Healthy Place to Die (18 page)

Michel folded over the paste to envelop the butter. “Now he rolls out this ‘sandwich,’” said Leighton, “and he folds it again. He continues to repeat this operation, folding and rolling, rolling and folding.”

“The aim,” said Michel, completely intent upon his task, “is to have all the layers of paste and butter thin and uniform. This is difficult to do and requires practice and concentration.” He paused and looked up. “I am not stopping because I am tired,” he explained. “It is to allow the paste to cool between turns. For perfect results, some chefs allow it to sit half an hour between rollings. Others put it into the refrigerator.”

“Can I add a tip?” I asked.

“Certainly,” said Michel.

“The rolling surface of the pastry can be quick-chilled with a self-sealing bag of ice. It is a trick used in hot climates.”

Michel thanked me. Leighton hurried on.

“
Mille feuilles
means ‘a thousand leaves,’” continued Leighton, “and you will get tired long before you reach that count.” He looked around the room. “These tables are set up so that you can all try to make your own puff pastry.”

Only a few minutes had gone by when the first loud groan came from one would-be pastry chef. “My arms are going to fall off!” she complained. Sympathetic noises sounded around the room. “There must be a machine for this!” said someone, and Leighton snapped, “There is—it’s you.” Another student grumbled. “I think this is just a sneaky way to get us to lose weight. I used to like pastry—not anymore.”

Leighton and Michel were unrelenting taskmasters. “Nobody is born a chef,” snapped Leighton to one protester. “You have to work to become one.” Michel was supervising a different group. “No, no!” he was shouting. “You are pressing too hard. You do not want to blend the butter and the flour together. Each layer must be thin but separate.”

It had been a good idea, I conceded, to leave this session until later in the week. The spa did not want to discourage its guests too soon, and there was no doubt that rolling
feuilletage
is difficult, tiring, and aggravating. I stayed with the class through its travails, lending a hand here and there.

“When do I graduate?” groaned one perspiring student. Michel heard that. “You don’t,” he said. “You will be a student all your life if you work in a kitchen.”

When everyone had finished, Leighton and Michel toured the tables, commenting on the results. Michel showed how to cut rounds and form them into cups. A large variety of fillings were on the tables—curly anchovy fillets, tiny shrimp in a pink sauce, chopped mushrooms with onions, ground turkey, foie gras, caviar, and several cheese blends. Some guests had chosen to make dessert soufflés: strawberry, cherry, orange, and blackberry were very apparent and all looked scrumptious. Tempers were being restored now and patience being recovered.

“The ovens are at four hundred and twenty-five degrees,” Leighton said. “Your pastry will take fifteen minutes.”

“Well done, all of you,” said Michel, beaming.

Leighton was more reserved with his praise. “You’ve learned some of the tricks of making puff pastry, but it doesn’t matter how beautiful it looks when it goes into the oven or when it comes out—if the taste is not there, then the dish is a failure.”

A quarter of an hour later, Leighton’s skepticism was justified. A foie gras pastry received frowns from both of the chefs—then, “Salt!” They both said it simultaneously. “It lacks salt.” Accusing glances darted here and there, but no one stepped forward valiantly to claim responsibility and Michel gave a short but pointed speech on the need to check every ingredient. “Puff pastry is one of the most unforgiving dishes,” he warned. “That is why it has such a reputation of being difficult to prepare. Certainly the baking operation is important, but it is critical to observe all the other aspects of preparing it.”

Other pastries received nods of satisfaction, and some got words of approval. There was a chastened air about the guests who filed out after the session, but I caught a few comments that showed that many had gained a heightened respect for professional chefs and a better understanding of the demands placed on them.

S
WITZERLAND’S NEIGHBOR, AUSTRIA, WAS
for centuries a crossroads of Europe. The great valleys of the Danube River provided ready-made passage for traders and merchants, linking East and West. From Roman times, what is now Austria has been host—even if sometimes unwillingly—to a variety of nations.

The Roman fortress of Vindobona became Vienna, and when Charlemagne’s empire was divided among his grandchildren, Austria was the leading country in the Holy Roman Empire. From that time on, the history of Austria was the history of the Hapsburg family, and the country gained control of Hungary, Belgium, Sardinia, and much of northern Italy.

Karl Wengen was telling us all this. He was not only a politician but a renowned historian, it emerged, and his interest in history extended to many of its facets, including food.

Lunch was being served, and, the menu announced, this meal and dinner would feature Austrian specialties. This is what prompted Karl Wengen to give us a brief history lesson and explain why both the lunch and dinner menus today would contain dishes that were not only from Austria but also from its former possessions such as Hungary, Italy, and Bohemia and even former enemies such as Turkey.

I had the
porkolt,
which is thicker and contains more onions than the more familiar Hungarian goulash. Karl Wengen and a couple of others at the table had the
szekelygoulash,
another variation made with pork and sauerkraut. We all drank a light and pleasant Austrian white wine, a Veltliner from the Gumpoldskirchener district in the south of the country.

After the meal, I chatted with Marta, starry-eyed as usual. “Do you have any assignments for me?” she asked eagerly.

“Now, Marta, I told you I didn’t come here to investigate,” I admonished her.

“Isn’t that what you have to say? So that no one knows you’re under cover?”

“Which movie does that come from? That Charlie Chan one you were in?”

She gave me a mock glare. “Charlie Chan! I’m not old enough to have been in any of those.”

“I think it was the last one,” I said hastily.

“And I was too important a star,” she added.

“I must have been thinking of that one with Cary Grant.”

She softened. “Oh, yes, I was very good in that.”

“I enjoyed it. You shouldn’t have betrayed him, though.”

“Why not?” she demanded indignantly. “He kept lying to me.”

“I was disappointed in him there.”

“I helped him. I could help you as well.”

I decided not to remind her that she had got the signal wrong in that film. As a result of her pulling the wrong ear, the detective had arrived prematurely and caught Cary with the jewels in his hands.

“I’m sure you could,” I told her. “In fact, you can help me …

“Yes?” she said eagerly.

“By keeping your eyes and ears open.”

She showed her dissatisfaction with that suggestion by using her expressive face. “Is there anyone you suspect? Oh, it doesn’t matter, I know what you’re going to say. You suspect everyone. At least, that’s what Sidney Toler said.”

Naturally, I did not give her any clue that she had made a gaffe.

Outside, I strolled across the grass. A good breeze was rolling up the valley but it was not bringing any sounds of cowbells. The sky was light blue and laced with disappearing vapor trails. Without making my way there in an obvious manner, I headed for the kitchen. No one was in sight except for a distant figure, and I slowed until the figure was gone. I tried the kitchen door. It opened.

Three of the younger members of the staff were in there. Their slightly stained white uniforms indicated that they had been responsible, in part at least, for the lunch. I looked around and satisfied myself that Leighton Vance was not here.

Two of the staff were young women, cleaning up. The third was a boy about twenty, and he had his arms full of large iron pans.

“Everyone at my table wanted me to congratulate you on the great Austrian dishes,” I said heartily.

“Mr. Vance doesn’t allow guests in the kitchen,” said the boy, a little truculently.

“Oh, that’s all right,” I assured him. “He knows me.”

The boy eyed me uncertainly. He had obviously had his instructions from Vance, but he also knew better than to argue with a guest. I waited for the pans in his arms to get heavier. They did. He went on with his task of returning them to their hooks on the far wall.

The girls were less concerned about spa protocol and one smiled shyly. “I had the
porkolt
and it was wonderful,” I told her. “That flavor …”

“I made that,” said the shy girl, a blue-eyed blond-haired Swiss miss.

“It deserved a prize,” I told her. “Two people said it was the best they had ever tasted.” That was only a slight exaggeration. I was sure I could have gotten two diners to endorse the statement, perhaps more.

“I made the goulash,” said the other girl, a few years older and not quite as blond.

“I wish I’d had the goulash as well,” I told her, and she glowed.

If Leighton allowed no contact between cooking staff and guests, these girls did not get much credit for their efforts, not from guests and probably not from Vance. I troweled on some further praise. It was not forced and certainly not insincere. I congratulated them on other dishes, but when I mentioned the
egli,
the fish dish, one of the girls said, “Oh, Mallory prepared that.”

“What about Mr. Vance?” I asked, keeping my tone conversational. “What are his specialties?”

The girls glanced at each other in apparent embarrassment. Neither seemed to want to answer my question.

“I know pork tenderloins and soufflés are two of them,” I prompted them.

The younger girl giggled. The older of the two gave her a reproving look.

“He cooked both of them for us at the cooking sessions,” I explained.

They exchanged looks again, then the older girl said, “Yes, he is very good at both of those.” She said it in a guarded way, but the other, less inhibited one now spoke out boldly.

“He should be good at them. He spent the whole week before, practicing them.”

I digested that. I nodded. “All great chefs keep practicing their art,” I told them.

I chatted with them a few minutes longer until the boy completed his pan handling. He had the facial expression known as a glower, and though I could have won him over with about two compliments, I didn’t want to cause any trouble for the girls.

I left wondering why a chef of Leighton’s caliber needed to practice. I also wondered again why he was adamant about keeping guests out of his kitchen. What happened there that he was so determined to hide?

The afternoon’s sessions started with one conducted by Axel Vorstahl. He spoke on “the creative chef,” and I listened from the back of a packed room. His excellent talk was well summarized by his opening statements. “Here, we cannot teach you how to be creative. What we do is teach you what you need to know so that you can be creative. We want to help you reach the position where you can make better use of your imagination and originality—two qualities that really stand out in cooking when fully demonstrated.”

All of us combined for a succeeding presentation, which described the various cooking methods and explained when each one could be employed to the best advantage. As Michel pointed out, “sauté,” “broil,” “bake,” “roast,” and “grill” each has its own advantages and disadvantages. This was a visual session wherein the pans and utensils for each process were demonstrated and the materials of which they were made were compared.

It was an informative and undoubtedly useful presentation. Questions were asked and expertly answered, but the audience acceptance was at a lower level than at any of the preceding assemblies. I decided that a vital ingredient was lacking. It was an ingredient that all the other sessions had had, and that was food. Caroline was present, and I saw her making notes, presumably for elimination or at least improvement.

We concluded at about four-thirty, and as we were leaving the room Elaine approached me. “Not quite as much fun without something to eat at the end of it, is it?” she asked.

“You noticed that too, did you? Yes, I saw Caroline de Witt making notes. I think she felt the same way you and I did. Having pots and pans described and being told how to use them are important, but it lacks gustatory impact.”

We walked outside, where the air was cooler than before. Wispy white clouds were drifting at altitudes below the tops of the visible Alps, and the sun seemed diminished. When we reached a quiet spot, Elaine stopped and turned to me.

“I found a message in my box this morning. It told me to phone a local number at one this afternoon. I did and a woman’s voice invited me to a meeting.”

“Someone you know?” I asked.

“Kathleen Evans.”

K
ATHLEEN!” I GASPED. “BUT
she—”

Elaine pounced on my involuntary reaction. “Go on. She what?”

It was confession time. A more accomplished liar could have squirmed out of the predicament, but I was never that good with “terminological inexactitudes,” as Winston Churchill once called them.

I looked around to make sure that no one was within earshot. “I didn’t tell you everything,” I admitted.

“Tell me now.”

“I told you that I had a meeting with Kathleen in the Seaweed Forest—”

“A meeting?”

I had been through this before, explaining to Janet. I had withheld the most crucial part then, but now it was time to divulge it. “She asked me to meet her there—”

“Did she say why?” Elaine’s questioning was becoming more like an interrogation. Her tone was sharper and her manner more aggressive. I felt like a transgressor who feels relief at confessing and finally being able to unburden himself.

“She didn’t give any particular reason, no.”

Elaine nodded. “Go on.”

“When I got there, she was slumped against the weeds. I thought she was dead.”