room where they would be joined by his daughter as a witness. When he took the blindfold off we were in our small dining room where the windows had been masked. Clotilde served the meal wearing only a black leotard, a white lace apron, a black mask and a white lace cap, and Monsieur Lesrois actually sniffed his disapproval.â
âHe must have thought he was in a bordello.â
âI think so too, because he wanted to say something but my being there seemed to stop him. Well, the food began to appear. Monsieur Lesrois just wept quietly while he wolfed the caviar. It was the roe of the yellow-bellied sterlet.â
âHow in the world did your father ever get it?â
âA Russian Grand Duchess.â
âOh, of course.â
âFew foreigners, indeed few people anywhere, have ever tasted it; it had always been reserved for the Russian Imperial Court before the revolution. Monsieur Lesrois kept wolfing it and weeping and saying, âWhere did they get it, Bernheim?â Papa answered, âThe late Tsar liked this little placeâhe came here a great deal incognito. I suppose he left them a barrel or two of the stuff.ââ
âOh, the poor man. But then, he did go beyond his depth when he offended your papa.â
âThe bourride du Midi came next, with a good Tavel servedâinside a ripe watermelonâyou know, la pastèque de la Provençe . Monsieur Lesrois began to mumble a prayer of thanksgiving at his first taste of the Salmis de palombe dâEtchalar . Those were the only words he spoke for the remainder of the meal. He kept his beady little eyes fixed on the kitchen door when his plate was empty. Concentrating utterly, he just ate and wept and wept and ate. After the gras-double au safran à lâAlbigeoise came the contrast of a gratin de ris de veau truffé , and at this, Monsieur Lesrois began to whimper pitiably.â
âBut who was this great chef, my dear? The knowledge of such food grayed Lesrois overnight you know, and the lines in his face became absolutely harrowing.â
âThat was the cruel part of Papaâs revenge,â Paule said sadly. âWhen the last ice disappeared, Monsieur Lesrois pleaded for the name of the restaurant and the name of the chef, but Papa refused, smiling. Monsieur Lesrois bullied and cajoled, saying he could make the chef the most famous man in France. Papa just smiled, and Clotilde served a ripened meringue layer cake. By the time Monsieur Lesrois was sipping Papaâs epic Calvados his face had taken on a desperate, lost expression which I shall never be able to forget. I could see in Monsieur Lesroisâ face the knowledge that he would have to fill the time until his death knowing that within Paris there was food such as he had just eaten, but that he would never enjoy again.â
Tears filled Dame Ellieâs eyes and she dabbed at them with a handkerchief. A boy banged on the dressing-room door and called, âFifteen minutes.â
âAnd the name of the chef?â she asked. âI will never tell. I wonât even tell Alan.â
âThe chef was Miss Willmott, who had been Papaâs English nanny. She is one of the geniuses of our epoch.â
âWhat contours doth justice have,â Dame Ellie intoned. âPerhaps it is better, at that, that Monsieur Lesrois never know that the cook of the greatest meal of his life was an Englishwoman. But justice did not halt right there, you know, my dear. Your wicked Papa was repaid for his cruelty. Years later he told me that he had spent the entire wager on flowers for an auto magnateâs wife who, in what your father considered to be one of the best-kept secrets of all Paris, he discovered to his bitterness to be a devout Lesbian.â
The old woman kissed her goodbye, and Paule picked her way across the debris of the backstage and left the theatre feeling as euphoric as though she were accompanied by her father himself.
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