by Ali McAlister
Arnost Leksy settled into his rocking chair. It had been a long day and he was looking forward to drinking the last of his plum grappa and dosing off to the sound of the evening birdsong. Just as he was raising the glass to his lips, he heard footsteps bound in from the garden.
‘Dědeček! Dědeček!’ Came the cries of his grandchildren. He lowered the glass. They were coming for him.
‘My, my, is there no peace for the wicked?!’ he called back. They appeared in the door, all gapped-toothed grins and dirty fingernails.
‘No peace for the wicked, Dědeček! We won’t leave you in peace!’ squealed Ondrej, the older of the two.
‘No peace!’ mimicked his little brother Pasha. ‘We want a story!’
‘Oh you want a story!’ said Arnost, feigning surprise, ‘well, where will you find such a thing?’ ‘You!’ they both squealed, ‘You have a story!’
‘Yay!’ The two boys arranged themselves at his feet and looked up at him expectantly.
His grandsons shook their heads in awe, eyes wide and sparkly.
The boys shook their heads.
‘Squirrel’s droppings.’
‘Squirrel’s droppings! No way!’ They shrieked. ‘You’re lying, Dědeček!’
They came to either side of the rocking chair and began to jump up and down. There was no getting out of this.
‘Hmmm… let me see. Perhaps I have one left in here.’ Arnost pretended to search around in his shirt pocket. ‘Ah ha! You’re in luck. Here’s a final story that I was saving for later.’
‘Did you know, boys that your old Dědeček was once upon a time the most famous chef in England?’
‘Oh yes. I was a whippersnapper with enough foolhardy ambition to go and seek my fame and fortune on that soggy little island off the west coast of Europe. And do you know how I found it?’
‘Oh, but I never lie! You have no idea my boys, how rich a squirrel dropping can make a man.
You see, as I said, I was foolhardy, and so I set up a restaurant of my own in the fanciest district of the capital city, London. A place called Belgravia. You wouldn’t believe the stinking wealth of the people there. And the stinking stupidity!’ Arnost allowed himself a chuckle.
‘But I confess, boys, I may well have been just as stupid. You see, at first it wasn’t looking rosy for me. I had had little experience in the way of running a restaurant. I also made the mistake of calling it a ‘Czech’ restaurant, Leksy’s Czech Kitchen. No one at the time had even heard of the Czech Republic. Though my little restaurant had a cosy glow and the best schnitzel that side of the Danube, most nights, the tables and chairs lay empty.
‘Well, one day, I had a brainwave. I would give it a French name, but continue to serve my schnitzel. Theygood people of Belgravia and their wallets would be none the wiser. So, I simply repainted my sign to Monsieur de Lis’s Chez Cuisine. I made all the items on the menu French sounding and the only thing I added, of course, was that most French of French foods: le baguette. The problem was I had no idea how to make a baguette.
Well, came opening night and I had a full booking of esteemed customers and one much reputed food critic. I was thrilled as you might imagine, but also rather nervous. I had everything prepped to go, except one thing: le baguette. I knew this had to be made fresh on the day, so I left it till last. But what a shock awaited me when I opened the kitchen just hours before opening time! It was in disarray! The garlic soup was overturned and all over the counter, the mincemeat was half chewed, the potato salad mashed to the walls. But worst of all, there were droppings all over the surfaces and floor. On close inspection of the paw-prints, I identified them to be squirrel droppings.’
‘Eeeww! Squirrel poo!’ The boys were leaning forward enraptured. ‘Yucky green squirrel poo,’ Pasha added for emphasis.
‘Well, yes, it did have a pale green tinge to it,’ agreed Arnost. ‘Anyway, silly me. I had left the window open overnight and the squirrels had hopped in from the neighbouring Chestnut Tree. In the few hours I had, I worked a miracle, boys. I cleared up and remade the marinated minced meat, potato salad and garlic soup, but alas, by the time the first customers arrived, I had yet to prepare the first and most important on the menu, le baguette! Of course, they all began to demand it for the starters. I tried to serve simple croutons with the soup, but baguette they insisted on! Then arrived the food critic and I knew it would be my making or breaking. I dashed into the kitchen and whipped up a dough, I arranged it into a sausage shape, as those naughty French are want to do, and went towards the oven. But in such a hurry was I that I tripped over my own foot and splat went the dough all over the floor!’
‘SPLAT!’ his grandsons echoed.
‘Squirrel poo bread!’ Cried Ondrej.
‘But in all my haste, I had also forgotten something else — I had forgotten to sweep the squirrel droppings from the floor and now they were all embedded in my baguette dough like little olive pips. I had no time left. I could spy the food critic tapping his foot impatiently. So, I gathered up the dough, squirrel droppings and all, rolled it back into a sausage and stuck it in the oven.’
‘You clever boy, you have hit the nail on the head. That is exactly what I served to the esteemed food critic. But I didn’t call it that. I called it Baguette a la Bush in secret reference to the squirrel’s tail.
‘You’ll never guess this, boys, but no sooner had he finished that first portion of my bread than the food critic ordered a second and then a third. The following week, I opened a well-revered food magazine to rave reviews. I quote: ‘Baguette a la Bush steals the cabaret at quirky French kitchen… the most succulent olives to have sat upon this critic’s tongue’. How I laughed, boys! After that, the bookings came thick and fast. I had full tables six days of the week. But of course, I had to make sure I had ample ingredients to keep baking my fabulous famous baguette. Every night I left the window open, making sure to leave out little offerings of nuts and every day, I returned to find my little friends had not failed me.
‘People came from far and wide to sample my Baguette a la Bush, boys. The most celebrated of celebrities, the most people’s people of the political world. I was even offered a publishing deal to reveal the secrets of my baguette (which I of course had to turn down on the grounds of chef’s integrity). I was rolling in money, my boys, money and squirrel poo, squirrel poo and money! That was until one day, I opened up the shop to find, to my horror, that the nuts were gone but there were no droppings to be seen!’
By now, Ondrej and Pasha were sitting with their jaws dropped in disbelief. Ondrej shook his head. ‘No squirrel poo?’ he said sadly.
‘Not a nugget.’
‘What happened, Dědeček?’ whispered Pasha.
‘I think perhaps you should cover your ears, boys’ warned Arnost, ‘for I’m afraid the answer is gruesome. I looked out the window and had to avert my eyes. To my great regret, nothing remained of my little friends but a few scattered grey hairs and a single bushy tail. There on the windowsill, a single copper hair told me that the fox had had his wicked way. Gone were my bushy-tailed business partners.
‘Well, it mattered not to me that I couldn’t make my baguette. I served up normal bread, but it was as lacklustre as my heart. The restaurant took a turn for the worse. People asked why the Baguette a la Bush was off the menu and I simply told them it had been the special of a departed chef. Soon, the clientele dropped away and I found myself back at square one, except this time, I hadn’t even a name to change. Arnost Lesky had already traded in his name for a bread that was not his own. Le Monsieur de Lis had died with the squirrels’.
Ondrej and Pasha by now looked so dejected that Arnost felt bad, he hadn’t meant his story to take this dark turn. But it was all the truth. He looked up out the window and his face lit up.
‘But there you are boys. Look who’s come to pay us a visit.’
There in the window was a little grey squirrel, nibbling at a fallen cherry from the tree in Arnost Lesky’s garden.
‘Dědeček, they didn’t really die! They just played a trick on you because they wanted you to come home!’ said Ondrej.
‘So it seems!’ exclaimed Arnost. ‘Well boys, it also seems he’s wishing you a good night. It’s time you went to bed.’
Once his grandsons were tucked upstairs and the chattering had died down, Arnost Lesky returned to the window where the squirrel had sat. He opened it and there, on the sill lay a single cherry stone and next to it, a perfectly formed dropping. He picked it up and rolled it between his finger and thumb, shaking his head and smiling. ‘Ahh, the muck of wealth,’ he said aloud, and flicked it into the bush.
