Fear of the Nouvelle


Another tall tale from the wine bar philosophy group at the Withered Grape,
reported by Ian McLaren

 

It was a great party – not just the philosophers, but all the regulars gathered to wish old Bill a happy 80 th birthday and a long retirement. This had all been planned, and we knew that his daughter, a widow with a new grandson, was coming back from Manchester to run the old place. He made his little speech, introduced our new governor, Maureen, and retired to his usual spot at the end of the bar.

“Right, you lot”, she started, “there are going to be some changes round here. I’ve asked that Marco-Pierre Whatsisname to send us a newly qualified chef. This saloon bar is going to become an experimental restaurant called the Iceberg. The menu will have aerosol of brown Windsor soup, calf’s liver ice cream, asparagus cappuccino and the lot.”

Well, that certainly put a damper on the festivities. The next day, while we were sobering up with a pint or two of Madiera, we asked how the king might have dealt with this situation, and came up with the following story:

As soon as he woke up, the king knew that it was one of his inspiration days. For weeks, he had been getting bored with the food from the royal kitchens. He had tried threatening the chef with torture, but all that produced was over-salted porridge and burnt ice-cream. He had sent away for the latest cookery books, but no-one in the kitchen could read.

The idea flashed into his mind as he sat up. The king smiled, in wonder at his own cleverness, and raced, royal night-shirt tails flapping, into the cabinet room. An hour later, he was sitting disconsolate over the soggy remains of his breakfast toast. The queen, and her mother, had been adamant that they were not having the state apartments turned into a public restaurant: nor did they want a young chef to ‘liven things up’. The chamberlain had explained, yet again, that there was no money in the treasury for ‘speculative investments’, especially an expensive restaurant which no-one could afford to patronise.

Unfortunately, the meteor-storm of inspiration particles had not subsided. If he couldn’t build a restaurant himself, someone else must be forced to do it. Half an hour before opening time, the landlord of the King’s Arms heard a violent assault on his bar door. He opened it, and found himself facing a rather red-faced, dishevelled monarch, who now rather regretted running down from the palace. Later, when the king had regained his breath, and the landlord had gone very pale, the agreement was in place. It was that or face the royal torturer, who was his brother-in-law and strongly disliked him.

So, the following month saw the opening of the Monarch’s Treat restaurant. The regulars were alarmed by the unseasonal change of sawdust on the floor, the appearance of bottles of wine with labels, and by the new price list. None of them wanted go into the restaurant – it wouldn’t feel right, they didn’t want to eat, and they didn’t know how to behave in front of the hoards of hoi-ti-toi diners.

The restaurant had one table occupied – the royal table, naturally. The king sat alone. The queen had refused ‘that foreign muck’, and so had her mother. In fact, when it came to it, the king hadn’t much appetite for creamed lamb-brain soup, parsnip ravioli, and crème brulée stuffed with shrimp curry.

After a few days, the regulars began to re-occupy the restaurant. The cloths disappeared from half the tables and a more convivial atmosphere began to return. The new chef, tired of reheating creamed lamb-brain soup, accepted another job in the big city. The landlady started offering good home-made food, for which the king was occasionally grateful. On Saturday nights, the regulars might even bring their partners in for a meal. The customers learned to smile again, hesitantly. They had all learned that some new things are good, when you are comfortable with them.

April 2007