THE DINING ROOM RESEMBLED a restaurant in Paris of the last century. Stained-glass windows had medieval scenes of bucolic frolicking and on the walls between them hung Manet oils depicting famous restaurants of La Belle Epoque. The elaborate ceiling of dark wood and gilt gave a baroque splendor to the room; lighting was provided by white-shaded bronze lamps mounted on tall narrow mirrors. At the head of the long table was a chair so magnificent, it was almost a throne. The back and arms were framed in hand-carved mahogany and the back had a padded coat of arms in crimson and gold.
The bar had been sparsely attended and now we were all seated for dinner, though it was barely eight o’clock. The chairs on either side of the impressive throne at the head of the table were taken by Simone and Monika. Monsieur le Viscomte was evidently exercising a certain “droit du seigneur.” Next to Monika, Gerard Girardet gave me a friendly smile from his place opposite Doctor Selvier. Lewis Arundel and I were next. Then came Professor Rahmani and Alexis Suvarov, obviously already acquainted, Suvarov sounding as if he were close to selling the services of his new two-seat ultralight. The two cousins completed the assembly: Alfred Rostaing of Le Petit Manoir at Palliac where I had eaten so recently and the silver-haired visitor there whose face had baffled me, Joseph Tourcoing of Le Reveillon fame in Paris.
The cousins were discussing Menton near the Italian border, the only gap in the culinary eminence of the Riviera. Rostaing was asserting that it was so bleak that the Casino was the only place to eat. The two were contemplating remedying that situation by buying a restaurant there and remodeling it, both architecturally and gastronomically.
Waiters entered and began setting a hot hors d’oeuvre in front of each guest. I tried to catch Monika’s eye but she picked up a fork and began on the hors d’oeuvre. Instead, I complimented Simone. “You look terrific,” I told her. She wore a light blue dress, gathered across the shoulders, and her hair glowed—not as strongly as Monika’s brighter blond, but for her, soft and warm. She acknowledged with a slight smile.
The aroma of the hors d’oeuvre was enticing but I couldn’t identify it from its appearance. It was a soufflé and had been prepared by a master. The top was a delicious brown but not crusty. As I broke into it with my fork, I recognized it as a variant of a Normandy-style crayfish soufflé, but the flavor was so superb that for a moment, all thoughts of plots and crimes went out of my head.
The crayfish were so fresh they must have been flown in within the last hour or two. A salpicon of shrimp, oysters, and mushrooms had been added, and the chef must have put in the eggs the way that is authentic but rarely followed because it is time-consuming and tedious—the egg yolks added first, then the beaten egg whites. This makes a vast difference to the texture, but it was the taste that was stilling conversation all over the room.
I glanced down the table to where Joseph Tourcoing, the great chef from Paris, was nodding in appreciation. Alfred Rostaing was scooping up the soufflé, oblivious to everything. The incredibly wonderful taste was clearly augmented by the thin slices of truffle. I expected to hear a comment from some quarter on the absence of our host, but this superb hors d’oeuvre was occupying everyone’s attention to the exclusion of all else.
The conversational level was still at this low ebb when the door opened.
The person entering walked to the elaborate chair at the head of the table and sat.