The Cat Who Wasn't There by Lilian Jackson Braun

Author:Lilian Jackson Braun
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
ISBN: 9780753159323
Publisher: ISIS Publishing
Published: 1992-01-01T05:00:00+00:00

The “New” Pickax Hotel had been built in 1935 after the Old Pickax Hotel burned down, and now the locals were saying that it was time for another fire. In 1935 the public rooms had been furnished in Early Modern—not comfortable, not attractive, but sturdy. Recently a runaway snowplow had barged into the front of the building, demolishing the lobby but not the sturdy oak furniture.

Qwilleran and his guest were the first to arrive in the dining room, and the hostess seated them at a window table overlooking Main Street. He remarked, “I hear you have a new chef.”

“He’s completely redone the menu,” she said. “It’s very exciting! Would you like something from the bar?”

After ordering dry sherry for Polly and Squunk water with a twist for himself, Qwilleran scanned the menu card. Only a diner familiar with the hotel for the last forty years would consider the selection exciting: French onion soup instead of bean, grilled salmon steak instead of fish and chips, chicken cordon bleu instead of chicken and dumplings, and roast prime rib instead of swiss steak.

When the waiter brought the drinks, Qwilleran asked, “Is the chicken cordon bleu prepared in the kitchen, or is it one of those frozen, prefabricated artifacts shipped in from Ontario?”

“No, sir. The chef makes it himself,” the waiter assured him.

Qwilleran decided to try it, but Polly thought the ham and cheese stuffing would violate her diet; she ordered the salmon.

The previous cooks had merely dished up the food; the new chef arranged the plates: parsley, boiled potatoes, broccoli, and a cherry tomato with the salmon; broccoli, a cherry tomato, and steamed zucchini straws with the chicken cordon bleu.

“I see they’ve gone all-out,” Qwilleran commented.

Surveying the neat bundle on his plate, he plunged his knife and fork into the chicken, and a geyser of melted butter squirted fifteen inches into the air, landing on his lapel and narrowly missing his left eye.

“This isn’t what I ordered!” he said indignantly as he brushed the greasy streak with his napkin. “Waiter! Waiter!”

“It’s chicken Kiev!” Polly cried.

Qwilleran said to the young man, “Is this supposed to be chicken cordon bleu?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, it’s not! It’s something else. Take it back to the kitchen and tell Karl Oskar I want chicken cordon bleu.”

“Your coat is ruined!” Polly said in dismay. “Do you think the cleaner can get it out?”

The waiter soon returned with the plate. “The chef says this is chicken cordon bleu, like it says on the menu.”

Blowing furiously into his moustache, Qwilleran said, “It may be so described in Fall River, but it’s chicken Kiev in the rest of the civilized world! . . . Come on, Polly. We’re going to the Old Stone Mill.” To the bewildered hostess he said, “I’m sending you the bill for a new suede coat, and if I hadn’t ducked, you’d be paying for an eye, too.”

Over dry sherry and Squunk water at their favorite restaurant, the pair tried to relax, but Qwilleran was in a bad humor, and

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