Gourmet Detective Read Free Page B

phone call from Norman, an old friend who now ran an Italian restaurant. Norman is from Barnsley and has been having a love affair with Italy and all things Italian since he was a boy. When the growing-up process encompassed food, Norman became so passionately fond of Italian cooking that he set as his life’s ambition the establishment of the best Italian restaurant in Britain. He hasn’t reached that peak yet but he is making good progress despite the fact that his chef and all his waiters are English. There is, in fact, nothing at all Italian about Norman’s restaurant except its name and the food. It is Norman’s chutzpah which is carrying it through on a wave of boundless enthusiasm and determination.
    Norman said he had some Italian customers who had been asking for Orzo e Fagioli, a hearty bean-and-barley soup, popular in the north of Italy. They had enjoyed it but told him that it wasn’t exactly the way they remembered it. He had tried various ways but just couldn’t get it right—at least not the way it presumably tasted in Bologna. We discussed it for a while then I put my finger on it. “A prosciutto bone,” I told him. “You have to cook the soup with a prosciutto bone to develop the full flavour.” He thanked me and promised me the best Italian meal in Britain. I asked where he wanted to take me but hung up before he could summon any Northern vituperation.
    At 11.30, I phoned Le Trouquet d’Or. A French accent was already informing me politely that I was wasting my time asking for a reservation when I dropped the magic name of Winchester. Raymond was right. The voice immediately became subservient and I was informed that they would look forward to seeing me tomorrow evening. I had made the reservation for two people, not wishing to give any cause for suspicion. Who would I take? I occasionally take Theresa when I need a companion for professional purposes. A man alone could arouse some suspicion. I had forgotten she had the flu … well, it was nearly lunch-time and I would have to tackle the problem later.
    The question of where to go for lunch is always made simpler when I know what I am going to do in the evening. Today I knew so I caught a number 391 bus to Kew where I had a modest but very satisfying lunch at a bistro near the railway station.
    I don’t doubt that there is a school of thought which preaches a) never eat in Kew, b) never eat near a railway station and c) avoid any restaurant called a bistro. All of this proves that schools of thought can be wrong and generalisations should be avoided. There are many excellent small and unsung establishments which may never get into any of the guides but serve delicious, well-cooked and inexpensive lunches. I had mussel soup and then rack of lamb with roast potatoes and haricots verts. Andrew and Paula don’t sound—or look—like chefs but they produce a superb meal. I usually skip dessert at lunch-time so after a cup of coffee and a complimentary cognac which I couldn’t turn down, I went back to work.
    The afternoon was much the same as the morning, ploughing through invitations to events I didn’t want to attend, foods I didn’t want to sponsor, wine tastings promoted by vineyards who made wine I wouldn’t brush my teeth with and people asking me questions when I knew I wouldn’t get paid for the answers.
    Taking the afternoon folder up to Mrs Shearer reminded me that I didn’t have a companion for the dinner at Le Trouquet d’Or. Would Theresa be recovered from her flu? I asked. No, not a chance was the reply. Mary Chen was proving to be very efficient though—was there something she could do? I decided not. The meal tomorrow must be low profile and Mary Chen was too noticeable.
    I phoned Lucy who works in the cheese department at Fortnum and Mason’s. No, they told me, Lucy was in Savoie. It was a good place to buy cheese but of no help to me. I was