Casper Candlewacks in the Attack of the Brainiacs! Page 4

  Casper saw the mob and hiccupped. Idiots lumbered at the glass like a hoard of ravenous zombies. Right at the front, pressed up against the creaking door, was the enormously fat mayor of Corne-on-the-Kobb, Mayor Ignatius P. Rattsbulge.

  “LET US IN!” Mayor Rattsbulge bellowed, licking his blubbery lips in speedy circles.

  “I can’t hold them back much longer, Dad.”

  “But the lamb’s still roasting!”

  The restaurant window bowed under the pressure and a small crack appeared.

  Casper mimed for the villagers to move back. “We can’t take much more of this!”

  “OK, fine.” Julius flung a tea towel over his shoulder and smoothed down his thinning hair with the back of a wooden spoon. “How do I look?”

  “Erm…”

  “Great! Here we go.” He strode through the restaurant with an air of royalty, reached the door and flung it wide.

  Ting-a-ling.

  “I declare The Battered Cod… OPEN!”

  Or at least, that’s what he would’ve said. He got as far as the ‘de—’ of ‘declare’ before he was crushed by a stampede of idiots.

  Instantly, every table was full.

  “BEEF!” roared Mayor Rattsbulge. “AND A PIE! WITH BEEF IN IT!”

  “I’ll ’ave a plate o’ yer finest veggibles,” slurped Sandy Landscape, “with the mud left on. Yummer.”

  “Hang on!” shouted Casper, dashing to the kitchen for his pad of paper and a stack of menus. “We can only serve what’s on the menu. Which of you can read?”

  An awkward silence fell on the restaurant.

  “Right.” Casper climbed up on to a chair to read from the menu. “Everybody listen up and I’ll take your orders afterwards.”

  A deafening KABOOM kaboomed from the kitchen like a baboon in a car.

  Julius poked his charred head round the corner and grimaced at Casper. “The lamb’s… er… sold out.”

  “OK,” – Casper had to improvise for the baying villagers – “some food might take a while. Bear with us.”

  “BEAR?” boomed Mayor Rattsbulge. “YOU SERVE BEAR? I’LL TAKE TWO!”

  Little Mitch McMassive squeaked, “One pea! Steamed. With a grain of rice for starters.” Mitch only had a small appetite.

  “Nine saucers of milk!” yelled Mrs Trimble and her cats.

  “Do you do jelly beans?” warbled old Betty Woons, who only really ate things that involved jelly beans.

  Clemmie Answorth fell off her chair.

  In defeat, Casper dashed back into the kitchen with an empty pad. “Just serve what you have, Dad. I don’t think they’ll remember what they’ve ordered, anyway.”

  Soon there was food on every table and odd brown cocktails filling each glass. The diners ate merrily, stuffing saucy handfuls of nosh into their mouths and tugging on Casper’s arms for more. Mayor Rattsbulge had already finished his fish and fish and fish and chips (and the plate they came on, which he’d bolted down with extra ketchup) and was invading other tables for more. Amanda gleefully poured and shook, stirred and blended, but all her cocktails ended up the same muddy colour with that vinegary stink from brown sauce. Not that the villagers minded – they gargled back pints of the stuff or poured it on their food and called for seconds when they’d run dry.

  Casper had to admit this was going pretty well. When he carried out the pudding, a great big Victoria sponge iced with a red, white and blue Union Jack, the diners let out a gasp of pure patriotic awe.

  “It’s a most bootiful fing I’ve ever did seen,” drooled Sandy Landscape.

  “Makes me proud to be hungry,” boomed Mayor Rattsbulge.

  Casper dished out bowlfuls to every table and gave the empty tray to Cuddles, who sat in the basin licking the plates clean. “Dad, look at them all!” he cheered, nudging Julius. “We’re a hit!”

  “We are?” Julius hadn’t given himself a free moment to look out into his restaurant all evening, but when he finally did, his eyes welled up with happy tears. “We are!” He threw a gravy-sodden arm round Casper and sniffed, scrunching up his eyes.

  “You all right?”

  “Just the onions,” he sobbed. “They always get me.”

  Casper knew there weren’t any onions, but he had no desire to point it out now. This was a nice moment, he thought. His dad deserved it.

  Ting-a-ling.

  A gasp fell from the villagers’ lips. In the doorway stood Renée, squat and compact, with the little cigarette hanging from his lips. But he wore a brand-new white jacket and a puffy white chef’s hat.

  “A fluffy white,” – Casper gasped – “chef’s hat.”

  “ZE FREE OMELETTE!” Renée announced.

  “What on earth…” whispered Julius, wiping his eyes.

  “Come wiz me, all of you,” announced Renée, stepping back and beckoning to the villagers. “You are not wanting zis, ’ow you say, swill for ze pigs.” He turned to Julius, flashed a rotten-toothed smile and spat at the floor. “Free omelette for everyone. She is délicieux! Come, come…”

  “What d’you mean, free?” squawked Audrey Snugglepuss.

  “Free! None of ze money! Rien!”

  The diners cheered, chairs scraped and suddenly every idiot was making for the exit.

  “Stop! Don’t go!” shouted Julius, but half of them were already trotting across the square towards Renée’s cheese shop. Except that Renée’s cheese shop wasn’t a cheese shop any more. Casper’s tongue went dry as the changes presented themselves. The building glowed radiantly with hundreds of candles inside and out. Crimson velvet curtains lined the windows and a large black sign adorned the entrance with squiggly French writing that read Bistro D’Escargot. It was a restaurant. A French restaurant.

  “Dad, what’s going on?”

  Julius was shivering. “Oh, no no no no no.” And just like that he was off, chasing after the villagers through the heavily perfumed doors of Bistro D’Escargot. Casper followed.

  Inside, half of the villagers already had their omelettes. Renée carried two plates through the swing doors from his kitchen, grunting “Bon appétit,” as he plonked them at the tables and shuffled back to the kitchen for more.

  Then Casper heard it – that hideous wheezing and the wobbly rattle that could only mean one thing. “Lamp!”

  The kitchen doors burst open again as Renée emerged with another two plates. Behind him, in an otherwise empty kitchen, were Lamp and the Omelette Gun. One was making omelettes while the other did a highland fling.

  “What are you doing?” Casper yelled, pushing through the kitchen doors.

  Lamp grinned at his friend. “Renée wanted me to show him my Omlit Gun. He’s got loads of eggs too. It’s brill!” He cracked three more eggs into the mouthpiece from a huge crate of the things and bounced off again for another dance.

  Shouting broke out in the restaurant as Julius started knocking omelettes to the floor.

  “Lamp, turn that thing off.”

  “Why?”

  “Just do it, OK?”

  Lamp pulled a glum face and tapped ‘0’ into the calculator.

  “Right, come with me.” Casper dragged him out of the kitchen, finding the restaurant in a state of panic as Julius and Renée wrestled over a plate of omelette.

  Casper hadn’t a clue what was going on, but there’d be time to understand later. For now, what was needed was action.

  “No more omelette!” announced Casper. “Sorry, we’re all out.”

  Disappointed sighs came from the villagers who’d not had one, and from Mayor Rattsbulge, who’d only had six.

  “Non!” roared Renée. “There is many more of zem!”

  But the villagers had got up again and were making their way back to The Battered Cod.

  “That’s right!” said Julius, running along the cobbles beside them. “Fish and chips, pie and peas – proper English grub.”

  “Omelette wiz ’erbs!” Renée hadn’t given up. “For free! I give you!”

  Many of
the villagers turned back.

  “Spotted dick and custard!”

  “Ze butter, ze eggs, ze beautiful ’erbs!”

  The villagers were spinning in circles now.

  “FRENCH FOOD IS POISONOUS!”

  “ZE ENGLISH FOOD IS BLAND!”

  Both chefs tugged at a blubbery arm of Mayor Rattsbulge, trying to gain control of the village’s biggest customer. In the middle, the fat mayor was growing ever more angry and ever more stretched. “STOP IT!” he roared. “STOP IT OR I’LL BEHEAD YOU BOTH!”

  Julius and Renée dropped the mayor’s arms, standing back, embarrassed.

  Mayor Rattsbulge smoothed down his robes and took a bite of his emergency sausage. “Now, listen here. I’m all for the idea of eating two dinners,” he said through his sausage, looking from one chef to the other, “but this two-restaurant business is taking away valuable dining time. Why, while you stand out here squabbling, I could’ve stripped bare three racks of ribs. I just won’t have it. I won’t!” He broke the sausage over his knee, throwing the two pieces to the ground. There were tears in the mayor’s eyes. “Now look what you’ve done. I’ve gone and lost my appetite! No, this just won’t do. There can only be one restaurant in Corne-on-the-Kobb.”

  “Thank you, Mr Mayor,” began Julius, bowing apologetically. “That’s exactly what I—”

  “We’ll have a cook-off. Here in the square on Friday night. We’ll all vote, and the chef with the best food wins. The loser must leave the village for good. Simple as that.”

  The villagers cheered.

  “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a sausage to eat.” And he stomped back to his mayoral lodge (the one with the extra-wide door), wobbling as he went.

  Silence fell as the two chefs met each other’s stares.

  “What are you doing here, Jean-Claude?” Julius demanded.

  A broad grin spread on to Renée’s face, breaking into a gritty old laugh that shook the ash from his cigarette and the hat from his head.

  The villagers started giggling too.

  “Dad,” rasped Casper, blushing. “He’s called Renée.”

  “Non, your fazzer is right.” Renée’s smile dropped suddenly. He plucked the stub of his cigarette from his lips with three grubby fingers, tossed it to the cobbles and ground it under his foot. “Renée is not my name, ze cheese shop is not my, ’ow you say, game. I am ’ere to do only one thing – to ruin you. On Friday, I will finally be ’aving my revenge. And you,” – he prodded a dirty finger on Julius’s nose – “you can do nussing. NUSSING. HA!”

  The man Casper had known as Renée stormed back to his restaurant. Those villagers who still wanted omelette scuttled after him like pigeons after a gingerbread man, with Lamp galumphing along at the back.

  “What a nutcase, eh?” Casper nudged his dad and grinned up at him, but the expression that met his wasn’t an amused one. It wasn’t even bemused. It was demused, if anything. Casper had never seen his father’s face so white, not even after that time he fell asleep in a bowl of flour. This was bad, and worst of all, Casper had no idea why.

  “Come on, then,” Julius said, without gusto or interest or even a capital letter at the beginning of his sentence. He shuffled towards The Battered Cod, the already omeletted half of the village following him.

  Ting-a-ling.

  The rest of the evening’s service went by slowly, with Julius wandering about the kitchen in a dream. There wasn’t much more to serve, save for jellied eels and some glasses of English rainwater, but even those went down well with the remaining customers.

  Once the diners had all dispersed and the doors had been locked, Casper found his dad slumped face down on Table 4.

  “Wasn’t that bad, was it?”

  “Sit down, Casper.”

  “Oh. All right.” In front of Casper on the table sat a crumpled shoebox marked Tax forms etc. No long-kept secrets hidden in here so there’s no point even looking.

  “What’s in there?” asked Casper, although he probably didn’t need to.

  Julius looked up. “I think it’s time I showed you something. Lift the lid.”

  So he did.

  Outside, the square was dark, but warm light and the sound of the Omelette Gun wafted from Bistro D’Escargot.

  From the kitchen came much crashing and tinkling as Amanda and Cuddles did the washing-up.

  “Be careful, Mum,” called Casper.

  “What, even with these frisbees?” Amanda launched a grubby white plate across the room. It whistled past Casper’s head and smashed against the far wall.

  “Yes,” groaned Casper. “Especially with those frisbees.” He turned back to his dad and the matter in hand.

  Julius’s eyes were sullen and far-off. He handed Casper the first yellowed newspaper clipping from his box and motioned for him to read.

  * * *

  Critic hits Britain for Culinary Road Trip

  Chefs across the country are quaking in their Beef Wellingtons as renowned Frenchman and food critic Jean-Claude D’Escargot announces he is to tour Britain, searching for “any food zat is not making me sick in my mouth”. He wrote today in his column for Paris newspaper La Grenouille that he is to spend two weeks in England to see if its food really is as bad as he’s been told.

  * * *

  “Jean-Claude?” Casper frowned. “But that’s the name you called Renée in the square.”

  Julius nodded. “Now this.” He unfolded a long strip of newspaper with paragraphs in French, each separated by a single asterisk.

  “What are these?” asked Casper.

  “His reviews.”

  “What about the asterisks?”

  “Those are star ratings. He’s pretty cruel.”

  * * *

  • World of Bacon, Puddleford: Mal. *

  • Snack Shack, Little Grimston: Trop mal. *

  • Lady Augusta’s Spiffing Coriander Establishment, Upper-Crustenbury: Dégoûtant! *

  • Donny’s Donut Diner ’n’ Dental Care, South Grunk: Terrible! J’ai vomi. *

  • Porridge or Bread or Both, Bittenham: EUGH! PAH! EUGH! Nourriture pour chiens. *

  * * *

  “Did that last one mean ‘dog food’?”

  Julius nodded gravely. “But look.” He pointed at the final review. Below the title there were just three words and three stars.

  Ze Boiled Sprout, Corne-on-ze-Kobb: Not zat bad. ***

  Casper stared, amazed. “You told me about this. It’s your old restaurant. You wanted this review on your gravestone.”

  “Yeah.” Julius nibbled on his lip. “What else d’you notice?”

  Casper leant closer. “Well, it’s the only review above one star. That’s good. And it’s in English. The rest’s French. So…” Then it hit him. Casper felt his jaw drop. “Oh, Dad, you didn’t.”

  Julius winced and squeezed his eyes shut. “I wrote the review, Casp.”

  Casper’s head spun. “But how?”

  “He came on a Saturday night. The place was packed, but he demanded that everyone must leave so he could taste the food properly. He sat down, ordered everything on the menu and said if the starters didn’t arrive in five minutes I’d be getting one star. I tried my best, I really did, but he took one sniff at the food and roared insults that made me glad I couldn’t speak French. He repainted the walls with my soup, gave me a facemask of spaghetti and poured my blancmange down the toilet. The only thing he did like was the wine. I’d been keeping a couple of bottles of vintage Bordeaux that your granny gave your mother and me as a wedding present. He knocked the first glass back in one, gargled and held out his glass, so I poured another. ‘Zis wine, she is like ’ome,’ he said, and glugged down more. ‘Is good. More.’ I poured him another, then another. He sank down in his chair with a blissful smile. I opened the second bottle. In the end he could hardly string a sentence together, let alone pick up his pen. The pad was sitting right there, so I… I helped him along.”

  “You wrote your own review when he
was sozzled?” Casper couldn’t hold back a chuckle.

  “I only gave myself three stars,” Julius said, rubbing his forehead. “Didn’t want to give myself away.”

  “Dad, that’s amazing.”

  “It’s cheating, Casp.” He rifled through the shoebox again, lifting out a small crumpled newspaper column. “Look what happened.”

  * * *

  Top Critic Hounded out of France

  Jean-Claude D’Escargot has been forced to flee France after committing the only crime still punishable by guillotine: complimenting an Englishman’s food. In his recent tour of England he described one meal as being ‘Not zat bad.’ His comment sparked violent riots in Paris, resulting in the toppling of the Arc de Triomphe and another revolution. The fact that his review was written in English added insult to injury. The President of France was allegedly on the verge of declaring war on D’Escargot late last night, but decided against it after a steadying glass of Sancerre. On returning to Calais by ferry this morning and finding himself pelted with dynamite-filled croissants at the arrivals lounge, D’Escargot dived headfirst into the harbour and disappeared underwater. There have been no sightings since.

  * * *

  “He deserved it,” said Casper.

  “I ruined his life, Casp. Nobody deserves that.”

  Casper noticed his dad’s fingers were shaking as he picked out a small cream envelope. “Two weeks later I got this.”

  Inside, a square of paper held a single word.

  Revanche

  “You probably think it’s nonsense. Or some sort of code.” Julius smiled knowingly.

  “It’s French for ‘revenge’,” said Casper.

  “Well, no. I looked it up. It’s French, you see.”

  Casper sighed.

  “It means ‘revenge’,” his father explained.

  “But how long ago did you get that letter?”