Gerald Durrell - The Picnic and Suchlike Pandemonium

“Morceau was all for waiting until it was dark and then taking the body out in the pony and trap and leaving it in some remote forest glade a number of kilometres from the village. I objected to this on the score that, if the body was discovered, people in the village knew of Albert Henri’s presence in the hotel and would ask why his body should be found so far away. This would immediately throw suspicion on Morceau. Did he, I asked, want to be known throughout the length and breadth of France as the chef who had killed a Michelin man with his cooking? He burst into tears again and said he would commit suicide if this was said of him.

“I said that we must be intelligent and think of a way of disposing of the corpse without implicating ourselves. I told him that my ‘uncle’ was unmarried and had only a small circle of acquaintances, so that his disappearance would not occasion any undue alarm. This was indeed true, for Albert Henri had a very small circle of acquaintances simply because he was so untrustworthy. I knew that anyone in Paris would treat his disappearance as a cause for rejoicing rather than the reverse. I could hardly tell Morceau that, so to keep him calm, I assured him that, given the hours of darkness, I would think of a solution to our problem. But I do assure you, monsieur , I was at my wits’ end what to do.”

At this moment the waiter approached the table and told me that my food was ready.

“Good, good,” said the old man, “don’t delay. Come, monsieur , let me conduct you to the dining-room.”

He rose and led me into the hotel and thence into a small but beautifully appointed dining-room and there pulled a chair for me to sit down. The waiter came forward bearing a dish of toast and a large dish of pâté. A sudden realization came to me.

“Tell me,” I said to the Patron , “this pâté commemorating the Passing of Albert Henri Perigord . . . is this named after your friend?”

“Of course, monsieur,” said the Patron. “It was the least I could do.”

I cut a slice of the pâté from the dish, applied it to a fragment of toast and put it in my mouth. It was delicious beyond belief.

“Magnificent, Patron ,” I said, “a wonderful pâté. Your friend would have been proud to have had it called after him.”

“Thank you, monsieur ,” he said bowing.

“But, tell me,” I went on, “you haven’t finished your story. You can’t leave me in mid-air like that . . . what did you do with the body?”

The old man looked at me and hesitated for a moment, as if making up his mind whether to vouchsafe this secret or not. At last he sighed.

“ Monsieur ,” he said, “we did the only thing we could do . . . indeed the only thing that I am sure Albert Henri would have wanted us to do.”

“What was that?” I asked, perhaps obtusely.

We turned my friend into a pâté, monsieur. It is perhaps somewhat ironical that it was for this very pâté that we were awarded our star by the Michelin, but we were most grateful for it, nevertheless. Bon appetit, monsieur. ” Chuckling, he turned and made his way out to the kitchen.

My friends Paul and Marjorie Glenham are both failed artists or, perhaps, to put it more charitably, they are both unsuccessful. But they enjoy their failure more than most successful artists enjoy their success. This is what makes them such good company and is one of the reasons that I always go and stay with them when I am in France . Their rambling farmhouse in Provence was always in a state of chaos, with sacks of potatoes, piles of dried herbs, plates of garlic and forests of dried maize jostling with piles of half-finished water-colours and oil-paintings of the most hideous sort, perpetrated by Marjorie, and strange, Neanderthal sculpture which was Paul’s handiwork. Throughout this market-like mess prowled cats of every shade and marking and a river of dogs from an Irish wolf hound the size of a pony to an old English bulldog which made noises like Stephenson’s Rocket. Around the walls in ornate cages were housed Marjorie’s collection of Roller canaries, who sang with undiminished vigour regardless of the hour, thus making speech difficult. It was a warm, friendly, cacophonous atmosphere and I loved it.

When I arrived in the early evening I had had a long drive and was tired, a condition that Paul set about remedying with a hot brandy and lemon of Herculean proportions. I was glad to have got there for, during the last half hour, a summer storm had moved ponderously over the landscape like a great black cloak and thunder reverberated among the crags, like a million rocks cascading down a wooden staircase. I had only just reached the safety of the warm, noisy kitchen, redolent with the mouth-watering smells of Marjorie’s cooking, when the rain started in torrents. The noise of it on the tile roof combined with the massive thunderclaps that made even the solid stone farmhouse shudder, aroused the competitive spirit in the canaries and they all burst into song simultaneously. It was the noisiest storm I had ever encountered.

“Another noggin, dear boy?” enquired Paul, hopefully.

“No, no!” shouted Marjorie above the bubbling songs of the birds and the roar of the rain, “the food’s ready and it will spoil if you keep it waiting. Have some wine. Come and sit down, Gerry dear.”

“Wine, wine, that’s the thing. I’ve got something special for you, dear boy,” said Paul and he went off into the cellar to reappear a moment later with his arms full of bottles, which he placed reverently on the table near me. “A special Gigondas I have discovered,” he said. “Brontosaurus blood I do assure you, my dear fellow, pure prehistoric monster juice. It will go well with the truffles and the guinea-fowl Marjorie’s run up.”

He uncorked a bottle and splashed the deep red wine into a generously large goblet. He was right. The wine slid into your mouth like red velvet and then, when it reached the back of your tongue, exploded like a firework display into your brain cells.

“Good, eh?” said Paul, watching my expression. “I found it in a small cave near Carpentras. It was a blistering hot day and the cave was so nice and cool that I sat and drank two bottles of it before I realized what I was doing. It’s a seducing wine, all right. Of course when I got out in the sun again the damn stuff hit me like a sledgehammer. Marjorie had to drive.”

“I was so ashamed,” said Marjorie, placing in front of me a black truffle the size of a peach encased in a fragile, feather-light overcoat of crisp brown pastry. “He paid for the wine and then bowed to the Patron and fell flat on his face. The Patron and his sons had to lift him into the car. It was disgusting.”

“Nonsense,” said Paul, “the Patron was enchanted. It gave his wine the accolade it needed.”

“That’s what you think,” said Marjorie. “Now start, Gerry, before it gets cold.”

I cut into the globe of golden pastry in front of me and released the scent of the truffle, like the delicious aroma of a damp autumn wood, a million leafy, earthy smells rolled up into one. With the Gigondas as an accompaniment this promised to be a meal for the Gods. We fell silent as we attacked our truffles and listened to the rain on the roof, the roar of thunder and the almost apoplectic singing of the canaries. The bulldog, who had, for no apparent reason, fallen suddenly and deeply in love with me, sat by my chair watching me fixedly with his protuberant brown eyes, panting gently and wheezing.

“Magnificent, Marjorie,” I said as the last fragment of pastry dissolved like a snowflake on my tongue. “I don’t know why you and Paul don’t set up a restaurant: with your cooking and Paul’s choice of wines you’d be one of the three-star Michelin jobs in next to no time.”