As was customary, Andrey convened the meeting by resting his reading glasses on the tip of his nose and opening the Book.
“There are no parties in the private rooms tonight,” he began, “but every table in the dining room is reserved for two seatings.”
“Ah,” said Emile with the grim smile of the commander who prefers to be outnumbered. “But you’re not going to rush them, eh?”
“Absolutely not,” assured the Count. “We’ll simply see to it that their menus are delivered promptly and their orders taken directly.”
Emile nodded in acknowledgment.
“Are there any complications?” asked the Count of the maître d’.
“Nothing out of the ordinary.”
Andrey spun the Book so that his headwaiter could see for himself.
The Count ran a finger down the list of reservations. As Andrey had said, there was nothing out of the ordinary. The Commissar of Transport loathed American journalists; the German ambassador loathed the Commissar of Transport; and the deputy head of the OGPU was loathed by all.* The most delicate matter was that two different members of the Politburo were hosting tables during the second seating. As both were relatively new to their positions, it was not essential that either have the best tables in the house. What was essential was that their treatment be identical in every respect. They must be served with equal attention at tables of equal size equidistant from the kitchen door. And ideally, they would be on opposite sides of the centerpiece (tonight an arrangement of irises).
“What do you think?” asked Andrey, with his pen in hand.
As the Count made his suggestions of who should sit where, there came a delicate knock on the door. Stanislav entered, carrying a serving bowl and platter.
“Good day, gentlemen,” the sous-chef said to Andrey and the Count with a friendly smile. “In addition to our normal fare, tonight we have cucumber soup and—”
“Yes, yes,” said Emile with a scowl. “We know, we know.”
Stanislav apologetically placed the bowl and platter on the table, even as Emile waved him from the room. Once he was gone, the chef gestured at the offering. “In addition to our normal fare, tonight we have cucumber soup and rack of lamb with a red wine reduction.”
On the table were three teacups. Emile ladled the soup into two of the cups and waited for his colleagues to sample it.
“Excellent,” said Andrey.
Emile nodded and then turned to the Count with his eyebrows raised.
A puree of peeled cucumber, thought the Count. Yogurt, of course. A bit of salt. Not as much dill as one might expect. In fact, something else entirely . . . Something that speaks just as eloquently of summer’s approach, but with a little more flair . . .
“Mint?” he asked.
The chef responded with the smile of the bested.
“Bravo, monsieur.”
“. . . To anticipate the lamb,” the Count added with appreciation.
Emile bowed his head once and then, slipping the chopper from his waist, he carved four chops from the rack and stacked two on each of his colleagues’ plates.
The lamb, which had been encrusted with rosemary and breadcrumbs, was savory and tender. Both maître d’ and headwaiter sighed in appreciation.
Thanks to a member of the Central Committee, who had tried unsuccessfully to order a bottle of Bordeaux for the new French ambassador in 1927, wines with labels could once again be found in the Metropol’s cellar (after all, despite its considerable size, the neck of a dragon has been known to whip about like that of an asp). So, turning to the Count, Andrey asked what he thought they should recommend with the lamb.
“For those who can afford it, the Château Latour ’99.”
The chef and maître d’ nodded.
“And for those who cannot?”
The Count considered.
“Perhaps a Côtes du Rhône.”
“Excellent,” said Andrey.
Picking up his chopper, Emile pointed at the rest of the rack and cautioned the Count: “Tell your boys that my lamb is served rare. If someone wants it medium, they can go to a canteen.”
The Count expressed his comprehension and willingness to comply. Then Andrey closed the Book and Emile wiped his chopper. But as they began pushing back their chairs, the Count remained where he was.
“Gentlemen,” he said. “Just one more thing before we adjourn. . . .”
Given the expression on the Count’s face, the chef and the maître d’ pulled their chairs back to the table.
The Count looked through the window into the kitchen to confirm that the staff were consumed with their work. Then from his jacket pocket he took the envelope that had been slipped under his