Stiff Upper Lip by Lawrence Durrell

1
    If Garlic Be the Food of Love …
    Every Wednesday now, in the winter, I lunch with Antrobus at his club, picking him up at the Foreign Office just before noon. I think he enjoys these meetings as much as I do for they enable him to reminisce about old times in the Foreign Service. For my part I am always glad to add an anecdote or two to my private Antrobus File —the groundwork upon which I one day hope to raise the monument of my own Diplomatic Memories.…
    Yesterday his memory carried him back to Vulgaria again where he had served under Polk-Mowbray—and over De Mandeville—as Head of Chancery. “Bitter days,” he mused. “And perhaps one shouldn’t talk about them. De Mandeville was in a queer state all that spring; perhaps it had something to do with the phases of the moon? I don’t know. He was in a “Hamlet, Revenge!” sort of mood. The trouble seemed to centre about the Embassy table—as Third Sec. he had a watching brief on the food. It started I remembered with a series of Constance Spry table-decorations which made that otherwise fairly festive board look like an illustration from the Jungle Books. One could hardly carry a fork to one’s mouth without biting off a piece of fern by mistake. Slices of decorative pumpkin and marrow gave a Harvest Festival note to things. One peered at one’s guests through a forest of potted plants. Finally Polk-Mowbray put his foot down. De Mandeville became huffed. The next thing was he ordered Drage to serve everything from the right—in deference to a left-handed Trade Mission chief who was staying with us. It may have been tactful but it led to endless complications with us right-handed trenchermen who found everything upside down, and had to scuffle to rearrange our table-patterns as we sat down. And then what with Drage coming in so fast from the wrong side one was practically always out, hit-wicket on the soufflé. I tried to reason with De Mandeville but he only pouted and bridled. It was clear that he was in an ugly mood, old boy. I feared the worst. I have a sort of intuition about these things.
    â€œThe next thing in this chain of progressive sabotage was curry. De Mandeville had a series of Madras curries served. They were of such a blistering intensity that the entire Dutch Embassy had the inside of its collective mouth burned away—peeled off like bark from a tree, old boy. The Minister called on Polk-Mowbray in tenue and wanted to know if a state of war existed between England and Holland. His wife had to be treated for soft palate. A junior attaché went about saying that the Embassy food was full of quicklime and hinting darkly about damages. Naturally there were high words and massive contempts flying about which made Polk-Mowbray somewhat nervy. De Mandeville was sharply taken to task, but without avail. He next served an onion soup and black bread without soup-spoons. You know how long a rich onion soup takes to cool. Our little lunch-party dragged on almost to dusk, and several guests were lightly scalded because they neglected to take thermometer readings before gulping. The whole thing was gradually working up towards a climax. I saw it all coming and mentally, so to speak, closed my eyes and breathed a prayer to the Goddess of Diplomacy. I could not, however, guess from which quarter this warped and twisted Third Sec. might deliver the knock-out blow.
    â€œThen … all this is in the strictest confidence, old man.… Then it came. Polk-Mowbray used to leave his office door wide open so I could see and hear all that went on therein. One morning I heard a familiar sort of row going on and I knew that the blow had fallen at last. Polk-Mowbray was hysterical. ‘I adjure you by the bones of Cromer’, he was yelling, ‘to answer me without prevarication. Have you been putting garlic in the food without telling anyone? Did you, wittingly or unwittingly plug that cassoulet,