Poirot

"But Poirot," asks Hastings when Poirot arrives to a costume ball dressed as himself, "The idea was to come as someone famous."

"Precisely."

I grew up watching Mystery on PBS every Sunday night. I couldn't wait for the Edward Gorey opening and I tingled at Vincent Price's creepy voice. But my favorite nights were always those that included the great Hercule Poirot. My mom and Nana are both massive mystery buffs, so I was introduced to the great master Agatha Christie at a very young age. Even before Mystery I had loved that enigmatic Poirot with his funny moustache, his ego, and his egg-shaped bald head.

And then? And then I totally forgot about him. I grew up and started watching MTV. David Suchet, the actor who played Poirot to perfection, was not on MTV but on the British Stage. By college, I had nearly forgotten all about Poirot's beautiful egg-shaped head, his ever-present cane, his constant disdain for those who called him French or mispronounced his name, and his unparalleled mystery-solving skills. Oh, oui, c'est une grande perte.

Recently, however, I have rediscovered the Poirot series that aired on PBS. My local library has a bazillion tapes and my husband and I have taken to watching about one a night.

I have thus decided that Poirot is the biggest, baddest Queen to ever live.

I mean, seriously, what else can you call a person who has a meticulous appearance, an amazing intellect, and a sufferable ego about it all? Who has hordes of admirers and a constant British companion? A Queen.

Actually, a Reine, to be totalement correct.