A Grave Insult. A Short Story.

Deputy Chief Marcell was in a mood. An ex-soldier whose tattoo was visible on his solid forearm, his face was sqaurish with a large nose; the redeeming feature if any, were his steel grey eyes. And today they spoke of a storm ready to burst. But the resentment was warranted this time. The city police were coordinating with the National Service for the dinner. Two presidents and two billionaires guarded by an immediate cordon of twenty just inside the doors and outside, supported by a hundred others; and none of them could stop the assault.

The guards, even the Service ones stepped aside and DC Marcell banged open the door to the room. Two Service personnel were present- one of them, Agent Shawne, he had known years ago. They had served in France on a UN gig. Marcell nodded to him and asked.

"What does he have to say?"

"Well, I thought you could do it. He is incoherent." Agent Shawne's face was bland but a gleam in his eye was unmistakable.

Marcell turned to look at the perpetrator. A small man, with receding grey hair- now awry, he sat with hands clasped in his lap. The apron still stained red. Marcell banged his palm against the table making the man jump, and growled.

"OK. Prick lets start with.. How did you get here?"

"I was invited, flown in. From Ontario. By the err... Mayor. Yes, Mayor." The man replied with a heavy accent to his words.

"You want us to believe you are actually a chef?"

"Oui, Messieurs. That is correct. I just worked six hours on the Cod Au Gratin. Superb dish. Real French. Delicate flavors and only six spices in perfect....mix. I wheel it out myself, the staff here is...untrained." The man stopped to take in a few gulps of air.

DC Mercell was ready to pounce but a nudge from Agent Shawne stopped him. They waited a few moments and the man continued.

"I served the president, a small portion. I explained to him. It is freshest fish and delicate and less spice and balance and.... he smiled and nodded to me. But then he reached for the pickles and I was aghast. And said... emphatically no, no. He laughed and let it go and I relaxed. And served others and he take one bite and again he reach for Ketchup."

The man was tensed his voice was piping high.

"Ketchup! An insult to the gratin. To me. To French!" He suddenly looked up noticing he serious faces looking at him.

"I only was taking the bottle from the president's hand. The Fourchette.. I was just serving them. It never touched him, I swear. He tried to move back and he is big..."

DC Marcell stood there dumbfounded for a few moments. Then he turned to Agent Shawne.

"You knew that was ketchup."