Mystery Tour by Martin Edwards

Author:Martin Edwards [Martin Edwards]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781495628207
Publisher: Orenda Books
Published: 2017-01-10T05:00:00+00:00

That year of 1773 the talk of Paris was a divine eating establishment that served Le Goût Moderne.

‘I hear rumours of a hellish fine place to dine, sir,’ I said, as I dressed my lord’s greasy hair with clay rollers. To handle his person was not a pleasant task. Crusty red scabadoes plagued his scalp, yet still he spent his nights cunny-hunting. And so I added, ‘All the prettiest mademoiselles parade there.’

The coachman drove us through the crowds; the revellers’ faces tinted green by the new-strung oil lamps. Down the Rue Saint-Honoré we found an impressive door beneath a sign proclaiming ‘Restaurants Divins’.

‘What is this place?’ young Tilly grumbled, eyeing a salon populated by rouge-faced men and bone-thin women lounging at small tables. A moment later we were seated in a chandelier-lit corner staring at cards listing fancy French dishes.

‘Damn you, Gould. Is this one of those foppish health-food places?’ He pressed his fingers to his pimply brow, suspiciously eying the other diners.

‘I believe it to be the first fashion of Paris, my lord,’ I insisted, studying the carte. The prices were printed quite openly and I fretted to see that a full supper cost five whole livres. The appeal was that they served all those healthful dishes so much vaunted by Monsieur Rousseau: Savoy milk fresh from the cow’s udder, and Alpine honey and fruits. It was the stuff from those novels of his that everyone pretends to read these days, but it intrigued me nonetheless.

They gave us quite a show. A handsome proprietress in a gown of spangled silk greeted us in English. ‘I comprehend you have most sensitive souls, messieurs,’ she cooed, as if she were our intimate of many years. ‘I prescribe for you a nourishing health supper to rebuild your physiognomies.’

‘Balderdash,’ my lord snorted, and called the waiter for another baluster of brandy. I took a long look around me, at the gilded ormolu clock, the heavy silver candlesticks and cutlery. I was making calculations upon the figure of five livres collected from each diner. It was a devilishly forward-looking business.

Our supper arrived and my master’s face turned sour.

‘Damn me! I never saw food so monstrously small. And overdressed.’

To him, the potage de santé was nothing but a plate of laundry water. As for me, if I forgot that my master was being fleeced abominably, the breast of pigeon was the best I ever tasted. As for the jasmine ice cream, the coldness numbed my tongue for a moment, and then a meadow of flowers blossomed on my palate.

After washing down yet more brandy, my master turned spiteful. ‘You, Gould, have a sly manner. I do not care for it.’ His watery eyes narrowed. ‘I engaged you to free me of all this flim-flam. Look at it!’ He waved his arm unsteadily. ‘I need an Englishman’s dinner: beef, pudding, a pint of wine.’ He banged his knife and fork, making the table rattle. The other diners nudged elbows and giggled at the drunken English rosbif.

‘And

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