Chat Eau

Dressed in his finest neatly pressed black suit, Thierry Duchain kissed the hand of the ageing lady standing at the door of his restaurant. It had only been open for six months and had already established a fine reputation as one of the most prestigious eateries in London.

"Please, sit down, messieurs," Thierry said, in an accent that only the most astute observers would have noticed was put-on for effect - Terry Datchet, as his real name was, being born and bred on a council estate in Watford. Why did my parents give me the name Terry? he would ask himself repeatedly during his childhood years, after yet another day of moronic bullying over his name. Why not Tom or Tim or even - he thought amusedly, having grown up in a largely Muslim area - Tariq?

Painstakingly, he folded the silken napkin over Mrs Stonesmith's lap. Her husband, the esteemed architect Norman Stonesmith - not that esteemed, though, or he would surely be a Sir by now - would arrive shortly to accompany the party. Lord Felix Bufton. Henry and Emma de Montfort. And so on. How perfectly ghastly, to use a phrase he had already heard ten times too often.

"Tonight, there is a special addition to the menu, as I am sure you are aware," Thierry said, clearing his throat in a very "French" manner.
"Oh, yes," Mrs Stonesmith said. "By invitation only, if I am to understand?"

Thierry nodded. "Why, of course, madame!" Limited edition. By invitation only. He prevented himself from saying, "there is not a chance that the riff-raff would appreciate this fine bouquet". It was fine for them to think it, of course, and walking with Henry de Montfort yesterday, while he gazed disparagingly at a group of teenagers not unlike himself twenty years ago, he knew that Henry believed they had an "entente cordiale". A mutual understanding. But saying it aloud would be too ... crude. Too unseemly.

He presented the dinner party with elaborately bound menus which he balanced on his elbow, prompting gasps of "Wow" and "Incredible". Nothing on the menu was priced below a hundred pounds, including the re-packaged Sprite lemonade that he had sprinkled with a few herbs, pressed lemon juice into from Asda and claimed as a "secret recipe". Authentically made in the same way for hundreds of years - thousands even.

His guests saw him disappear for a moment, only to reappear with a wicker basket of ciabatta bread and a jug of balsamic vinegar. Balsamic vinegar, he laughed inwardly. I thought that was too common these days? Perhaps it would spoil the unique flavour of the centuries-old recipes he was about to give his distinguished guests the opportunity to savour.

"Thank you," Norman Stonesmith said. Norman Stonesmith had just arrived.
"Oh, monsieur, I do apologise," Thierry said. "I did not welcome you personally. Please, forgive me."
Norman Stonesmith looked at Thierry in a way suggesting that he did not forgive him. He nodded at him and turned back to the ciabatta and their excruciating conversation.
"So what is this ... vintage, may I ask?" Henry de Montfort asked. Emma sat silently beside him.

"We in France call it ... Chat Eau," Thierry said, flourishing his hand a little. "Eet eez...a traditional recipe from ze Loire Valley. Made for hundreds of years in ze same...way..."
"Chateau? Chateau what, may I ask?"
"Ah, it is only...Chat Eau," Thierry said. "That is all. The famous Chateau in the Loire Valley. Un moment, I will show you. It was near my grandmozzer's house." He advanced towards a painting on the wall; being from John Lewis, it had cost him rather a lot of money. These days, that wasn't a problem for him, but back when he frequented filthy drinking hovels with the members of Class War...

"No, no, that ... won't be necessary, thank you," Norman said. Thierry was starting to dislike him intensely, unreasonably, even more than the other guests. It would be necessary to mettre him en place.
"So," Henry said. "Two bottles of your finest Chat Eau, please."
"Finest" really wasn't a word which should be used in the same sentence as "Chat Eau", Thierry thought, but anyway.

He nodded to them and gave a slight Gallic smile, before disappearing out of sight and into the wine cellar, ignoring the smell of gone-off cheese which he would serve to his guests if anyone ordered it. He took out a key from his pocket and walked towards a stainless steel door which would have shocked his clientele due to the fact that it was not in keeping with the decor of the restaurant. Fortunately, they would never come down here. He would never let them.

He unlocked the door and walked over to a large plastic container full of various kinds of cheap red and white plonk which he'd emptied into it. Thierry hated wine; as well as the fact that it was a preserve of the hated bourgeoisie, which if he thought about enough he couldn't really care less about, not having been a member of Class War for five years after they threw him out - but because of the fact that it tasted fucking rank.

He cracked open a can of Beck's to steel himself for what was coming next and downed most of it in one go. He looked into the tub of wine, and then, stroking his chin thoughtfully, he walked over to the area of the room where the secret ingredient, his crowning glory, was kept. Taking out his keys again, he opened the door to a small metal cupboard, and was met with sharp claws against his hand.

"Sorry, mate," he said, grabbing the secret ingredient of Chat Eau by the scruff of the neck - he didn't want to get too attached - and walked over to the tub full of wine. Ignoring the screeches, splashes and cries, or at least attempting to, he opened another cupboard and took out a truly terrifying contraption with a very sharp blade which turned around when it was turned on at rapid speeds, almost like a propellor. If anyone ever sees this, he thought, tell them that it's for meat. Which it was. Sort of.

He plugged the device into the wall and lowered the blade into the barrel of wine, where the secret ingredient was thrashing about wildly. "Sorry," he said again. If God existed, he would surely reserve a special place in Hell for him, Thierry thought, before he turned his contraption on, ran out of the door and waited.


Forty-five minutes later, Thierry emerged from the cellar with 6 glasses of Chat Eau. It was an adequate amount of time, giving enough time for his guests to think they were actually being prepared something, while still fast enough for it to be good service. He brought the glasses to the table on a stone slab which could have been from Rural Italy, but was actually from his back garden.

Now for the best part. He placed the glasses on the table and waited for his guests' reactions. If anyone ever found out he'd go to jail, he thought, so he might as well charge full whack. He smiled knowingly as Mrs Stonesmith put the glass to her lips. She couldn't possibly send it back. Not when it cost over a thousand pounds.

As predicted, she coughed, spluttered and put the glass down; her face turned white, and she couldn't breathe.
"It's ... how you say it? An acquired taste. Not everyone can appreciate it," Thierry said, smiling, as her husband and friends put the glasses to their lips. This was quite a special moment, and the fun never got old.

But what was this? What the hell was her husband doing?

Horrified, Thierry watched as Norman Stonesmith took a long sip from the Chat Eau, without complaint. When finished, he put it down on the table rather normally. How could he - how ... could ... he ...

Thierry had to restrain himself from gagging as Stonesmith finished the entire glass of Chat Eau, set it on the table, and smiled. "I don't know what's wrong with everyone else at this table," he muttered in his recieved-pronunciation accent.

And then he opened his mouth -

And then ...

No. No. Thierry would have nightmares about this for the rest of his life -

The other people round the table - how could they? showed little or no reaction. And then he realised that they were staring at him, at his white face, at his rigid hands. As though he'd seen a ghost ...
"What's wrong?" Norman Stonesmith said. "I only wondered whether I could buy another bottle."