Free A Twist in the Tale by Jeffrey Archer Page A

blessing,
decided to open a second restaurant. The press and customers then quarrelled amongst themselves as to which was the finer
establishment. The booking sheets showed clearly the public felt there was no
difference.
    When in October
1986 Jacques died, at the age of seventy-one, the restaurant critics wrote
confidently that standards were bound to fall. A year later the same
journalists had to admit that one of the five great chefs of France had come from
a town in the British Midlands they could not even pronounce.
    Jacques’s death
only made Mark yearn more for his homeland, and when he read in the Daily Telegraph of a new development to
be built in Covent Garden he called the site agent to ask for more details.
    Mark’s third
restaurant was opened in the heart of London on February 11th, 1987.
    Over the years
Mark Hapgood often travelled back to Coventry to see
his parents. His father had retired long since but Mark was still unable to
persuade either parent to take the trip to Paris and sample his culinary
efforts.
    But now he had
opened in the country’s capital he hoped to tempt them.
    “We don’t need
to go up to London,” said his mother, laying the table. “You always cook for us
whenever you come home, and we read of your successes in the papers. In any
case, your father isn’t so good on his legs nowadays.”
    “What do you
call this, son?” his father asked a few minutes later as noisette of lamb surrounded by baby carrots was placed in front of him.
    “ Nouvelle cuisine .”
    “And people pay
good money for it?”
    Mark laughed
and the following day prepared his father’s favourite Lancashire hot-pot.
    “Now that’s a
real meal,” said Arthur after his third helping. “And I’ll tell you something
for nothing, lad. You cook it almost as well as your mother.”
    A year later
Michelin announced the restaurants throughout the world that had been awarded
their coveted third star. The Times let its readers know on its front page that
Chez Jacques was the first English restaurant ever to be so honoured .
    To celebrate
the award Mark’s parents finally agreed to make the journey down to London,
though not until Mark had sent a telegram saying he was reconsidering that job
at British Leyland. He sent a car to fetch his parents and had them installed
in a suite at the Savoy. That evening he reserved the most popular table at
Chez Jacques in their name.
    Vegetable soup
followed by steak and kid- ney pie with a plate of
bread and butter pudding to end on were not the table d’hôte that night, but they were served for the special
guests on Table 17.
    Under the
influence of the finest wine, Arthur was soon chatting happily to anyone who
would listen and couldn’t resist reminding the head waiter that it was his son
who owned the restaurant.
    “Don’t be silly,
Arthur,” said his wife. “He already knows that.”
    “Nice couple,
your parents,” the head waiter confided to his boss after he had served them
with their coffee and supplied Arthur with a cigar.
    “What did your
old man do before he retired? Banker, lawyer, schoolmaster?”
    “Oh no, nothing
like that,” said Mark quietly. “He spent the whole of his working life putting
wheels on cars.”
    “But why would
he waste his time doing that?” asked the waiter incredulously.
    “Because he
wasn’t lucky enough to have a father like mine,” Mark replied.

NOT THE REAL THING
    G ERALD Haskins and Walter Ramsbottom had
been eating cornflakes for over a year.
    “I’ll swap you
my MC and DSO for your VC,” said Walter, on the way to school one morning.
    “Never,” said
Gerald. “In any case, it takes ten packet tops to get a VC and you only need
two for an MC or a DSO.”
    Gerald went on
collecting packet tops until he had every medal displayed on the back of the
packet.
    Walter never
got the VC.
    Angela Bradbury
thought they were both silly.
    “They’re only
replicas,” she continually reminded them, “not the real thing, and I