Monsieur Pamplemousse on Probation Read Online Free

winter it is worse than Boulogne.’
    ‘There you go again, Pamplemousse,’ snorted the Director. ‘This negative attitude of yours is becoming a habit. It ill becomes you …’
    ‘But,
Monsieur
, the climate is harsh. Roads are often impassable from December to May. There is ice on the
inside
of the windows. People have been known to die of the cold. There is a very good reason why half the bistros in Paris are owned by men from the Auvergne. They escaped from it all as soon as they were old enough.’
    ‘Pamplemousse.’ The Director gathered the papers on his desk into a neat pile. ‘It is an order. I havebooked you in at Dulac under
Le Guide’s
newly instituted code name of the week – Monsieur Blanc.’
    ‘Dulac!’ Mention of the Auvergne’s only three Stock Pot hotel stopped Monsieur Pamplemousse dead in his tracks. Owing to
Le Guide’
s policy of never using their Inspectors on home territory for fear they might be recognised, it had never occurred to him that he might be given the chance of a visit. It was a signal, perhaps never to be repeated, honour, and certainly not one to be turned down in a hurry.
    ‘It is open in February?’ Pouligny was only a matter of twenty or so kilometres from where he had been born. It was the nearest village of any size and in his day it had boasted two hotels. But like most establishments in the region their opening and closing times during the winter months had been variable to say the least.
    ‘All through the year. It is the only hotel in France for which Michelin have seen fit to create a special symbol of a snowplough rampant. They have a fleet of them standing by ready for any emergency. Subject to your findings, Pamplemousse, I suggest we follow suit in next year’s
Guide
.’
    Monsieur Pamplemousse felt a surge of excitement. Despite his earlier misgivings, taste buds began to show signs of life. André Dulac’s was a rare, a God-given talent. His rise to fame had been nothing short of meteoric. Taking over the hotelfrom his father and starting off with a mere Bar Stool – the symbol indicating it was worth stopping off for lunch if you happened to be in the area, he had gone on to win his first Stock Pot a year later. Following that with an additional Stock Pot every two years, until he reached the maximum of three was unheard of.
    The Director allowed himself a smile. ‘I thought that might cause you to change your tune, Aristide. A different kettle of
poisson, n’est-ce pas
?’
    ‘I have yet to visit it myself. That is a pleasure yet to come. But in the meantime, in the most discreet possible way you could perhaps combine business with pleasure. The time is coming up when we must finalise the entries for this year’s
Guide
. As I’m sure you know, our computer has just completed its analysis of all the year’s reports, a mammoth task, and its printout shows that Dulac is in line for this year’s top award, the Golden Stock Pot Lid. It is a toss-up between Dulac and Ducasse, with the odds, the merest fraction of a decimal point, in favour of Dulac. Not even Ducasse can be in two places at once, and since he donned Robuchon’s mantle in Paris as well as still keeping a watchful eye on the stoves at Monte Carlo doubts have been raised.
    ‘But in the past few weeks strange reports have been coming through regarding Dulac. First therewas the unfortunate business of the recycled lettuce leaf. You heard about that, of course?’
    Monsieur Pamplemousse nodded. He’d been in the North at the time, but news had spread like wildfire. Guilot, an acknowledged expert on all things to do with salad ingredients, had been paying a routine visit. Ordering a simple
salade
verte
to accompany his
filets de veau au citron
he was prepared to swear that, far from being freshly prepared, one of the leaves was sodden and had clearly been recycled from a previous serving.
    ‘It can happen,
Monsieur
.’
    ‘Not in a three Stock Pot establishment, Pamplemousse. Especially