The Collected Short Stories - Jeffrey Archer [131]
I decided that the clear soup was likely to be the least expensive starter, and that it would also help my feeble efforts to lose weight. The main courses had me more perplexed, and with my limited knowledge of French I finally settled on duck, as I couldn’t find any sign of “Poulet.”
When the waiter returned moments later, he immediately spotted Christabel’s empty glass, and asked, “Would you care for another glass of champagne, madame?”
“Yes, please,” she replied sweetly, as the maître d’arrived to take our order. But first we had to suffer an ordeal that nowadays can be expected at every French restaurant in the world.
“Today our specialties are,” he began, in an accent that would not have impressed central casting, “for hors d‘oeuvres gelée de saumon sauvage et caviar impérial en aigre doux, which is wild salmon slivers and imperial caviar in a delicate jelly with sour cream and zucchini drizzled with dill vinegar. Also we have cuisses de grenouilles … la purée d’herbes … soupe, fricassée de chanterelles et racines de persil, which are pan-fried frogs’ legs in a parsley purée, fricassee of chanterelles and parsley roots. For the main course we have escalope de turbot, which is a poached fillet of turbot on a watercress purée, lemon sabayon, and a Gewürztraminer sauce. And, of course, everything that is on the menu can be recommended.”
I felt full even before he had finished the descriptions.
Christabel appeared to be studying the menu with due diligence. She pointed to one of the dishes, and the maître smiled approvingly.
Duncan leaned across and asked if I had selected anything yet.
“Consommé and the duck will suit me just fine,” I said without hesitation.
“Thank you, sir,” said the maître. “How would you like the duck? Crispy, or perhaps a little underdone?”
“Crispy,” I replied, to his evident disapproval.
“And monsieur?” he asked, turning to Duncan.
“Caesar salad and a rare steak.”
The maître d’ retrieved the menus and was turning to go as Duncan said, “Now, let me tell you all about my idea for a novel.”
“Would you care to order some wine, sir?” asked another waiter, who was carrying a large red leather book with golden grapes embossed on its cover.
“Should I do that for you?” suggested Christabel. “Then there’ll be no need to interrupt your story.”
Duncan nodded his agreement, and the waiter handed the wine list over to Christabel. She opened the red leather cover with as much eagerness as if she was about to begin a bestselling novel.
“You may be surprised,” Duncan was saying, “that my book is set in Britain. Let me start by explaining that the timing for its publication is absolutely vital. As you know, a British and French consortium is currently building a tunnel between Folkestone and Sangatte, which is scheduled to be opened by Queen Elizabeth on May 6, 1994. In fact, Chunnel will be the title of my book.”
I was horrified. Another glass of champagne was placed in front of Christabel.
“The story begins in four separate locations, with four different sets of characters. Although they are all from diverse age groups, social backgrounds, and countries, they have one thing in common: they have all booked on the first passenger train to travel from London to Paris via the Channel tunnel.”
I felt a sudden pang of guilt and wondered if I should say something, but at this point a waiter returned with a bottle of white wine, the label of which Christabel studied intently. She nodded, and the sommelier extracted the cork and poured a little into her empty glass. A sip brought the smile back to her lips. The waiter then filled our glasses.
Duncan continued: “There will be an American family—mother, father, two teenage children—on their first visit to England; a young English couple who have just gotten married that morning and are about to begin their honeymoon; a Greek self-made millionaire and his French wife, who booked their tickets a year