Healthy Place to Die (3 page)

“It’s an excellent opportunity,” I agreed.

She was evidently a fervent supporter of Vance and his cooking. She praised him highly, said she had publicized him in her column and thought him bold and imaginative.

“Increasingly rare talents in a chef,” I agreed. Such enthusiasm in his favor seemed at odds with her generally critical attitude.

“He and Caroline run a great operation here. Everything about it is first class.”

“You sound as if you’ve been here before.”

“Once or twice,” she said offhandedly.

I wanted to talk to Axel Vorstahl. I had spent a part of my early career as a chef on cruise ships and was anxious to learn what had changed since then with the still-continuing boom in cruise travel. He was in a deep conversation, but I saw Michel Leblanc, the French chef. He was talking to Gunther Probst, the computer whiz, and as both gave me an inviting smile I joined them.

Inevitably, the topic moved to French cuisine. As tactfully as I could, I asked if perhaps the eminent position of French cuisine was threatened.

“Very much so,” Leblanc admitted. “I strongly believe that interest in the Oriental cuisines in recent years is responsible.”

Probst was surprised. “Oriental cuisines?”

“Yes. They offer meals with lowered fat and reduced cholesterol. They are simple to prepare and fast to cook. All our top chefs in France recognized these advantages and began to incorporate their characteristics into our cuisine.”

“Isn’t it true that these changes initiated the nouvelle cuisine?” I asked.

“Certainly. Alain Senderens, Gerard Besson, Fredy Girardet all acknowledged this.”

“But how did this threaten the dominant position of French cooking?” Probst wanted to know.

“The novelty wore off too quickly,” said Leblanc. “Also, it was perhaps too abrupt a change to make in so short a time. The French—and many other nations cooking in the French style—were used to their sauces and richer methods of food preparation.”

“Is this the secret of the spa?” I asked. “Do we see here the realization that while really rich foods—high cholesterols and high saturated fat, salt and sodium—must be modified, neither do we want to go too lean and mean? Is a compromise better achieved here than in most places?”

“Sounds reasonable to me,” said Probst, “but then I’m still learning some of the terminology. It’s as specialized as computer-speak.”

Leblanc nodded. “It is one of the reasons I was delighted to get the invitation to come to this conference again. I wanted to see for myself just why the spa is so successful. There is no question that the food is a major factor.”

The discussion went on, Probst being concerned with leaping in periodically to query a word or an expression and Leblanc showing a good understanding of the responsibilities—and problems—of a good chef. He would be a chef-owner in a very short time, that was my analysis.

During this conversation, we had drifted in the direction of the long table that covered the wall nearest the double doors. It contained various kinds of coffee and tea as well as snacks and soft drinks. We had reached a crisis, Leblanc and I. We did not see eye-to-eye on the leveling effect—if any—of the European Community on the individuality of the cuisines of the various nations composing it. Leblanc was wagging an admonishing finger at me as he prepared to make a vital point.

It was then that the double doors flung open and a newcomer entered the room.

S
HE WAS ONE OF
those women who display presence and personality without being domineering or sexist. She was also a woman who was clearly attractive, and yet it was not easy to identify any of the notable characteristics of beauty. She had a strong face with slightly high cheekbones, large brown eyes, and light brown hair that fell straight as if it were natural. She was fairly tall and almost athletic in build.

“I believe I’m late,” she announced without a hint of apology. “Can’t blame Swissair. I missed my flight.”

The room hadn’t exactly fallen silent when she walked in, but most of its occupants were aware of her entrance. Then conversations resumed as Caroline de Witt went to her and they exchanged words. “Let me introduce you around,” Caroline said as she approached the nearest group, which happened to be our trio.

“This is Elaine Dunbar,” she said, presenting the newcomer. When Caroline had told her who we were, I said to her, “You missed the part where we all tell what we do and why we are here.”

She gave me a cool look and asked in a firm voice with no identifiable origin, “And just what do you all do and why are you here?”

It wasn’t what I had in mind, but it was another means to the same end. We all told her and waited for her contribution. “I’m a lawyer. I just got my J.D. My fiancé bought me the package to spend the week here as a reward.”

“An unusual compensation,” said Probst drily.

“Not at all. I intend to specialize in law as it pertains to food and restaurants. What more natural way to prepare for that kind of career?”

“It’s still unusual,” I commented. “The culinary business doesn’t have many legal specialists—in fact, I can’t think of any. Perhaps it needs a few. There must be lots of opportunities.”

“But we are a very law-abiding vocation,” Leblanc protested. “Do we need lawyers?”

“Not until you’re in trouble,” Elaine Dunbar said calmly. “Then you come screaming to us.”

Leblanc looked ready to respond vigorously, his male Gallic blood aroused, but Probst defused him, saying lazily, “Have a lot of occasions to need lawyers in the computer business. Glad to have them on my side—it was always the ones on the other side I hated.”

Caroline took the newcomer off to meet another group. I hoped none of them knew any lawyer jokes or that they would exercise restraint if they did. Elaine Dunbar looked as if she could be a tough customer in a debate.

There was not much more opportunity to talk to any of the other participants. All were anxious to get out into the extensive grounds and enjoy the glorious Alpine sunshine. The sun must have been hot down at lower altitudes, but we were about three thousand feet up the western slopes of the Schondig, whose peak tapered into the azure sky as if reaching to claw down an unwary cloud. Periodic breezes rolled up from the valley to keep the temperature at a perfect level.

I strolled across the grass and stood on the shore of the lake. On the far side, small craft were lined up awaiting customers. Kayaks, canoes, rowboats, and small sailcraft were there but nothing powered. Nobody was out today and a flock of birds was dining noisily, undisturbed. Down toward the valley, I caught sight of movement. Two horses were coming up the slope, and I recalled that stables were another attraction of the spa. It did not seem to lack any of the entertaining amenities, I thought. I was anxious too to see the mud baths, saunas, steam baths, and similar aids to health, but they would have to wait.

This was a good chance to take a look at the kitchens. Stainless steel was everywhere, gleaming, glistening, reflecting from bench tops, splash shields, burner racks. The wooden chopping blocks were spotless and looked alien against the groups of bright orange, indigo blue, and charcoal black ceramic stoves and hoods. These were trimmed with copper, and among them I noted the very newest features such as magnetic induction burners that cook without producing heat and infrared covers that maintain heat without drying. A most unusual sight in a professional kitchen was the large windows, framing a fairy-tale picture of snowcapped peaks in the distance.

As it was late in the afternoon, the kitchen was quiet. The hustle and bustle would soon be starting as preparations got under way for the evening meal, but right now only two young women were active. One of them was Mallory Vance, the pretty, shy wife of Leighton. She was preparing a terrine of duck, laying the sliced duck breast into strips of prosciutto and sprinkling it liberally with wild rice, dried apricots, pistachio nuts, dried cherries, and a blend of spices. Before folding the prosciutto over it, she drizzled a generous amount of brandy on the mixture.

“Beautifully done,” I complimented her, and she looked up, startled. Then she recognized me and smiled delightfully.

“
Garde-manger
usually comes off a mechanized production line today,” I said. “It’s nice to see it made properly, that is to say, by hand.”

“Not many people call it that anymore,” she said, reaching for more slices of duck breast. “You know what it means? ‘The preservation of what is eaten.’”

“Yes. I believe that in former days, it referred to ways of using up scraps of meat, poultry, game, and fish that had been left over in the kitchen. Then the term was applied to the piece of kitchenware that was designed to store those scraps—a smaller larder, built of wood and with a wire mesh front. An apprentice chef had the task of keeping it supplied with ice.”

“You are well informed,” she said in surprise.

“It’s my job,” I said, and explained that I was obliged to live up to my sobriquet of “the Gourmet Detective.” The history of food and a knowledge of what foods were eaten and how they were prepared and cooked in earlier times and civilizations were a part of my work.

She was listening, but only partly. She had stopped moving her hands, and a thick slice of duck breast stood uncut. When I finished, she said with wide eyes, “You’re a detective?”

I explained further, emphasizing the food aspects and skimming over the times when my investigations had led to danger and even death. “I see,” she said, mollified. I supposed detectives were rare in a law-abiding country like Switzerland, and she was a quiet, reserved young woman. She probably spent most of her time in the kitchen and saw little of the outside world.

She was about to say something when a harsh voice from behind me said, “We don’t allow people in the kitchen.” It was Leighton Vance. He wore light pants and a dark blue blazer with white shoes. His crisp white shirt sported a light blue ascot, which, though dated, suited his dashing image. He looked like a country squire who had just come back from a stroll through the village, nodding to his serfs.

“That’s all right,” I said easily. “As this whole week revolves around kitchens and what they produce and how they do it, naturally I was curious to see this one.”

“You’ll be in the kitchen enough during the presentations,” he said, and his voice was still steely. “Otherwise, our rule is no outsiders.”

“I was congratulating your wife on her technique with the terrine. She’s an expert in an area that doesn’t receive much attention today.”

His handsome face was set in a hard cast and even a quiff of golden hair seemed to be bristling. My attempt to stretch the conversation was failing. I could see that as he said, “We are all experts here. It’s why we are so successful. We hope to see you at dinner.”

I knew when I wasn’t wanted. I gave Mallory an extra-big smile as I left, just to irritate him.

As I prepared for dinner, I was wondering about the strange attitude of Leighton Vance. A week of cooking classes was about to begin—and Vance wanted to throw me out of his kitchen! What could be there that he wanted to hide? Yet I recalled more than a few chefs I knew who were jealously protective of their trade secrets. Many of them did not allow strangers in their kitchens, though most were a little more diplomatic in the way they ushered them out when caught. When the classes commenced, the kitchens would be open to scrutiny by all of the class members. Any secrets would be difficult to hide. So if such secrets were not in the kitchen, where could they be?

In the food—was that the answer? It seemed unlikely. An operation as prestigious as this would be very unlikely to be doing anything clandestine along those lines, and, in addition, the Swiss authorities are very strict in all matters concerning tourism. I was still puzzling when I went to dinner.

The main restaurant was high ceilinged and lit by four giant chandeliers. Wood-paneled walls gave it a slight feeling of period, but all else was modern while still maintaining a sense of tradition. Tables were set for eight, and place settings were shown on a large display at the entrance. It was also noted that settings would be changed every lunch and dinner so that everyone could enjoy a variety of dinner companions.

Next to me, a large gray-haired man with a look of authority introduced himself. He was Karl Wengen, a member of Switzerland’s Nationalrat, the national council of 196 men. “All men?” I asked, a little surprised.

“Women in Switzerland were first granted a vote in 1953,” he told me. “We have very few in governmental posts.” He waited for me to comment, but I didn’t want to generate a debate on that subject—at least, not before eating. He represented the canton of Aargau, one of the largest in the country, and told me that he came here once a year. “I come for my health,” he said, patting his considerable stomach. “Others go to diet spas, but I prefer to come here. I may not lose weight, but this is the only place that restores my peace of mind.”

On the other side sat a school principal from Denmark who said she was fulfilling a life ambition now that she had retired from teaching. Oriana Frascati, the cookbook editor, was across the table, deep in conversation with a Swiss agronomist who, from the snatches of conversation I could pick up, was telling of his recent U.N. mission to Mongolia.

I had been curious about the food here. I knew it was not diet oriented but neither did I expect the quality of Taillevent in Paris or La Grenouille in New York. Still, everyone spoke so highly of it that it had to be exceptional. I resolutely stifled any thought that because Leighton Vance had thrown me out of his kitchen (well, almost), he could not be a great chef. Any such illogicality would be unworthy of me, I decided.

The choices on the menu were numerous without being overwhelming. It takes longer to read some menus than it takes to eat the meal, and one can justifiably question whether every ingredient is fresh. I selected the mussel and vegetable salad, a deliberately low-key dish, so as to establish whether the chef could elevate it. The member from the Aargau had a Waldorf salad with smoked venison and black currant dressing, whereas the school principal preferred the creme Antillaise, a Caribbean soup based on spinach, rice, and coconut cream. Only one at our table asked for the confit of duck that Mallory had worked so hard to prepare.