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- Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Serie: Monsieur Pamplemousse Series
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2016
The annual launch of Le Guide, France's most prestigious restaurant companion, is always a red-letter day for its publishers. The year the Director has a particularly momentous announcement to make: the inauguration of the Golden Shock Pot Lid, a unique commendation to the best restaurant in France, awarded not according to the vagaries of mere human inspectors such as Monsieur Pamplemousse, but by the immaculate calculations of Le Guide's latest acquisition - a Poulanc DB23 mainframe computer. However, there is many a slip 'twixt Stock Pot and Lid and when the ceremonial 'Entry' button is pressed the resultant print-out is a travesty of everything Le Guide stands for. All too clearly, someone has nobbled the programme. With only days to go before publication, it falls to Monsieur Pamplemousse to investigate the mystery. Accompanied by his ever-faithful hound Pommes Frites, he is soon up to his ears in a bizarre world of bytes, rams and nibbles, and pitted against a foe who has but one aim in life: to heap disgrace on Le Guide, and in so doing bring about the downfall of Monsieur le Directeur himself...
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Monsieur Pamplemousse Investigates
Michael Bond
CONTENTS
1
THE LAUNCH PARTY
It should have served as an omen. Half-way down the Avenue Junot, while out for his early-morning walk with Pommes Frites, Monsieur Pamplemousse encountered a large black van parked across the pavement outside an apartment block. As he squeezed his way through the tiny gap left between the open rear doors and the entrance to the building, he glanced inside and saw a series of racks running along each wall of the interior. Five of them were filled by leather, coffin-shaped containers. The sixth was empty, awaiting the arrival of another customer.
It was a common enough sight at that time of the year. All the same, it cast a temporary gloom on their outing, a gloom which the leaden clouds almost stationary overhead did nothing to alleviate. Even Pommes Frites hurried on his way as though anxious to put the matter behind him as quickly as possible.
Turning into the Rue Caulaincourt, Monsieur Pamplemousse pulled his jacket collar up to shield his neck from the cold east wind and quickened his pace still further. He wished now he’d worn an overcoat, but at the beginning of the month – much against Madame Pamplemousse’s advice – he’d put it away for the year. Pride forbade that he should take it out again, but if the bad weather continued much longer he might have to. March, which had started warm and spring-like, was not going out without a struggle. Every evening the news on the television had fresh tales of woe to tell.
Two sparrows having an early-morning bathe in the water swirling its way down the gutters of the Butte took off when they saw Pommes Frites approaching. A street-cleaning waggon scuttled past like a scalded cat.
Others had their problems too. Pruning had started later than usual in the little vineyard on the nearby slopes of Montmartre, and the tables and chairs which would normally have appeared by now in the Place du Tertre ready for the tourist season were still under cover. The Easter eggs in the window of the boulangerie looked premature.
Carrying a bag of breakfast supplies and a copy of the morning journal, Monsieur Pamplemousse retraced his steps back up the hill. He took a short cut this time – up the Rue Simon Dereure and through the little park opposite his apartment. It was a truncated version of what he called ‘the round’, but it was no morning for lingering.
Armed with a pointed stick, the park-keeper was doing his rounds, prodding at sleeping figures tucked away in odd corners, sheltering from the wind.
Out of respect for their plight, Monsieur Pamplemousse looked the other way. Windows on the upper floors of surrounding buildings were being flung open as women appeared and began draping bedclothes across their balcony railings to be aired. Some children were already hard at work on the slides in the play area, their downward progress slowed by the morning dew.
If it weren’t for all the cars parked at the sides of the roads, Montmartre in the early morning wasn’t so far removed from the way it must have been when Utrillo painted it.
Waiting by the Boules area for Pommes Frites he remembered the encounter with the van and wondered if perhaps there would be one player less that afternoon. One thing was certain: it wouldn’t stop the game. Nothing short of an earthquake would ever do that.
Back home again, Monsieur Pamplemousse found café already percolating on the stove and a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice beside his plate. Pommes Frites slaked his thirst noisily from a bowl of water and then collapsed in a heap on a rug under the kitchen table while he waited for his petitdéjeuner.
Distributing his purchases, a croissant on the opposite plate, and a painausucre for himself, Monsieur Pamplemousse settled down and glanced through the journal while he waited for Doucette to join him.
It was the usual mixture of gloom and despondency; news of the weather still predominated. He sometimes wondered why he bothered to read it, except that the day always felt incomplete without at least a cursory glance through the headlines, and he was about to discard it when his eye alighted on a brief entry amongst a list of recent bereavements. It stood out from the rest by virtue of being in bolder type. For a moment or two he could scarcely believe his eyes. Then he jumped to his feet.
‘Sacrebleu! It is not possible!’
‘What is not possible?’ Madame Pamplemousse, her hair still in rollers, bustled in from the bedroom. ‘You are forever telling me all things are possible.’
‘The Director is mort!’
‘What? I don’t believe it!’ Madame Pamplemousse automatically crossed herself.
He handed her the journal. ‘Look for yourself.’
She scanned the entry briefly and then handed the journal back to him. ‘Poof! It is typical. They cannot even get the date right.’
Stifling his irritation, Monsieur Pamplemousse re-read the item. It was also typical of Doucette that she should fasten on some minor detail and in so doing, lose sight of the whole. What did it matter if it was today’s date, yesterday’s date, or even, as in the present case, a whole week away? Which was also, by sheer coincidence, the third Tuesday in March, traditionally publication day of LeGuide. The fact that she was right did nothing to soften the blow. The printer’s error was a trivial matter by comparison. Perhaps the compositor responsible had recognised the name and gone into a state of shock, emotion dulling his skills. There were a hundred possible explanations. The important fact was that the Director, the head of France’s oldest and most respected food guide, was no longer with them. Blinds in restaurants the length and breadth of the Republic would be lowered; flags across the nation would be flown at half-mast.
He lifted the telephone receiver and dialled his office number. Not surprisingly, it was engaged. The switchboard was probably awash with incoming calls.
‘It would happen today of all days.’
‘If you’re dead, you’re dead.’ Madame Pamplemousse reached for the café. ‘It doesn’t make any difference which day it is. Will you care which day it is when it happens to you? I certainly shan’t.’
‘Today, Couscous,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse simply, ‘happens to be the very day when the text for the new edition of LeGuide is being sent to the printers. It is what we have all been working for over the past year. There was to have been the usual send-off party …’
‘It will still go to the printers.’
‘Oui, Couscous, it will still go. But it will not be the same.’
There wouldn’t be the Director’s speech for a start. Every year they all assembled in the boardroom – office staff, Inspectors, everyone connected with the production – and there was a buffet lunch. Apart from the annual staff outing in Normandy, it was the one occasion in the year when they all got together and were able to swop reminiscences and talk about the things that had happened to them over the past year. Often it went on far into the night.
‘At least you’ll be home early for a change, and you’ll be spared the speech. You’ve always said that once the Director gets going there’s no stopping him.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse finished his pain au sucre and rose from the table. ‘I must change. I can’t go looking like this.’ There was no point in discussing the matter. Either you understood these things or you didn’t. It was really a case of rhythms. Some things that were said half-jokingly in life did not bear repeating after death. Often the things that seemed tedious at the time were the things you missed most of all.
‘You’ll find your black suit in a plastic bag behind the vacuum cleaner. I had it cleaned after you went to your Tante Mathilde’s funeral last May.’
He looked out of the bedroom window. Was it his imagination, or were the clouds even darker than they had been earlier? He shivered. His winter suit felt stiff after his comfortable, lived-in clothes. It also smelled of mothballs, but at least the material was warm.
He still could hardly believe the news. It was only a matter of weeks since he’d last seen the Director and he’d been looking unusually hale and hearty then. A trifle overweight perhaps, but weren’t they all? It was an occupational hazard. On an impulse he went into the bathroom and stepped on the scales, then wished he hadn’t. Even allowing for the fact that his suit was made of heavy material, it was still not good news.
Pommes Frites was waiting for him when he came out of the bathroom. He had a black bow tied to his collar and his coat had been freshly brushed.
‘Take care.’ Doucette came to the door and kissed him goodbye. ‘If you speak to MonsieurleDirecteur’s wife, do tell her how sorry I am.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse gave her a squeeze. Bad news took people in different ways. He knew that deep down she was really very upset.
He gave a final wave as the lift doors started to close. ‘Abientôt.’
‘I will expect you when I see you.’ It was a throw-away remark, although had he but known, it would echo in his ears for days to come. In any case he had too many things running through his mind to do more than give an answering nod.
Who would take over the running of LeGuide for a start? It was impossible to picture anyone new. As far as he was concerned the Director had always been there. They had enjoyed a special relationship, too; a relationship which dated back to his days in the Sûreté. He had once done the Director a favour while working on a case, and it had later borne fruit, when he had found himself forced into early retirement and by a stroke of good fortune they had bumped into each other again. If it hadn’t been for that chance meeting he wouldn’t have landed a job with LeGuide.
He paused at the top of the steps leading down to the Lamarck-Caulaincourt Métro, then spotted a taxi waiting in the rank further down the road. It would save any possible arguments with ticket collectors over Pommes Frites’ size. Like most of the other Inspectors, he had taken advantage of the lunch party to put his car in for a service. Now he was beginning to regret the decision.
It was also ironic that the Director should pass away at this particular time – just as they were about to be computerised. Under his management LeGuide had always been in the forefront of the latest scientific developments. It was like France itself in a way – on the one hand, firmly rooted in the best traditions of the past, on the other, paying homage at the altar of progress, and long may it remain so.
Perhaps because of the strong smell of mothballs, the driver pointedly opened his window. Once again Monsieur Pamplemousse regretted his lack of an overcoat. Pommes Frites, ever-sensitive to his master’s moods, looked suitably put out as he gazed at the passing scene.
The decision to commit the entire guide to a computer had not been taken lightly. It was undoubtedly a logical step if they were to keep one step ahead of their competitors, but given the vast number of entries and the immense amount of information which flowed into LeGuide’s headquarters every day of the year, information which needed to be collated and analysed, weighed and debated upon before it was programmed, it was also a mind-boggling task. As he’d said to Doucette: a year’s work. And there were rumours that other innovations were about to be unveiled. It was a shame the Director wouldn’t be there to announce them.
As they crossed the Pont de l’Alma and swung round in a wide arc in order to circumnavigate the Place de la Résistance, Monsieur Pamplemousse asked the driver to stop when he had a suitable opportunity. It wasn’t so much that he needed the walk, it was more a matter of composing himself before he reached the office. A quiet stroll along the bank of the Seine would do him good.
Half-way along the Quai d’Orsay he overtook one of his colleagues, Glandier, obviously doing the same thing.
Glandier shook hands as he came up alongside. ‘A bad business.’
‘Unbelievable.’
‘If you ask me,’ said Glandier gloomily, ‘there’s a jinx on the place. What with last week …’
‘Last week?’
‘You mean, you haven’t heard?’
Monsieur Pamplemousse shook his head. ‘I’ve been on the road for the last month.’
Glandier gave a hollow laugh. ‘You missed all the fun. Someone put a piranha fish in the fountain outside the main entrance. There was hell to pay.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse whistled. ‘What happened?’
‘It ate all the goldfish for a start. Then it nearly did for one of the typists. Apparently she was sitting on the side having her déjeuner. She only put her hand in the water for a split second, and … whoosh!’
‘Whoosh! Is she …?’
Glandier raised his hand and waggled it from side to side. ‘Commeci,commeça. Poof! Luckily she was wearing gloves. She has regained the power of speech, but it’s probably put her off sandwiches for life.’
As they turned into the Esplanade des Invalides Monsieur Pamplemousse spotted a row of large grey vans parked at the far end of the Rue Fabert. Cables were snaked across the pavement. A man wearing headphones waved a clipboard to someone inside the courtyard of LeGuide’s headquarters.
‘They are here already!’
Both men quickened their pace until they drew level with the first of the vans, when they were suddenly stopped dead in their tracks. An open door revealed an outside-broadcast control-room, and they could just see a row of television screens showing varying shots of the same subject. Unmistakably, that subject was the Director himself.
‘It must be an old film. I’m not sure I want to see it.’
Glandier was about to go on his way when Monsieur Pamplemousse stopped him.
‘Attendez!’ He pushed a path through a small knot of sightseers gathered on the pavement.
Above the hum of generators and the barking of orders from a producer seated in front of a control panel, they clearly heard snatches of a familiar voice.
‘… deeply grateful for the concern everyone has shown … a foolish prank on the part of someone as yet unidentified … as you can see … no, it is not a publicity stunt …’ The picture on the largest of the monitors – one labelled TRANSMISSION – changed to a tight close-up of the Director looking angry at the thought. ‘LeGuide has never had need for such things, nor, whilst I remain in charge, will it ever.’
The rest was drowned by a round of applause. The camera zoomed out and the picture on the monitor changed to a studio shot. The interview was over. Everyone in the van relaxed.
‘Sapristi! What do you make of it?’ Glandier hurried after Monsieur Pamplemousse as he led the way towards the entrance to LeGuide’s headquarters. ‘I’ll tell you something for nothing. There’s bound to be another mishap. Things always go in threes.’
The big double gates were open and the inner courtyard was crowded with people; the television crew, already dismantling their equipment ready for the next assignment, had given way to hordes of reporters and press photographers. Standing at the top of the steps leading to the main entrance was the erect figure of the Director. He appeared to be making the most of the situation: head back, chin out, right hand thrust beneath one lapel of his jacket, he looked for all the world as though he was giving an impersonation of Napoleon addressing his troops prior to giving the off signal for their historic crossing of the Alps.
Beyond the huge plate-glass doors Monsieur Pamplemousse could see rows of familiar faces pressed against the glass. Like himself, many of those present were dressed in black. Word must have spread like wildfire.
The battery of discharging flash-guns and the accompanying volley of clicking shutters would have been more than enough to satisfy even the most unpopular member of government hoping to achieve re-election; no film star seeking publicity for her current extravaganza would have had any cause to complain. Certainly the Director himself looked far from displeased as he gave a final wave to the news-hungry crowd before disappearing into the building.
‘So much for the anonymity of LeGuide,’ said Glandier.
Monsieur Pamplemousse gave a grunt. ‘He’s probably right. Get it all over in one fell swoop. There’s nothing more dangerous than an unsatisfied reporter.’
All the same, he knew what Glandier meant. Entry to the hallowed forecourt was normally only achieved by means of a magnetic card issued solely to employees of LeGuide. Even then, they had to pass the scrutiny of old Rambaud, the commissionaire, who had been there for longer than anyone else could remember. This furore would probably give him nightmares for weeks to come.
As they entered the building, the Director detached himself from a group congregated near the reception desk and drew Monsieur Pamplemousse to one side.
‘I’ve been trying to get hold of you, Pamplemousse,’ he complained, in the accusing tone of voice peculiar to those whose attempts to make contact with someone by telephone have been unsuccessful.
‘I called as soon as I heard the news, Monsieur,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse defensively. ‘All lines were engaged.’ It was not his fault if Doucette had gone out shopping.
‘It is an infuriating business. I shall not rest until I get to the bottom of it. If I discover the culprit is a member of the staff …’ The rest was left to the imagination.
‘You think it is someone within LeGuide, Monsieur?’
‘I can think of no other possible explanation. Michelin wouldn’t stoop to such a thing. Besides, they have already sent their condolences in the form of a red rocking-chair made out of poppies. A singular honour, particularly as I am told poppies are out of season. And Gault-Millau may have their eccentricities, but I can’t believe they would be capable of perpetrating something so juvenile. They have denied all knowledge.’
‘Have you enquired of the journal concerned, Monsieur?’
‘I have indeed. I spoke with the editor at length soon after the news broke. Apparently the entry was placed over the telephone late yesterday evening by someone purporting to be the proprietor. It was dealt with by a junior who has, I gather, already departed for pastures new.
‘Once today is over, Pamplemousse, I want you to take charge of the investigation. It needs someone with a finger on the pulse of the organisation, someone skilled in the art of keeping a discreet ear to the ground, whilst at the same time possessed of a nose for the scent of untoward behaviour. Your past training will be invaluable.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse absorbed this news with something less than enthusiasm. Apart from the dubious mechanics of the Director’s roll-call of his talents, which made the task ahead sound more suited to Pommes Frites, he had no wish to become embroiled in a situation which could well result in ill-feeling from the rest of the staff if they felt he was prying into their affairs.
However, any protests he might have voiced were rendered stillborn as the Director departed in order to prepare himself for his annual speech.
Monsieur Pamplemousse joined in the general throng making their way up to the boardroom on the fourth floor – some by lift, others, like himself, by the central staircase. In a matter of moments he was deep into shaking hands, greeting old friends and making new ones; Truffert asked to be reminded later to relate the story of an adventure he’d had on the Orient Express; Guilot, still persisting with his diet of fresh carrot juice before all meals, and clearly ignoring his weight problem for the day, was looking positively orange; Daladier had stumbled across a new restaurant near Strasbourg, which for the area he rated second only to that of the Haeberlin brothers; Trigaux in the art department – busily recording the event with his camera for L’Escargot, the staff magazine – had a new piece of photographic equipment he wanted to show Monsieur Pamplemousse when he had time.
The catering department had excelled themselves. It was their one moment of glory in the year, a chance to demonstrate that their skills extended beyond Tuesday’s cassoulet and Friday’s inevitable ragoût.Pâtés vied with each other alongside an array of cold meats and salads; there was one table devoted entirely to fish and another to meat; tureens full of as yet undisclosed delights simmered away on a fourth. There was a display of cheese on a fifth followed by a tempting display of desserts for those who managed to stay the course.
Champagne greeted them as they entered the room, while on other tables at the far end were gathered an assortment of bottles to delight both the eye and the palate. Without straining too much, Monsieur Pamplemousse picked out and mentally earmarked a Bâtard-Montrachet from Remoissenet and a Charmes-Chambertin bearing the illustrious name of Dujac. On another table there was an impressive collection of old Armagnacs and Cognacs.
Given the fact that most of those present were in various degrees of mourning, ranging from a mere armband to total blackness (and those in the former category clearly regretted they hadn’t taken more trouble over their dress; the Director had an eye for such things), it looked more like a convention of undertakers getting together after an unusually successful year than a gathering of hungry gourmets anxious to do justice to what lay before them.
Monsieur Pamplemousse wished now he’d been less optimistic about his chances of returning home early. He looked round, weighing up the possibility of slipping back outside in order to make a quick phone call to Doucette – he could tell her the good news about the Director at the same time – but the crush of people following on behind made it hardly worth contemplating.
Glandier clinched matters by handing him a plate.
‘We shall suffer for this,’ he murmured. ‘But what suffering! I’m glad I’ve got a late pass back at the works.’
Reminded of his responsibilities by a pressure against his right leg, Monsieur Pamplemousse picked up another plate for Pommes Frites.
As he moved slowly along the succession of tables, listening to the conversation and the laughter coming from all sides, it was hard to picture there being a Judas in the camp. If such a person existed, he – or she – would be very well fed. Well fed, and ungrateful to boot. The Director might have his faults, but no one could possibly complain of being badly treated. Goodness knows what the lunch must have cost. He wouldn’t like to have to foot the bill.
The thought triggered off another. So far he hadn’t set eyes on Madame Grante. As Head of Accounts she was usually at the forefront of things, keeping an eagle eye on all that went on. Truffert had a theory she checked their portions and made it up afterwards when it came to going through their expense sheets. He glanced around, but she was nowhere to be seen.
Feeling suddenly in need of a little peace and quiet, Monsieur Pamplemousse made his way to the far end of the room and found himself a chair near the dais from which the Director would be making his speech later that afternoon. On the platform there was a lectern and a small table on which reposed a glass and an ominously large bottle of Badoit. To the rear there was another table bearing an object covered in a shroud from beneath which there emerged a cable connected to a wall socket.
Gradually the hubbub died down as talk gave way to the serious business of eating. Waiters in fawn-coloured uniform embroidered with replicas of LeGuide’s symbol – two escargots rampant – moved discreetly to and fro amongst the crowd, charging and recharging glasses.
If the Bâtard-Montrachet was grand and sumptuous, the Charmes-Chambertin was elegance personified; each was more than worthy of the occasion and both improved as the afternoon wore on. All in all, by the time the Director made his entrance, Monsieur Pamplemousse felt at peace with the world. His only regret was that he’d seated himself in a position from which there was patently no escape, right next to the dais. A quiet sleep was out of the question; a noisy one even more so. It was worse than being back at school. He wished now he’d stuck with Glandier.
‘I do not propose,’ began the Director, holding up one hand for silence, ‘to dwell on this morning’s events, nor do I intend to speculate on the possible motivation for what on the surface would seem to be an utterly senseless and irresponsible action.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse suppressed a groan. He knew the signs. When the Director said he wasn’t going to dwell on something it usually meant quite the opposite. They were in for a long peroration. He hoped Pommes Frites behaved. One year, when some unidentified person had laced his water bowl with vinrouge, he had disgraced himself by snoring loudly during a particularly long and boring passage.
Monsieur Pamplemousse half-closed his eyes and placed one hand on his forehead in what he hoped would be interpreted as a look of deep concentration.
It was a very strange business and no mistake. If it was a practical joke, then it was in dubious taste and must have caused more heartaches than laughter. Hoaxes were all very well in their way, but there were limits.
Having relieved himself of his feelings on the subject of the morning’s events, the Director devoted the first part of his speech to the usual statistics relating to the past year’s activities. Out of over fifty thousand restaurants and hotels currently listed in the archives, less than ten thousand had found their way into LeGuide. That was not a denigration of those establishments who failed to gain entry, rather a pointer to LeGuide’s very high standards. Standards which, in a world where the very currency of the word was tending to become more and more debased, they must endeavour to maintain regardless of the cost. Reputations took years to build up; they could be destroyed overnight.
Out of the nine thousand eight hundred and twenty-three restaurants mentioned, eighteen had been singled out for the supreme accolade of three Stock Pots, eighty-one would receive two Stock Pots – a change in an upward direction of three over the previous year – and five hundred and nineteen were being awarded one Stock Pot. Congratulatory telexes were being prepared.
There were the usual moments of light relief. Reference was made to how many kilometres of saucisses and saucissons had been consumed by Inspectors in the course of duty. There were statistics relating to car mileage, the amount of wine drunk, and a pointed reference to the percentage rise in claims for expenses.
In proposing the usual vote of thanks to Madame Grante for her painstaking preparation of the figures, the Director raised a hollow laugh when he said that despite constant research a machine had yet to be perfected which would in any way replace her. Someone at the back of the room – it sounded like Truffert – triggered off a titter by shouting ‘Queldommage!’ It was instantly quelled by a strong glare from the Director.
Monsieur Pamplemousse looked round the room again, but there was still no sign of Madame Grante. Perhaps, despite the Director’s words, she had taken umbrage. People were very resistant to change when their own jobs were threatened, and he’d heard rumours to the effect that all was not well in her department.
‘We come now,’ continued the Director, ‘to the moment in the afternoon you have doubtless all been waiting for. I refer, of course, to the decision we made last year to enter the computer age.
‘It was a decision, I need hardly tell you, which was not arrived at without a great deal of heart searching. LeGuide has always prided itself on its efficiency and in being in the forefront of all the latest scientific and managerial developments. In the past our unique filing system has been the envy of many of our rivals. However, in recent years we have been falling behind. We can no longer afford to ignore either the march of progress or the benefits which the coming of the computer has conferred on those who have acquired one. Information is our working capital, and anything which enables us to draw on that capital and make use of it quickly and efficiently can only be for the good.
‘There are those who would say that we should have made the move much sooner. To them I would point out that part of our strength has always been those very same qualities which I believe make France the country it is: the will and the ability and the enthusiasm to embrace the new whilst still retaining the best of the old. We have merely taken time to make sure we are balancing the two often conflicting forces in order to achieve a harmonious whole.
‘There was a time when computers were surrounded in mystery. Only highly trained operators were allowed anywhere near them, and they became the “élite” – the “high priests” as it were, acquiring power previously reserved for the higher echelons. Then, as so often happens, things turned full circle. Now, with the coming of the microcomputer, power in many companies has been transferred yet again, but this time to anyone capable of operating a keyboard. Both situations have their drawbacks and their hazards. The one is like a ship with a member of the crew who usurps the captain’s position but is never seen; the other is like a ship where every member of the crew thinks he is capable of running it.
‘I wish to say here and now that LeGuide will have but one captain. I intend to remain firmly at the helm.’
The Director took advantage of the sustained applause which greeted this last remark to help himself to a glass of Badoit.
‘It is our intention to combine the best of both worlds. We have installed a central computer large enough, and powerful enough, to see us into the next century. On one level it will take care of all the information necessary to produce LeGuide, and this information will be accessed by only a few, thus guarding our reputation for anonymity and total secrecy. On another level it will provide us with ample facilities for the many other uses we intend putting it to. Our public information service will be enhanced. Our accounting system will be updated. Our reference library will become second to none. The list of potential benefits is almost endless.
‘Concurrent with this technological leap, the first of the major changes I have to announce concerns LeGuide’s system of symbols; a system which, although it has amply withstood the test of time, is now in need of reassessment in order to take account of modern developments and changes in social behaviour. Over the past few years we have received many complaints, particularly from our older readers, about the problem of background music in restaurants. The most common argument advanced, and one which I have to admit strikes a chord of sympathy, is that if people feel like sharing their meal with a military band then they should take a picnic lunch in the Champs-Elysées on Bastille Day. Most people go to a restaurant in order to enjoy a meal in peace and quiet, not to have their ears assailed by discordant cacophonies from a battery of ill-concealed loudspeakers. Accordingly, we intend to institute a symbol of ear-plugs rampant for those establishments which come under the heading of “persistent offenders”.
‘There are to be other new symbols which you will learn about in due course – an unshaded luminaire for a low standard of ambience is but one example; others will be introduced in the fullness of time, but slowly, so as not to place too great a burden on you all.’
Aware that the buzz of conversation following his pronouncement had not entirely subsided and that a good part of his audience had seized on the chance to relax, the Director raised his voice.
‘I come now to the major event of the afternoon. We have decided to institute a new award which I believe will be unique in the annals of catering. It will be in the form of a golden Stock Pot lid and will be presented annually to the best restaurant in France. The winner will then hold it for a year. There will, of course, be similar awards for the runners-up. A silver lid for the second and a bronze lid for the third.
‘A few moments ago I made reference to our system of awarding Stock Pots to those restaurants who merit it, restaurants where the cuisine, the surroundings and the service are all exceptional and justify a special journey, much as Michelin award their stars and Gault-Millau their toques. As you all know, other guides have different systems again, none of which are entirely without merit.
‘However, admirable though all these awards are, the one criticism one may level at them – our own included – is that in the final analysis they are still subjective and as such are open to human errors and human frailties; judgements can become clouded – over-indulgence by an Inspector the previous evening, indisposition of the chef on the day itself – the possibilities are endless.
‘In order to arrive at a fair, indeed one might almost call it an incontrovertible decision as to which is the very best restaurant in the whole of France, and therefore, almost by definition, the whole of the world, I have decided to take full advantage of our latest acquisition. All this week staff have been busy feeding the computer with every scrap of information obtained over the past year and even while I have been talking it has been sifting this material, digesting and dissecting it, annotating the result, weighing one factor not simply against another, but against many thousand of others. It is a task which I am told would take a hundred skilled mathematicians many months to complete. And yet,’ the Director turned and like a magician presenting his piècederésistance, removed the shroud from the object behind him with a flourish, ‘such is the miracle of modern science, the answer will be printed out the moment I issue the appropriate command on the keyboard you see in front of you; a keyboard which is connected to the mainframe in our computer room in another part of the building. I, myself, do not as yet know the result – no one does – but I can assure you that it will be as accurate and as unbiased as man could possibly devise.’
Ever one to extract the last soupçon of drama from a situation, the Director paused with one finger poised above the keyboard for long enough to allow a total hush to fall over the room. Then, at exactly the right moment, he struck, tapping out a series of instructions at a speed which would have earned him a place in the typing pool any day of the week and which must have taken many hours of rehearsal.
