Murder In Steel

Chapter 13

CHAPTER 13

       We were looking forward to spending an interesting evening with an interesting lady, Dr. Kondrachik, the biochemist/physician who identified the poison in my body. Maybe she would talk about her past, much of which she spent in close contact with Communist bigwigs. Maybe she would recall things not generally known and would talk about them. Maybe she wouldn’t reveal anything personal. Even in the refusal there might be something of interest, especially if she told us why she preferred to remain silent.

       I reserved in Gundel, where the quality of the food matched the magnitude of the cost. Gundel, often mentioned as one of Europe’s best, had a dress-code, posted in several languages, an unusual requirement in our sloppy-is-OK-everywhere century. Gentlemen must wear jackets.

       We dressed accordingly, not wishing to appear to be foreign tourists who couldn’t read and who showed up in sockless sandals, shorts and sweaty T-shirts. The trusty taxi arrived within a few minutes as always, and we went to pick up the lady.

       She was ready, radiant, made-up and dressed beautifully, looked 20 years younger and was in a good mood. I made the introductions and she kissed Heather twice, hugged me, and said, in practically accentless English, with a tint of New England drawl, “I am starving. Where are you taking me?” and was visibly pleased when I named the restaurant. “Lets go, lets go,” she said and nudged the driver, telling him in Hungarian, “Extra tip if you get us there fast,” her sly smirk indicating that, of course, I would be the tipper. We went fast, most likely not because of the extra tip but because the cabbie wanted to please the old lady, who, I must say, looked most charming.

       A uniformed doorman opened the car-doors and didn’t hold out his hand for a tip, indicating proper training. Either the management frowned on explicit greediness or it was simply good manners, which most Hungarians managed to retain during their 40 years of Russian domination. In any case, I was prepared like a good boyscout and the doorman was happy with my tip. The words, “to insure promptness,” the tip, has a different literal meaning in Hungarian. It means “for your wine.” Wine wasn’t very expensive and my contribution was sufficient for at least two glasses. I trusted it might be consumed for our health.

       At the main entrance the smiling maître-d’ was waiting for us and was ready to take us to our table. I noticed that as he looked at Dr. Kondrachik, his smile turned a bit sour and forced, and she noticed it also. Nevertheless he was leading us, pulled the chairs out for the ladies, the older one first, welcomed us to the restaurant and gave us the menus and the wine list, in English to Heather, Hungarian to the lady and me.  Also, he asked if we cared to start with a glass of champagne, on the house, and his sour face was beginning to brighten up a little when all of us smiled at the offer and accepted it. I noted that he said champagne and not sparkling wine.

       The restaurant was beautifully decorated as always, maintaining its old world charm. The effects of a recent renovation were clearly evident. The chairs and the tables were original antiques, refinished by experts. There was sufficient space between the neighbouring tables so conversations could remain reasonably private. The curtains were heavy brocade, dark red. The white linen table clothes were crisp and demanded careful handling of the food as nobody wanted to be responsible for embarrassing food stains. The noise level was low, and the general atmosphere was that of quiet elegance.

           Reading the menu here was also part of the entertainment. Appetizers and entrées were described in detail. Ingredients were listed as were preparation methods. The names of the chefs, their training histories and their international awards were given. The most appropriate wines for each course were indicated and here I actually believed the recommendations. Dr. Kondrachik chose a green salad and smoked sturgeon with caviar sauce, which was in fact an appetizer, as her main course, and didn’t feel the need to explain that she eats little. Heather and I both ordered Caesar salads, followed by tournados Liszt Ferenc for her and the fresh fish of the day, baked fogash, better known as pike-perch, for me. Freshness here meant that the doomed fish was still alive and would be executed for my pleasure exclusively, in the next few minutes. All of us asked for mineral water. Heather took the menu’s recommendation of the wine for her steak, a red wine, a Simon Cabernet Sauvignon from Eger. Dr. Kondrachik and I shared a bottle of Debr?i Hárslevel?, a slightly sweet white wine, from the town of Debr?. We asked for the wine to be served with the main course.