Free Murder in Montparnasse by Kerry Greenwood Page B

unpalatable coffee flavour from the bottled product. Phryne shucked her coat into the ready hands of Jean-Jacques, or possibly Jean-Paul, and sat down at a small table. There sat M’sieur Anatole, scowling over a menu, his sister Berthe, and a Jean of some denomination who brought a tall coffee pot on a tray with cups, scalded milk and loaf sugar.
    ‘Non, non, non!’ protested Anatole. ‘It is insupportable! How may I make my renowned quails with white grapes if there are no quails!’
    ‘There are also no white grapes. They are out of season, and you have forgotten that you are on the other side of the world,’ said Madame composedly, settling her bosom on her crossed arms. ‘It is time for spring dishes, mon brave.’
    ‘You could consider lobster,’ offered Phryne hungrily. ‘Homard à la Newburg? or maybe Thermidor? What’s wrong with lobster in the French manner, à la Française? Plenty of fishermen just down the road, m’sieur.’
    ‘Homard Victoria,’ decided the chef. ‘With sauce Normandy— yes. We still have some truffles. And we will need also scallops. A good idea, madame.’
    Madame Phryne inclined her head. ‘What else are you thinking of, chef?’ she asked. ‘I’d be delighted to try anything you are experimenting with.’
    ‘For the other fish course, I have found the most delicious local fish—flathead. Good for bait, these barbarians say. It is as full flavoured as sole or whiting and twice as fine. Flatheads aux fines herbes, I think. Of course, I call them merlans, but they are flatheads just the same. Then since these Australians insist on steak, we could have a Parisian dish—tournedos Béarnaise, that should satisfy the carnivores. And perhaps a duckling with cherries—sweeter, to my mind, than orange and delicate of savour. Of course, one must have a game pie—rabbits here are the equal of anything in Europe and I’m sure that we can find a few pigeons.’
    ‘Just ask a small boy with a slingshot,’ said Phryne, sipping. Ah, coffee. She had never liked living pigeons. No mere bird ought to be able to grumble like that. They seemed to view the human race with a beady, almost reptilian and always jaundiced eye. Besides, when Ember caught one he had a tendency to tear it wing from wing all over the house and it was amazing how many feathers there were on one small pigeon. But cooked— that was another matter, as the cannibal said to the missionary. M’sieur Anatole was continuing.
    ‘For soups—a printaniere, of course, a vegetable soup, and also a consommé Mireille . . . then perhaps ices for dessert. Mandarins glacés and something lush—I have it! Fraises Romanoff. Will you have more coffee?’
    ‘I will,’ said Phryne, and did. ‘What are fraises Romanoff?’
    ‘Strawberries, the large ones. Soaked in orange juice— freshly squeezed orange juice, you understand—and Curaçao. Served with crème Chantilly. Truly seasonal . . .’ The chef ’s moustache whiffled in ecstasy. ‘I would make them au Petit Trianon—La Reine Marie Antoinette loved strawberries like that—but I cannot get fraises du bois in Australia—they just do not taste the same, these tended fruits.’
    ‘Never mind,’ said Phryne, patting his hand.
    ‘True, it is of no importance. Ma soeur, will that suffice?’ he asked. The elder lady nodded and got to her feet.
    ‘No soufflés?’ she asked delicately.
    ‘Non,’ said M’sieur Anatole. ‘One needs a light heart for soufflés and my heart is not light.’
    He poured another cup of the fine, fragrant coffee and sighed. He looked at Phryne.
    ‘Have you found my Elizabeth? No, don’t tell me, I can see that you have not.’
    ‘No, but I have been investigating,’ said Phryne. ‘I met her father today. He drew a gun on me.’
    ‘Ah, that Hector, what a quick temper he has! Truly, it will get him into trouble one of these weeks.’
    ‘Truly,’ agreed Phryne. ‘I convinced him not to shoot me, which is always an advantage. And I