Free Pratt a Manger by David Nobbs Page A

Henry’s turn to do front of house. A lot of people came into the Café that day, the majority of them people he would never set eyes on again, including a small party of Swedish therapists over for a conference; an American lawyer and his wife; two cardiologists; a designer of zoos; five shop assistants; a French poet; three publicans; a confectioner from Trondheim; a condom quality controller; a Scottish make-up artist and a Welsh dresser from a production team in nearby Wardour Street; a man called Geoff Little, who formed half of a thoroughly filthy double act called Little and Often; and a German composer with his English wife.
    The German composer introduced himself. ‘My name is Sigmund Halla and this is my wife Val.’ Henry wondered if he’d married her for love or for her name.
    The condom quality controller, Geoff Little and Mr and Mrs Halla all ordered the eggs Benedict, but of Benedict himself there was no sign.
    He was dead. Henry knew it.
    ‘Can I make a point, guv?’ asked Greg next morning.
    ‘Sure. Of course.’
    ‘The eggs Benedict.’
    ‘What about them?’
    ‘Hake Lampo. You created it for your friend. Pigeon Denzil. You created it for your other friend.’
    ‘Your point, exactly?’
    ‘Well, you created them like what you thought they might like, like, know what I mean?’ ‘Yes, I … yes.’
    ‘Eggs Benedict. There wasn’t like much thought in it. It was just eggs Benedict. The recipe. Nice, but … bog standard. Do you see where I’m coming from?’
    Henry frowned. He hated that phrase, but it didn’t matter – and he did see where Greg was coming from.
    ‘You need to create a dish that shows your, I don’t know, your like love and feeling for Benedict, like you think it’s the kind of thing he might like, like.’
    ‘Greg, you’re a genius.’
    ‘Thanks, guv.’
    ‘What’s duck Benedict?’
    ‘It’s a roulade of duck stuffed with lobster in champagne and caviar sauce, served with fried
foie gras
.’
    ‘Thank you. I’ll have the wild mushroom risotto, please.’
    It was the following Monday morning, and that was typical of the reaction of customers to the first appearance of duck Benedict on the menu. Henry wasn’t surprised. It was altogether too much. It was on the menu solely to attract Benedict through forces that we cannot understand.
    Trade was brisk again. The Café Henry was visited by two Latvian health and safety officers; a pop record producer; three insurance agents; an obituary compiler; two Cambodian monks; a puppet-maker from Stuttgart; two schizophrenic jewellers, who ordered four glasses of dry white wine; a lesbian schoolmistress and her Madagascan lover; a one-legged librarian; and a Swiss dentist and his wife, but not by Benedict.
    Henry’s face shone with delighted surprise at the arrival of the Swiss dentist and his wife. He kissed Diana and pumped Gunter’s hand.
    ‘We wanted to surprise you,’ said Diana.
    Henry gave them glasses of wine on the house. They told him that they were in London for a week’s holiday. He explained that there were salads in the cold counter and dishes of the day on the blackboard. He felt a frisson of excitement as he waited for Diana’s comment.
    Suddenly she went very pale.
    ‘Duck Benedict?’
    He told them the story. Diana burst into tears and hugged him, and he burst into tears too. Gunter smiled his bewildered dentist’s smile, and knew that he could never provide for Diana what Henry had provided, but he also knew that Henry couldn’t provide it either now, and that Diana no longer wanted it, so they had a happy lunch – though neither of them could face the duck Benedict. As trade slackened off after two o’clock Henry managed to snatch ten minutes with them.
    ‘There must be a
bit
of ESP working,’ said Diana. ‘It may not have brought Benedict …’
    ‘So far,’ said Gunter.
    ‘So far. But it’s brought me. Henry, we must rededicate ourselves to the task of finding my son.’
    ‘If he isn’t