Restaurant Roulette

Written by Stefanina Hill, Published on 12/23/2008

One night when his little nephew and niece were too excited to sleep, Uncle Robert told them a story about a past adventure he’d encountered on the police force. He hoped that a mystery might tire them out enough to send them off to sleep. And so he gathered the children around the fire and began this story.

“Back when I was a detective I once found myself in a very strange situation. We had arrested a spy in central London and knew that he was on his way to a restaurant where he would be passed a small microchip containing a lot of information via a contact masquerading as a chef.”

“What do you mean, Uncle Robert?” his small nephew, Peter, asked.

“A spy was to receive a special microchip from a chef. … A chef, that is, who was not really a chef.

“Who was he then?”

“He was a secret contact.”

“Oh, a secret contact! Hmm, was he one of the good guys or one of the bad guys?” his nephew inquired.

“He was one of the bad guys … working with the spy.”

“Stop interrupting, and let him tell the story!” little Jane said, pointing at Peter.

Uncle Robert smiled, continuing: “We knew the description that the chef had been given, and we also knew that the spy was to receive the microchip concealed in a dish ordered from the menu. It turned out that the spy’s description commented on a few physical particulars, all of which I happened to match. Since we knew the table number booked in the spy’s name, it occurred to us that I should go along to the restaurant, assuming the identity of the spy – and intercept the microchip!”

“Why didn’t you just go in and arrest everyone?” Peter asked.

“Well, we would have,” Uncle Robert replied, “but there was a chance that the contact would have destroyed the chip! And without the chip, there would have been no way to prove anything.”

“Exactly! I could have guessed that!” Jane chimed in.

“What happened in the restaurant, Uncle Robert? Tell us, tell us!” Peter said anxiously, fidgeting with his pajama sleeves.

“Well, I made my way to the restaurant, which was a fancy place in Mayfair called, Foie Paux. This place had vibrant and bright décor. And in the center of the large, main room was a square enclosure where four chefs were preparing their specialty dishes. As I watched, a smartly dressed waitress cleared up the used round of red plates from the central serving area, while a waiter deposited a fresh stack of blue dishes.”

“I would prefer the blue dishes if I ate there,” Billy said. Jane rolled her eyes, and crinkled her small forehead, annoyed with her little brother. She nodded at Uncle Robert, insisting that he continue.

“I was surprised to find that the table had not been booked for a specific time. The spy had only stated that he would turn up at some point during the evening, and that he wished to occupy the table for 30 minutes. Thankfully, before my cover was blown, the head waiter relayed these details to me as soon as I gave my name, which I spoke loud enough for the chefs at the central table to overhear.”

Jane and Peter, wide-eyed, stared up at Uncle Robert in anticipation.

“As I took my seat in the restaurant, I began to feel very nervous. The first part of my mission had now been achieved: I was successfully impersonating our captured spy. But I knew that if I ordered the wrong dish, I would immediately give myself away and put my own life in danger.”

“Oh no!” Peter gasped.

“As I told you earlier, one of the chefs was the contact. But he wouldn’t risk making any sign to me, so I had to try and figure out which dish I was supposed to order. I was wearing the captured spy’s clothes, and before entering the restaurant I had gone through his wallet to see if it contained some clues. All I had found was an old bus ticket, a locker key and a card thanking the bearer for his donation to a charity called Vegetarian Way.”

“What does vegetarian mean? Peter inquired.

“Vegetarian’s don’t eat meat,” Jane answered.

“That’s right, Jane. … Now, there were four dishes available that evening, each prepared by a different chef. Gianni Girodano was making Italian-style vegetable lasagna. Atsushi Nishi was preparing Japanese yakisoba noodles. Jean-Pierre Dubois was making French onion soup and Jack McDonald had prepared a traditional haggis and trimmings. Trying to act casual, I talked to my waiter about the dishes to see if I could uncover any clue to help me decide which to order.”

“He said: ‘I recommend the delicious French onion soup, sir. It has been very popular this evening.’ To which I repied: ‘Do you serve the same dishes all day?’”

“What did he say then?” Peter interrupted.

“He replied: ‘No, sir, there is a lunch menu and a dinner menu … but sometimes if a dish is popular at lunch, we keep the chef engaged to make another session for the evening customers. This is the case with the French onion soup today.’”

“I love French onion soup,” Peter added.

“Well, I’ll have to make you some soon. But back to the mystery, Peter. … The Italian chef seemed very popular. He was flirting with the female customers seated nearest to the serving area as he sprinkled fresh basil across a row of lasagna’s all lined up in blue dishes, capped at the end by one in a red dish.”

“Did the waiter provide more clues?” Jane asked

“Yes, he did.” As I watched the restaurant, the Japanese chef tossed ingredients high into the air, catching them in his frying pan. The waiter followed my gaze and nodded in approval. The waiter said: ‘Atsushi is preparing yakisoba stir fry noodles and watching him work is a real treat. He is quite the showman, and we’re lucky to have him here as part of his world tour. In fact, this is the sixth restaurant he has cooked in today, and I believe he will have one more session before he is finished for the night.’”

Uncle Robert stopped his story, and looked closely at Peter and Jane. “So, children,” said Uncle Robert, “who can tell me which chef was the contact spy?”