Arch said he would throw himself on the mercy of the chef and say, “Just bring me something good to eat.”
Polly thought she could make a meal of four savories and a salad – and no dessert. She would have a toasted cheese roulade, a curried chicken liver crepe, eggplant and avocado tartlet with cashews, and deviled crab on the half shell. Her salad would be baby spinach leaves, mandarin orange slices, and crumbled Stilton with a tomato vinaigrette dressing.
One by one they took the plunge.
First came the fun-bites, with the compliments of the chef: little somethings that he concocted on the spur of the moment – no two alike. Each guest was served a single bite-size morsel: smoked salmon sandwiched between two thin slices of strawberry and topped with a dab of sour cream and sprinkling of toasted pine nuts… a cherry tomato stuffed with lobster and hazelnuts… half a shrimp on a potato chip, crowned with a peppery tomato aspic and a miniature gaufrette of cucumber… an inch cube of turkey terrine smothered in black bean salsa and capers.
Comments varied: “What is it?… Just enjoy it and don’t ask questions… How many more fun-bites can he invent?”
Polly asked, “How many more poems can be written? How much more music can be composed?”
Qwilleran said, “Tell that to Wingo, and you’ll get free desserts for a year!”
At their table, and at surrounding tables, there was more conversation about food than about the election, the World Series, and the new car models. Chef Wingo would have approved. At one point Polly flashed her new cameo ring. Mildred found it breathtaking, and even Arch was impressed. They wanted to hear her personal reactions to the jeweler. She described the excesses of the afternoon tea: the hats, the hand-kissing, the French maids. “It’s interesting,” she added with a mischievous glance at Qwilleran, “for the first time in history, they had a security guard watching everyone with his hand on his gun.”
Arch said wisely, “Apparently Delacamp had been tipped off that something was afoot.”
There were desserts – rum cake, lemon souffle, chocolate praline cheesecake, blackberry cobbler – and then it was over.
On the way out of the Mackintosh Room Qwilleran asked the others to wait while he had a few words with the maitre d’.
“How’d you like your dinner?” Derek asked.
“It was better than Chet’s Bar & Barbecue…. What’s on your mind?”
“The police have been around, asking questions. They haven’t talked to anybody in the kitchen yet, but some of the staff witnessed an incident last Tuesday and wondered if they should report it.”
“What kind of incident?”
“Well, Delacamp went into the kitchen and Wingo chased him out with a skillet.”
Qwilleran chuckled as he visualized the scene. “Chasing someone with a skillet or rolling pin is more symbolic than threatening. A cleaver would be something else, but… actually, Barry Morghan knows about the episode and explained to Delacamp that a city ordinance prohibits guests from entering the kitchen. So tell the kitchen crew they’re off the hook; the manager will handle it. They don’t have to snitch on their boss.
“Personally, I think Wingo has a sense of humor. The incident has elements of slapstick comedy. Anyone who’d make a thimble-size sandwich of smoked salmon and strawberries has got to be a joker.”
Qwilleran invited them back to the barn for a nightcap, and when they drove into the barnyard he jumped out of the car and unlocked the backdoor, throwing the switch that illuminated exterior and interior. What he saw was more of a surprise than strawberries and salmon; the entire kitchen was swathed in paper towels – over and around appliances, counters, and furniture. Two rolls of towels – from the kitchen sink and the snack bar – had provided fifty or sixty yards of toweling.
“You cats!” he shouted, awe mixed with annoyance.
Somewhat in shock he walked out to meet his guests. “Brace yourselves!” he told them. “The cats have prepared a little surprise for you.”
Polly gasped. “Well! It’s a fitting end to an unusual evening!”
Arch said, “Ye gods!”
Mildred called it conceptual art and marveled at the skill and diligence required to carry out the idea.
Koko, on the refrigerator, looked down on his masterwork. It was obviously his doing. Yum Yum was hiding somewhere, feeling guilty; she had a conscience. Koko squeezed his eyes as if accepting the compliments.
The guests, instead of having a nightcap, pitched in to unwrap the kitchen, then said goodnight. Anything else, they insisted, would be an anticlimax.
After they had gone, Qwilleran called out, “Where’s our little sweetheart?” and she came wriggling out from under the sofa. He picked her up and walked around the main floor for a while, massaging her ears and listening to her purr. And all the while he was asking himself, What was the purpose of that remarkable demonstration? Koko never did anything without a reason.
Eight
Sunday, September 13 – ‘Better to be the head of a cat than the tail of a lion.’
