a winner.
‘Think,’ he told himself. ‘Don’t panic. Think of any food. Quick. Asparagus. No, too elitist. Pasta. Good!’
Dennis Danvers was speaking. ‘… which brings us to Henry Pratt,’ he was saying.
Cannelloni. Canaletto. Ah!
‘What gem have you got for us, Henry Pratt?’
The sarcasm in Dennis Danvers’s voice made Henry angry, and anger gave him strength.
‘Luigi Cannelloni, the inventor of pasta, was born in Venice in 1726,’ began Henry, with sudden, amazing confidence. There was laughter. Not a lot, but more than Bradley had got. Henry realised that the audience liked him. The sensitive antennae of Dennis Danvers picked this up too. He would be very careful about mocking Henry in future.
‘He was on a Hoseasons’ canal holiday there,’ continued Henry.
He was surprised to hear himself say this, and even more surprised that it got a decent laugh because of the sheer unexpected banality of it.
‘He is very well known for his works of art, almost as well known as Hieronymus Bosch.’
This crack got another decent laugh, but it was cheap and naughty, and he regretted it even as he said it. Later he would suspect that this moment might have sown the seed that in time would grow into a deep hatred of Henry, with all the difficulties that would entail in the years to come.
‘He is well known, of course, for his paintings of the Grand Canal. There are two Cannellonis hanging in the town hall of my native Thurmarsh. What is less well known is that he produced pasta models of Venetian landmarks. His Rialto Bridge stuffed with spinach and ricotta was sensational, he really was an expert stuffer, in fact he had six children, one of whom introduced cheese to pasta and was known as Macaroni Tony. Unfortunately he had a weakness – women.’ Henry lowered his voice like a newsreader approaching bad news. ‘His wife strangled him with five hundred yards of tagliatelle in 1782.’
There was a good round of applause. The Chipometer registered seven out of ten. Bradley Tompkins glowered.
4 Eggs Benedict
IT WAS THE strange affair of the pigeon Denzil that gave Henry the idea.
The need to create a special dish for his old colleague and friend came to Henry after a rather difficult dinner at Denzil and Lampo’s elegant little mews house in Chelsea, shortly after the recording of
A Question of Salt
.
As they sipped their pre-prandial white wine in the tiny sitting room, choc-a-bloc with bric-a-brac, Henry asked them if they would like to witness the recording of another edition of
A Question of Salt
. They declined politely.
When Lampo went out to get more olives, Denzil said in a low voice, ‘I would have liked to, but it’s all a bit beneath La Lampo. She only breathes very rarefied air, Henry. She’s too precious to live. She looks down on anything to do with television.
So
common.’
When Denzil went to finish off the vegetables, Lampo said, ‘I would have loved to come. It’s so sublimely awful as almost to be brilliant, but poor old Denzil … between you and me and several gateposts … has
no
sense of humour, no love of the absurd, no relish for the incongruous.’
It wasn’t difficult to deduce that relations between Lampo and Denzil were not at their smoothest. Henry felt sad that he had created a special dish for Lampo, the deceiver, but not for Denzil, the deceived. He longed to confront Lampo over his deceit on the day of his sixtieth birthday, but the moment didn’t seem right, and he contented himself with saying, in a low, urgent voice, ‘Lampo, don’t hurt him, will you?’
Lampo raised his eyebrows.
‘Henry feels responsible for your relationship,’ said Hilary, ‘because he brought you together in Siena.’
‘On that memorable day on which he also first met you,’ Lampo reminded her. ‘It’s all so long ago. How banal time is. All it can ever think to do is pass. Pass, pass, pass, second after second, minute after minute, and always at the same
‘Think,’ he told himself. ‘Don’t panic. Think of any food. Quick. Asparagus. No, too elitist. Pasta. Good!’
Dennis Danvers was speaking. ‘… which brings us to Henry Pratt,’ he was saying.
Cannelloni. Canaletto. Ah!
‘What gem have you got for us, Henry Pratt?’
The sarcasm in Dennis Danvers’s voice made Henry angry, and anger gave him strength.
‘Luigi Cannelloni, the inventor of pasta, was born in Venice in 1726,’ began Henry, with sudden, amazing confidence. There was laughter. Not a lot, but more than Bradley had got. Henry realised that the audience liked him. The sensitive antennae of Dennis Danvers picked this up too. He would be very careful about mocking Henry in future.
‘He was on a Hoseasons’ canal holiday there,’ continued Henry.
He was surprised to hear himself say this, and even more surprised that it got a decent laugh because of the sheer unexpected banality of it.
‘He is very well known for his works of art, almost as well known as Hieronymus Bosch.’
This crack got another decent laugh, but it was cheap and naughty, and he regretted it even as he said it. Later he would suspect that this moment might have sown the seed that in time would grow into a deep hatred of Henry, with all the difficulties that would entail in the years to come.
‘He is well known, of course, for his paintings of the Grand Canal. There are two Cannellonis hanging in the town hall of my native Thurmarsh. What is less well known is that he produced pasta models of Venetian landmarks. His Rialto Bridge stuffed with spinach and ricotta was sensational, he really was an expert stuffer, in fact he had six children, one of whom introduced cheese to pasta and was known as Macaroni Tony. Unfortunately he had a weakness – women.’ Henry lowered his voice like a newsreader approaching bad news. ‘His wife strangled him with five hundred yards of tagliatelle in 1782.’
There was a good round of applause. The Chipometer registered seven out of ten. Bradley Tompkins glowered.
4 Eggs Benedict
IT WAS THE strange affair of the pigeon Denzil that gave Henry the idea.
The need to create a special dish for his old colleague and friend came to Henry after a rather difficult dinner at Denzil and Lampo’s elegant little mews house in Chelsea, shortly after the recording of
A Question of Salt
.
As they sipped their pre-prandial white wine in the tiny sitting room, choc-a-bloc with bric-a-brac, Henry asked them if they would like to witness the recording of another edition of
A Question of Salt
. They declined politely.
When Lampo went out to get more olives, Denzil said in a low voice, ‘I would have liked to, but it’s all a bit beneath La Lampo. She only breathes very rarefied air, Henry. She’s too precious to live. She looks down on anything to do with television.
So
common.’
When Denzil went to finish off the vegetables, Lampo said, ‘I would have loved to come. It’s so sublimely awful as almost to be brilliant, but poor old Denzil … between you and me and several gateposts … has
no
sense of humour, no love of the absurd, no relish for the incongruous.’
It wasn’t difficult to deduce that relations between Lampo and Denzil were not at their smoothest. Henry felt sad that he had created a special dish for Lampo, the deceiver, but not for Denzil, the deceived. He longed to confront Lampo over his deceit on the day of his sixtieth birthday, but the moment didn’t seem right, and he contented himself with saying, in a low, urgent voice, ‘Lampo, don’t hurt him, will you?’
Lampo raised his eyebrows.
‘Henry feels responsible for your relationship,’ said Hilary, ‘because he brought you together in Siena.’
‘On that memorable day on which he also first met you,’ Lampo reminded her. ‘It’s all so long ago. How banal time is. All it can ever think to do is pass. Pass, pass, pass, second after second, minute after minute, and always at the same
Similar Books
