Healthy Place to Die (6 page)

The question-and-answer session was lively. One lady asked a particularly relevant question. “If I ask for a steak in a restaurant,” she said, “it’s reasonable that the waiter asks me how I want it cooked. But if I’m asked the same question when ordering seafood, I really don’t know what to say. Surely fish should never be undercooked—isn’t the risk of bacteria too high? No one wants fish overcooked. So isn’t there a stage at which fish is thoroughly cooked? Then why the question?”

Michel smiled obligingly. “This is the outcome of the interest that Paul Bocuse, Alain Chapel, and other French chefs have shown in adapting features from Oriental cooking. Some diners have learned to prefer fish such as tuna and salmon cooked rare, and you have to remember also the influence of Japanese cooking. Sushi and sashimi are raw fish dishes.”

“How come people who eat those in Japan don’t get sick?” asked another voice.

“Within minutes of being caught, fish in Japan are flash frozen at very low temperatures, and this kills the bacteria. That is how they can serve it raw.”

Caroline came in just before Michel finished. She was evidently going to all of the classes being held, and they were timed for her to have a fifteen-minute presentation between speakers and demonstrators. It was an informative quarter hour during which she covered a number of topics. She referred again to the food served at the spa. It gave the appearance, she said, of having no regard for calories, cholesterol, or fats. Nothing could be further from the truth.

Fat-free products were widely used where they did not affect taste. Yogurt replaced cream in most dishes and no one could tell the difference. White flour products and white sugar products were avoided. All breads were natural, all game was wild, and poultry was not fattened for the market. A large number of fish dishes appeared on the menus, the spa grew its own vegetables—on which no insecticides or fungicides were used—and it also grew its own herbs and spices, many of which were used in place of salt.

The presentation was something of a commercial for the spa, but it could also be used as a plan for anyone really interested in a healthy diet. Questions flooded in, and Caroline had to cut them off in order to keep to her schedule, promising to answer them all during the week. As she left, I saw Helmut Helberg, the supermarket-chain owner, come in and sit at the back of the room. I was on next. Carver Armitage had elected to speak on shellfish, and as the rest of the program had been formulated, I had to stay with his choice. I had already talked on shrimp, so now the topic was lobster. Two of the spiny creatures lay on the table before me.

“To kill or not to kill—that is the question,” I said to start. “It’s the only question—at least the lobster thinks so. But does the lobster think? If not, then perhaps it doesn’t feel either. These considerations may appear more relevant to a philosophy class than a cooking class, but with loud factions defending the fox from being hunted, the whale from being caught, the bull from being fought—will the lobster be next? The state of Maine will secede from the Union first.”

The smiles on some of the faces justified my diversion, and I went on to say that the most popular way of preparing a lobster dish was still to plunge the live crustacean into boiling water. Another school said using warm water and heating it to boiling was more humane. Others used a sharp knife to kill the lobster quickly, but star Paris chef Joel Robuchon was one of those who insisted that this made the meat tough. All eyes were now on the two ugly, clawed creatures on the bench in front of me.

“These were killed just before this class started, so we’ll shelve the humanitarian thoughts and get back to the lobster. These two are about seven years old. This is the ideal age: they get tough after that. They weigh one and a half to two pounds. The female has more tender meat than the male. It is easy to tell the difference—the tiny legs under the tail are hard and bony on the male, soft and wispy on the female.” I held them up to display this. “By the way, it’s not true that lobsters are scavengers. They eat only fresh food, preferably mussels, clams, and sea urchins.”

I went on to prepare the two lobsters in front of me. The best way is probably steamed or boiled, but it can also be baked, grilled, sautéed, poached, or stir-fried. “Always use a minimum amount of water, too much takes away the flavor. Salt water is best. These two are bright red, you’ll notice. They were boiled for fifteen minutes just before you arrived. Now they are cool enough to handle.”

I laid each on its back and cut through the body and down the tail with a sharp knife, cutting through the underbelly but not the top shell. I flexed and drained it, cracked the claws, and drained those too. “Now I’m going to prepare these two each in a different way,” I told the class. The first was baked Mediterranean style with olives, parsley, and balsamic vinegar, and the other was the classic Newburg. Both can be prepared in half an hour by interspersing the operations, and so I was able to finish them both at about the same time.

“I prepared two so that there is at least a taste of each for everybody,” I said, and so there was. “Two other lobster dishes are on the menu for tonight,” I added. “Pilaff and thermidor; you might want to try those.”

“What’s the difference between Newburg and thermidor?” someone wanted to know.

“Thermidor contains cheese, mustard, and wine, Newburg contains sherry and egg yolks. Otherwise they’re the same.”

It was well after five o’clock when we broke for the day. Questions were still being asked and discussions and arguments continuing, but I managed to close the class and let the students keep talking about it.

I went on another investigation.

I
HAD A REASONABLY
clear picture in my mind of Rhoda, the blonde who had stopped me as I had been about to set forth across the lawn last night in the direction of the hydrotherapy units. Had she really stopped me? I was not sure of that; maybe she had just happened to be there and had felt like chatting.

Another possibility was that Kathleen had only just gone to the Seaweed Forest and someone—Rhoda or someone with her—had wanted to keep me away for another quarter of an hour until … Until what? Until someone killed Kathleen? That might be a little fanciful, but I did not have much else, so this was worth a try.

I strolled around, passing all the buildings, walking the pathways between the cabins, going everywhere I might expect to run into one of the luscious blondes. It was Julia I wanted to see first. I knew she was not the girl I had seen last night but she could provide me with the information I needed to start. I found her taking an empty tray back to the kitchen.

“Hello, Mr. Armitage,” she greeted me cheerfully. She clapped a hand to her mouth in a charming gesture. “Oh, it’s not though, is it? I’m sorry, I—”

“Perfectly all right. You girls do extraordinarily well in remembering the names of the guests as well as you do. And there are so few of you …” I let the rest of the sentence hang in the air. She obliged.

“Eight on the day shift, five on the night shift.”

“Is that all?” It was more than enough if I had to check them all out.

“We’re one short today.” She chattered on, bless her. “Rhoda is off. It’s very short notice apparently, but something urgent came up.”

I tried another approach. “You’re all very photogenic. Haven’t any of the magazines done a feature on you yet?”

She smiled. “Not yet. We did have a group photo taken recently though. Have you noticed it? It’s in the reception.”

“No, I haven’t. I’ll have to take a look.”

When I left Julia, I hastened to the reception area as fast as I could without making my impatience obvious. The usual number of guests and staff were there, and the customary tranquillity prevailed. I picked up a newspaper and looked for a place to sit. An armchair was near, but I ignored it and walked over to another near the wall on which a large photograph was hung. I examined it. The girls looked lovely. I studied the names below and found Rhoda’s.

Extreme left on the front row. I looked at the face. No doubt at all. It was the girl I had talked to on my way to the Seaweed Forest.

As we gathered before dinner, Helmut Helberg approached me. “I liked your presentation,” he said. “The reason I wanted to attend was that I am thinking of having presentations like that in my markets.”

I nodded. “Part of your campaign to change the supermarket image?”

“Right. It stands to reason that we could sell more lobsters if people knew more about them—how to buy them, how to prepare them.”

“The public is more afraid of the lobster than of any other food,” I said. “It has a terrifying appearance for a start. Most people don’t know what to look for and don’t know how to prepare it.”

“A lot of customers don’t want to be bothered to prepare it,” Helberg argued.

“Then you should consider preparing it for them.”

“But they don’t keep.”

“On-the-spot preparation—prepared to order. While still fresh.”

He took on a pensive look and wandered away. I had a short conversation with Oriana Frascati. “Getting any ideas for your cookbooks?” I asked. She was not unattractive but used no makeup, and her hair looked as if it had not spent much time under the care of a hairdresser.

“Too many,” she sighed. “I already have a full schedule for the winter and the manuscripts keep flooding in.”

“Must be hard to find new approaches,” I suggested.

She studied me as if trying to decide whether to confide in me. “I have several possibilities,” she murmured. “I’m doing some final sifting right now. Maybe you would like to give me your opinion on them?”

“Pleased to,” I said, and waited. She nodded as if satisfied. “I’ll be talking to you,” she said, and walked off. They must be confidential, I thought, and she is afraid that the competition will hear about them. Was the cookbook business as cutthroat as the rest of the publishing business? I wondered.

Caroline de Witt was there, looking glamorous in a tight-fitting black dress. I congratulated her. “Superb organization,” I told her. “Everything is running as smoothly as—well, as a Swiss watch.”

She smiled appreciatively. “Thank you. It’s a lot of work but very rewarding.”

“An eclectic group of students too.”

“Yes. Classes like this are very gratifying. The interest is not professional in a direct sense but just as intense. It is more diverse, it brings in so many other concerns. The people are more demanding.”

“Your facilities are very impressive,” I said. “I haven’t had a chance yet to partake of them all—”

“Oh, you must,” she implored, laying a beautifully manicured hand on my arm. “The mud baths—”

“Yes, I want to try those first. Then there are the others. …

“The underground sauna is wonderful, so beneficial. The Seaweed Forest too is so healthful.”

“Hmm,” I tried to sound reluctant. It was not difficult. “Sounds dangerous to me. More of a jungle than a forest, somebody said. It’s a flagellator, isn’t it?”

She laughed musically. “Oh, yes, but a very gentle one.”

An image floated into my mind of a dead body among those “gentle” seaweed strands. “You really must try it,” she insisted.

I nodded, still reluctant.

“I will see how my schedule is. Maybe I can introduce you to it.”

“That would be nice,” I said politely. My last assignation with a female in the Seaweed Forest was not a situation I wanted to repeat.

The dinner menu did indeed include the two lobster dishes I had mentioned, but a couple of other items caught my eye. For a starter, I chose the Cuban tamales, a dish containing pork, a Cuban favorite, and served with a sauce of orange, cherry, and lime juices with onion and garlic. The tamales had a pleasantly fragrant herbal taste that was unusual, and when I asked I was told that it was “culentro,” a Central American variant of coriander and much stronger.

Brad Thompson, the fast-food millionaire, was at my table and displaying an enterprising spirit in ordering the chilled zucchini bisque. A large baked zucchini blossom floated on the surface, stuffed with goat cheese and diced tomatoes.

For the main course, I selected a Swiss dish on the basis that it is hard to find outside of Switzerland. This was Egli, a variety of perch, delicate in flavor, white, and almost without bones. Brad Thompson had a grilled paillard of beef. It was served with red cabbage, a popular vegetable in Switzerland, and a red wine sauce fortified with port. A light fresh white wine from the Saar Valley went well with my fish. Brad chose a Cote Rotie to accompany his beef, and although I thought he might find it sufficiently full-bodied but too scented, I heard no complaints. He concluded with a peanut butter mascarpone, and I had a peach sorbet.

I slipped out as smoothly as I could. Caroline de Witt was only two tables away, and while I was determined to solve the mystery of the Seaweed Forest, I was not prepared to attempt it right now. The right mind-set would be critical, I told myself.

I
WAS STILL CURIOUS
about Leighton Vance. My schedule to date had been such that my presentations had coincided with his, so I had not had the opportunity to observe him in action. The next morning I was free, and I saw that he was giving a demonstration in conference room C. After a breakfast of fresh mango juice, some muesli made in the original style of Doctor Bircher-Brenner (who had lived near here), Nicaraguan coffee, and fresh-baked wheat rolls, I went to sit at the feet of the guru of Swiss cuisine.

My attitude was admittedly a little snide, considering how he had thrown me out of his kitchen—which was the way I persisted in thinking of it. So I sat in the second row—not the first, where I would be staring him in the face, and not in the back row, where I could toss in unexpected lobs of awkward questions. I wanted to keep it fair but still hold an advantage.

“More than a third of all new chefs are career changers,” he began. “That in itself is a clear indication of the attraction that cooking possesses. Learning to cook means cooking everyday dishes as well as those for special occasions.