely to be the least expensive starter, and that it would also help my feeble efforts to lose weight. The main courses had me more perplexed, and with my limited knowledge of French, I finally settled on duck, as I couldn’t find any sign of poulet.

When the waiter returned moments later, he immediately spotted Christabel’s empty glass, and asked, “Would you care for another glass of champagne, madame?”

“Yes, please,” she replied sweetly, as the maître d’ arrived to take our order. But first we had to suffer an ordeal that nowadays can be expected at every French restaurant in the world.

“Today our specialities are,” he began, in an accent that would not have impressed central casting, “for hors d’oeuvres Gelée de saumon sauvage et caviar im-périal en aigre doux, which is wild salmon slivers and imperial caviar in a delicate jelly with sour cream and courgettes soused in dill vinegar. Also we have Cuisses de grenouilles à la purée d’herbes a soupe, fricassée de chanterelles et racines de persil, which are pan-fried frogs’ legs in a parsley purée, fricassee of chanterelles and parsley roots. For the main course we have Escalope de turbot, which is a poached fillet of turbot on a watercress purée, lemon sabayon and a Gewürz-traminer sauce. And, of course, everything that is on the menu can be recommended.”

I felt full even before he had finished the descriptions.

Christabel appeared to be studying the menu with due diligence. She poi

nted to one of the dishes, and the maître d’ smiled approvingly.

Duncan leaned across and asked if I had selected anything yet.

“Consommé and the duck will suit me just fine,” I said without hesitation.

“Thank you, sir,” said the maître d’. “How would you like the duck? Crispy, or perhaps a little underdone?”

“Crispy,” I replied, to his evident disapproval.

“And monsieur?” he asked, turning to Duncan.

“Caesar salad and a rare steak.”

The maître d’ retrieved the menus and was turning to go as Duncan said, “Now, let me tell you all about my idea for a novel.”

“Would you care to order some wine, sir?” asked another waiter, who was carrying a large red leather book with golden grapes embossed on its cover.

“Should I do that for you?” suggested Christabel. “Then there’ll be no need to interrupt your story.”

Duncan nodded his agreement, and the waiter handed the wine list over to Christabel. She opened the red leather cover with as much eagerness as if she was about to begin a bestselling novel.

“You may be surprised,” Duncan was saying, “that my book is set in Britain. Let me start by explaining that the timing for its publication is absolutely vital. As you know, a British and French consortium is currently building a tunnel between Folkestone and Sangatte, which is scheduled to be opened by Queen Elizabeth on May 6, 1994. In fact, Chunnel will be the title of my book.”