XII
“Youmuststay to dinner, Ginger,” said Agnes. “And theremightbe a nice bit of fillet for our Bitsy,” she added knowingly. “Do let me tell Cook you will!”
“But, my dear, we simply couldn’t,” said Ginger, casting a look flushed with girlish pride down at her own great scanty costume. “What about your nigras?”
“Cook and kitchen staff?” said Agnes, genuinely surprised. “Why, Ginger, really! But what’s your feeling on it, Guy?”
“Sorry, don’t follow,” said Guy.
“Well, Ginger seems to think that our servers might be ... might be....”
“Might be sent straight off their rockers with bestial desire, you mean?” asked Grand tersely. “Hmm—Ginger may be right. Better safe than sorry in these matters I’ve always said.”
*****
Guy liked playing the fool, it’s true—though some say there was more to his antics than met the eye. At any rate, one amusing diversion in which he took a central role himself was when he playedgrand gourmetat the world’s most luxurious restaurants.
Guy would arrive in faultless evening attire, attended by his poker-faced valet, who carried a special gourmet’s chair and a large valise of additional equipment. The chair, heavily weighted at the bottom so it could not be easily overturned, was also fitted with a big waist strap which was firmly secured around Grand’s middle as soon as he was seated. Then the valet would take from the valise a huge rubber bib and attach it to Guy while the latter surveyed the menu in avid conference with a bevy of hosts—the maître d’, the senior waiter, the wine steward, and at least one member of the chef’s staff.
Guy Grand was the last of the big spenders and, assuch, a great favorite at these restaurants; due to his eccentric behavior during the meal however, the management always took care to place him at a table as decentralized as possible—on the edge of the terrace, in a softly lit alcove, or, preferably, at a table entirely obscured by a canopy arrangement which many restaurants, after his first visit, saw fit to have on hand for Guy’s return.
Following the lengthy discussion to determine the various courses, the waist strap was checked, and Guy would sit back in his chair, rubbing his hands together in sophisticated anticipation of the taste treats to come.
When the first course did arrive, an extraordinary spectacle would occur. At the food’s very aroma, Grand, still sitting well back from the table, as in fanatical self-restraint, would begin to writhe ecstatically in his chair, eyes rolling, head lolling, saliva streaming over his ruddy jowls. Then he would suddenly stiffen, his face a mask of quivering urgency, before shouting: “Au table!” whereupon he would lurch forward, both arms cupped out across the table, and wildly scoop the food, dishes and all, towards his open mouth. Following this fantastic clatter and commotion—which left him covered from the top of his head to his waist with food—the expressionless valet would lean forward and unfasten the chairstrap, and Guy would bolt from the table and rush pell-mell towards the kitchen, covered and dripping with food, hair matted with it, one arm extended full length as in a congratulatory handshake, shouting at the top of his voice:
“MES COMPLIMENTS AU CHEF!”
Upon his return to the table, he would be strapped into the chair again, hosed-down by a little water pump from the valet’s case, and dried with a big towel; then the performance would be repeated with each course.
Restaurants who used a special canopy to conceal Grand from the other diners did so at considerable risk, because at the moment of completing each course he would bolt for the kitchen so quickly that, unless the waiters were extremely alert and dexterous in pulling aside the canopy, he would bring the thing down on his head and, like a man in a collapsed tent, would flail about inside it, upsetting the table, and adding to the general disturbance, or worse, as sometimes did happen, he might regain his feet within the canopy and careen blindly through the plush restaurant, toppling diners everywhere, and spreading the disturbance—and, of course, if he ever reached the kitchen while still inside the canopy, it could be actually calamitous.
The open-mouthed astonishment of waiters, dinersand others who were witness to these scenes was hardly lessened by the bits of bland dialogue they might overhear between the maître d’, who was also in on the gag, and the valet.
“Chef’sBéarnaisepleased him,” the maître d’ would remark soberly to the valet, “I could tell.”
The valet would agree with a judicious nod, as he watched Grand storming through the restaurant. “He’s awful keen tonight.”
“In theBéarnaise,” the maître d’ would suddenly confide in an excited whisper, “the peppercorns werebruisedmerely by dropping them!” And the two men would exchange dark knowing glances at this revelation.
By the last course Grand would be utterly exhausted, and the exquisite dessert would invariably prove too much for his overtaxed senses. At the first taste of it, he would go into a final tantrum and then simply black out. He always had to be carried from the restaurant on a stretcher, leaving waiters and diners staring agape, while the maître d’ stood respectfully by the door with several of his staff.
“Boy, was that guy evernuts! Huh?” a wide-eyed young waiter would exclaim as he stood with the maître d’, gazing after the departing figures. But the latter would appear not to have heard.
“The last of thegrand gourmets,” he would sigh,and there was always a trace of wistful nostalgia in his face when he turned back from the door. “No, sir, they don’t make taste buds likethatany more.”
Connivance with the maître d’s of these top restaurants was an expensive affair, and there was a shake-up in more than one veteran staff due to it. Those who lost their jobs though were usually in a position to open fairly smart restaurants of their own—assuming, of course, they didn’t care to buy the one from which they were fired.