The second of December's lazy writers.  I'm a lot happier with this than my last effort.  And I'm sorry, but I have returned to my whimsical phase.

As we all know, princesses have certain magical gifts...

The princess strode past the line of guests queuing at the lectern, this evening’s beau on her arm. She smiled at the Maitre d’ apologetically.

"Marcel. I’m afraid I haven’t booked a table. I know I’m very naughty, but could you squeeze me in, just this once?"

Marcel beamed at the princess. In the five years she had been coming to the resort she had never once reserved a table. And she had never once been turned away.

"Your highness, I had heard you were in town. We were hoping we would see you this evening. I have kept your table free for you." Marcel read the gossip pages every day. Certain customers were worth far more than the amount that they spent on the expensive menu or wine list. Royalty, certain actors, heads of state. They came to the restaurant because it had style and an unequalled reputation. And the restaurant had the style and reputation because these select celebrities came to eat and be seen there. It was a symbiosis.

Marcel guided her through the restaurant to the raised dining area against the far wall. The tables there were placed just so, so that the diners in this most privileged of positions could be seen by everyone else below them. She followed him, smiling, graceful, poised. Her handsome young man trailed behind her, but the diners’ eyes were on her. He was simply a fashion accessory. She couldn't possibly have been seen dining alone.

Marcel pulled out her chair and fussed over her as one of his waiters ensured her companion was seated.

"What can I get your highness?" asked Marcel. "Would you like an aperitif, or should I bring the menu?"

"I’d love a kir royale, Marcel." She turned to the young man opposite her. "Would you like a kir as well, Pierre? Yes, you simply must. Two kir royales, please Marcel. Is Gustav working tonight?"

"Of course. I have sent word to him already."

"Thank you so much, Marcel. You are such a darling. But I’m keeping you from your guests. I’d hate for you to get in trouble on my account."

"You are very kind, your highness, but you are no trouble, no trouble at all."

"Isn’t he sweet?" she asked her fellow diner, after Marcel had backed out from her presence.

"It’s Petros" he answered.

"Sorry?"

"You called me ‘Pierre’ earlier. My name is Petros."

"Really? Are you sure?" She laughed her girlish laugh that had made so many men before Petros forgive her. "Oh, I know you’re sure of your name, Pierre, I meant are you sure I called you Petros earlier?"

Petros smiled, resigned to the knowledge that for the rest of the evening he was going to be Pierre.

A middle-aged man in full chef’s regalia, including a suspiciously clean white jacket, advanced on the table. When he was some 20 feet away he bellowed "Your Highness!" Those few diners that had not been aware of her presence turned to look.

The princess rose at his approach. "Gustav!" The pair embraced, kissing the air next to each other’s cheeks four times in an exaggerated greeting. Petros wondered bitterly if Gustav’s name was really ‘Gustav’, and not ‘Gary’ or ‘Geoff’.

She sat back down, and the chef pulled a chair from a neighbouring table for himself.

"Your highness, it is such a delight to be able to cook for you again so soon. I have been poised in the kitchen ever since your plane landed four days ago. ‘Where is she?’ I cried, night after night. ‘Has she found another chef? Has some other restaurateur stolen my beautiful princess?’"

She laughed, pleased at the outrageous flirting of the man old enough to be her father.

"Oh Gustav. You know I cannot stay away from you. I cannot resist the temptation for long. I might dally with another’s food, but it’s really only your dishes I want."

Gustav looked at Pierre (formerly Petros) in mock despair. "See how she treats me? She is only after me for my recipies. I am heartbroken." He turned back to the princess. "Have you seen the menu? What can I tempt you with tonight?"

"No, I refuse to look. I shall put myself entirely at your mercy. Serve me what you will, Gustav. An artist such as you should not be restrained. I am your canvas tonight, your food is the paint. Fulfill me."

Gustav laughed and slapped his thighs. "Your highness, if I was ten years younger… well, I’d still be far too old for you, but there is nothing an artist loves more than an appreciative audience. I shall prepare for you my greatest dishes. I shall woo you with such food that you will stop tormenting me with these pretty young men and declare your undying love for me." And he winked at Petros/Pierre. The wink was not returned.

Gustav rose, took the princess’ hand and kissed it delicately. "Wait for me, my love. I shall return." And he made his way back to the kitchen, nodding to diners as he went, a showman acknowledging his audience.

Fifteen minutes later the first course arrived, delivered in perfect synchronisation by a squad of waiters. Marcel hovered over them like a sergeant-major. Her Royal Highness looked at the plate before her.

"Frogs’ legs?"

"Yes, your highness. Cooked in a lemon and garlic butter on a bed of crispy seaweed and watercress. Gustav’s signature first course. It is not normally on the menu, but he insisted that you try it."

"Well, it smells delicious." Delicately she lifted a frog leg to her nose, breathing in the aroma. Then the princess pressed it to her lips…

There was much confusion as to what happened next. The press were not allowed anywhere near the princess, and the police investigating the incident remained tight-lipped. Just two facts are clear. The restaurant is now closed. Permanently. And the family of Prince Heinrich, searching for their missing son for so many years, finally laid him to rest. Well, his left leg, at any rate.