Free Red Herrings by Tim Heald Page B

like a steak. You know how sometimes one … well one does feel like a steak.’
    Felix still did not relinquish his hold on the steak which looked and smelt extremely appetising.
    â€˜Madam,’ he said, ‘the magret de canard is exceptional. A great speciality of the house and particularly fine tonight.’
    Monica stared at him. ‘Listen,’ she said, ‘I don’t for one instant see why you have chosen to make such an issue but I would be obliged – we would both be obliged – if you would give me my steak and him his guinea fowl before they get cold. I simply do not see that who eats which is the slightest concern of yours. If either of them is less than edible we shall send them back.’
    Say what you like about a convent education, it can make a woman exceedingly fierce in her middle years. Felix blanched like any mere vegetable exposed to steam; deposited the plates as instructed; and retired to the kitchen. Seconds later however he re-emerged accompanied by Norman Bone in full cheffly fig, toque at a rakish angle as if put on in great haste.
    â€˜I’m afraid there has been some mistake,’ he said.
    Monica glared up at him, the first morsel of meat transfixed on her fork and halfway from plate to mouth. ‘No mistake,’ she said. ‘No mistake at all.’
    Norman’s hand reached out towards the plate. ‘I, that is, I just happened to look at the rest of the steak and I have a terrible feeling it may be just that little bit over the top. I couldn’t possibly run the risk of your going down with a gippy tummy. If it was salmonella the health people would close us down.’
    Bognor was somewhat alarmed by this but Monica sat her ground. ‘If you don’t mind,’ she said, ‘I will be the judge of that. If it tastes off I shall send it back. I’ve already told your colleague I’ll do that. And if I go down with food poisoning that’s my affair. I shan’t prosecute. And my husband is with the Board of Trade. He will guarantee that there’s no trouble from the authorities. Is that all right?’ And she put the steak into her mouth, chewed briefly, swallowed and drank an eighth of a glass of wine. Then she smiled glacially at the joint patrons of the Pickled Herring. ‘Perfectly delicious,’ she said, ‘just as I like it. Thank you both so very much!’
    The two men glanced at each other, shrugged, and returned whence they had come, muttering but vanquished.
    â€˜Actually,’ said Bognor, a little morosely, ‘this guinea fowl isn’t at all bad. A bit anaemic but that’s to be expected. It’s very tender.’
    They ate on in silence.
    â€˜A bit heavy on the tarragon,’ said Bognor, ‘but the pastry’s light as anything.’
    â€˜Knock me down with a pastry,’ said Monica, with her mouth full.
    â€˜I beg your pardon,’ he said.
    â€˜I thought you were going to say light as a feather.’
    â€˜I stopped myself just in time,’ said Bognor, who had been taught that the use of clichés even – no especially – in conversation, was the sign of a lazy mind. ‘How is the steak? I mean really.’
    â€˜The meat’s delicious,’ said Monica, chewing thoughtfully, ‘but I’m not a hundred per cent certain of the sauce. It’s on the bitter side.’
    â€˜Some local herb, no doubt,’ said Bognor, ‘ragwort or dandelion root.’
    â€˜Could be,’ agreed Monica. ‘It’s not unpleasant, just bitter. Perhaps that’s why they made such a fuss. Perhaps it’s a special masculine herb unsuitable for ladies.’
    â€˜An aphrodisiac you mean? The rural English equivalent of rhinoceros horn.’
    â€˜I didn’t say that.’
    â€˜It would explain that extraordinary performance, though,’ said Bognor. ‘Very rum. Never seen anything like it. Not even when old Escoffier