Hotel Pastis Read Online Free PDF

middle-aged playboys, and, almost always, a tentative group on their first visit, not quite sure what to make of the well-worn surroundings.
    Two American couples came through the door, the women in premature fur coats and frosted hair, the men still in summer blazers. Simon noticed the expressions of alarm on the women’s faces as several thousand dollars’ worth of prime chinchilla was casually bundled up by the waiter and tossed onto the rack above their table. “Clayton,” one of them said to her husband, “are you sure this is the place?” The husband patted her into her seat. “It’s a bistro, honey. What do you expect, valet parking?”
    Simon’s waiter came with a bottle of Meursault, and he breathed in the bouquet that made him think of cobwebs and dark cellars. The wine was chilled, not too cold to mask the taste. Simon sipped and nodded. The waiter filled his glass.
“C’est pas terrible, eh?”
    There was a thump on the door of the restaurant and Murat came skidding through, late and dishevelled in a rumpled black suit and long pink scarf, teeth and glasses gleaming against his tanned face as he turned to Simon, his shoulder-length hair giving him the appearance of a fugitive from the sixties. How he managed to run the Paris office and keep his suntan and attend to his complicated and energetic love life Simon never knew. They had met when Simon had bought a majority share in Murat’s agency, and business had turned into friendship.
    “Philippe! Good to see you.”
    “Simon! You’re early. No? I’m late.
Merde
. The meeting went on and on.”
    “Who was she?”
    Murat looked at Simon as he sat down and unwrapped the pink cashmere bandage from around his neck. He smiled the innocent and charming smile that Simon was sure he practised in the mirror every morning.
    “You have a dirty mind, my friend. But I remember what you once told me: never bullshit a bullshitter.” Murat spoke the phrase with relish. He enjoyed being colloquial in his English, and collected slang wherever he found it. “Okay, I’ll tell you. It was the yogurt client, you know? She’s a woman of a certain age, and …”
    “… and you gave her one for the sake of the agency,” Simon said.
    Murat helped himself to wine. “She bought the campaign for next year, and then we celebrated with a little drink, and then, well …” He shrugged.
    “Don’t depress me with the details. What are you going to eat?”
    As they were looking at the menu, they overheard the conversation from the American table. “… And you know what it turned out to be in the end? A hiatus hernia. I’m going for the roast chicken. So he gets out of the hospital and sues for malpractice.…”
    Simon grinned at Murat. “I think I’d rather hear about your sex life than that.” He beckoned to a waiter, and they ordered.
    “How long are you in Paris?” asked Murat. “There’s a party on Saturday with guaranteed pretty girls. Nobody from advertising. You should come.” He winked, and tried out his latest phrase. “Get the dirty water off your chest, you know?”
    “You make it sound so romantic,” Simon said. “ButI can’t. I’m leaving early tomorrow—driving down to Saint-Tropez for a few days.”
    The waiter arrived with scallops, sizzling and pungent with garlic, the foie gras that Simon could never resist, and a plate piled with warm slices of toasted baguette. A bottle of red Burgundy, dull with dust, was placed at one side of the table to breathe. Simon took off his jacket and looked around the room. All the tables were full now, full and noisy. There was always the sound of laughter here; it was a place for enjoyment. Diets were forbidden, and portions were enormous. Nobody came to L’Ami Louis to sit quietly over a couple of lettuce leaves.
    “Saint-Tropez?” Murat made a small, dismissive grimace. “It’s finished now. The whole coast is finished, unless you want to play golf with a bunch of tight-asses from Paris. The