Posted by: Epicurean on: February 16, 2010
The story so far … dodgy secret agent cum vacuum cleaner salesman Jim Wormold has been told he will be poisoned at the European Traders Association lunch in Havana where he is guest speaker…
Our Man in Havana by Graham Greene
At the end of the table, where the Consul-General sat, they were beginning to serve the blue-plates.Mr MacDougall had been wrong about the turkey; the main course was Maryland chicken. But he was right about the carrots and the French Fries and the sausages. Dr Braun was a little behind the rest; he was still picking at his Morro crab …
Two waiters came round the table, one whisking away the remains of the crab, the other substituting the blue-plates. Only the Consul-General had thought to open his milk … The waiter approached carrying two plates; he put one in front of the Scandanavian, the other was Wormold’s … Looking at his plate, he noticed something odd. There were no carrots. He said quickly, ‘You prefer it without carrots,’ and slipped the plate along to Mr MacDougall.
‘It’s the French fries I dislike,’ said Mr MacDougall quickly and passed the plate to the Luxembourg Consul. The Luxembourg Consul, who was deep in conversation with a German across the table, handed the plate with absent-minded politness to his neighbour. Politeness affected all those who had not yet been served, and the plate went whisking along towards Dr Braun who had just had the remains of his Morro crab removed. The head waiter saw what was happening and began to stalk the plate up the table, but it kept a pace ahead of him. The waiter, returning with more blue-plates, was intercepted by Wormold, who took one. He looked confused. Wormold began to eat with appetite. ‘The carrots are excellent,’ he said.
The head waiter hovered by Dr Braun. ‘Excuse me, Dr Braun,’ he said, ‘they have given you no carrots.’
‘I don’t like carrots,’ Dr Braun said, cutting up a piece of chicken.’
‘I am so sorry,’ the head waiter said and seized Dr Braun’s plate. ‘A mistake in the kitchen.’ Plate in hand, like a verger with the collection, he walked up the length of the room towards the service door.
[The eventual poison victim is Max, the head waiter's pet Dachshund. Its death on the kitchen floor is witnessed by staff 'carrying their mops and dishes like wreaths'. My death, Wormold muses, would have been more unobtrusive than that.]
