The Collected Short Stories - Jeffrey Archer [130]
I began to protest, not just because I’ve never really cared for ornate French food, but I was also aware of Duncan’s unpredictable pecuniary circumstances. Sometimes he was flush with money, at other times stone broke. I just hoped that he’d had an advance on the novel.
“No, like you, I normally wouldn’t bother,” he said. “But it’s just opened, and The New York Times gave it a rave review. In any case, whenever I’m in London, you always entertain me ‘right royally,’” he added, in what he imagined was an English accent.
It was one of those cool evenings that make walking in New York so pleasant, and I enjoyed the stroll, as Duncan began to tell me about his recent trip to Bosnia.
“You were lucky to catch me in New York,” he was saying. “I’ve just gotten back after being holed up in the damned place for three months.”
“Yes, I know. I read your article in Newsweek on the plane coming over,” I said, and went on to tell him how fascinated I had been by his evidence that a group of UN soldiers had set up their own underground network, and felt no scruples about operating an illegal black market in whatever country they were stationed.
“Yes, that’s caused quite a stir at the UN,” said Duncan. “The New York Times and The Washington Post have both followed the story up with features on the main culprits—but without bothering to give me any credit for the original research, of course.”
I turned around to see if Christabel was still with us. She seemed to be deep in thought, and was lagging a few paces behind. I smiled a smile that I hoped said “I think Duncan’s a fool and you’re fantastic,” but I received no response.
After a few more yards I spotted a red-and-gold awning flapping in the breeze outside something called Le Manoir. My heart sank. I’ve always preferred simple food, and have long considered pretentious French cuisine to be one of the major cons of the eighties, and one that should have been passé, if not part of culinary history, by the nineties.
Duncan led us down a short crazy-paving path through a heavy oak door and into a brightly lit restaurant. One look around the large, overdecorated room and my worst fears were confirmed. The maître d’ stepped forward and said, “Good evening, monsieur.”
“Good evening,” replied Duncan. “I have a table reserved in the name of McPherson.”
The maître checked down a long list of reservations. “Ah, yes, a table for two.” Christabel pouted, but looked no less beautiful.
“Can we make it three?” my host asked rather halfheartedly.
“Of course, sir. Allow me to show you to your table.”
We were guided through a crowded room to a little alcove in the corner which had only been set for two.
One look at the tablecloth, the massive flowered plates with “Le Manoir” painted in crimson all over them, and the arrangement of lilies on the center of the table made me feel even more guilty about what I had let Duncan in for. A waiter dressed in a white open-neck shirt, black trousers, and black vest with “Le Manoir” embroidered in red on the breast pocket hurriedly supplied Christabel with a chair, while another deftly laid a place for her.
A third waiter appeared at Duncan’s side and inquired if we would care for an apéritif. Christabel smiled sweetly and asked if she might have a glass of champagne. I requested some Evian water, and Duncan nodded that he would have the same.
For the next few minutes, while we waited for the menus to appear, we continued to discuss Duncan’s trip to Bosnia, and the contrast between scraping one’s food out of a billycan in a cold dugout accompanied by the sound of bullets, and dining off china plates in a warm restaurant, with a string quartet playing Schubert in the background.
Another waiter appeared at Duncan’s side and handed us three pink menus the size of small posters. As I glanced down the list of dishes, Christabel whispered something to the waiter, who nodded and slipped quietly away.
I began to study the menu more carefully, unhappy to discover that this was one of those restaurants that allows only the host to have the bill