“This place is a lot bigger than the cottage you told me to expect. Either you’ve got a secret family hidden away here or you’ll be going into competition with me.”
“I don’t think many vacationers would like to rent a room in a policeman’s house,” Bruno said, handing her a glass. “It might stop them from relaxing. Besides, they only want a place with a swimming pool.”
They turned at the sound of another car laboring up the steep entryway, and the baron’s old Citroën DS rolled into view. It set Gigi off barking a new welcome, which redoubled when the baron opened the rear door and out jumped his own dog, a giant Bordeaux hound named Général. Good friends and hunting partners, the two dogs sniffed each other politely and then raced off toward the woods while Bruno poured another glass of champagne.
The baron handed over a bottle wrapped in the distinctive brown paper of Hubert de Montignac’s cave.
“I saw Hubert, who told me he was bringing your Saint-Estèphe,” the baron announced in his deep, rolling tones. “I thought I’d bring a good Beaune. It will help take our minds off the sad events.”
Hubert’s white Mercedes, its top down, rounded the corner, Nathalie in head scarf and sunglasses beside the driver and Jacqueline waving from the rear seat rather more cheerfully than Bruno had expected, her hair spread out in a vast fan from the wind over the open car.
“Mon Dieu, that’s a pretty one,” the baron said. “An evening to be graced by three beautiful women. This will cheer us all up.”
Nathalie handed Bruno a cold bottle of Krug, while Jacqueline set a bottle of Monbazillac on the table and Hubert bowed solemnly as he placed the Saint-Estèphe in Bruno’s hands. Bruno glanced at Jacqueline, who seemed to be wearing more makeup than usual, perhaps to cover the effects of her crying. He left them all chatting as he went to his barbecue, thrust in an armful of dried vine branches on top of the crumpled pages of the previous day’s Sud Ouest and lit the fire. He waited until the twigs flared and then tossed on four handfuls of charcoal and headed for the kitchen to wash his hands and bring out the sliced baguette and the bécasses.
“Your luck must have been magnificent this year,” said Hubert, admiring the six game birds. “I never managed more than two in a season, and I was pretty proud of that.”
As Bruno went back into the kitchen to prepare his omelette, Hubert joined him, bringing the Saint-Estèphe and the baron’s Beaune to be decanted. Hubert knew the house well. He found a corkscrew in the kitchen drawer and the decanters in the dining room and went to work. The other guests gathered at the wide kitchen window, looking in as Bruno took a pebble-sized truffle from a jar filled with walnut oil and began to slice it very thin with the knife from his belt.
“Is that all you need?” asked Pamela. “I’ve never made a truffle omelette, so I need to learn.”
“It would suffice, my dear, and that is more truffle than you would get in any restaurant,” said the baron. “But I know Bruno’s cooking and I can assure you that another truffle even larger than that one has been steeping in his bowl of eggs in the refrigerator since last evening.”
“Almost right,” said Bruno. “I never make an omelette with cold eggs. They have been on the table for the last hour.”
“Might I smell a piece?” asked Jacqueline. Pleased that the truffle seemed to have distracted her, Bruno handed her a slice on the flat of his knife. Cautiously, she sniffed at the dark brown fungus. “It smells of the woods. May I taste it?” Bruno nodded and she crumbled off half the slice and put it in her mouth, her face screwed up and eyes closed in concentration.
“Not as gritty as I’d have expected, and very delicate,” she said. There came a pop as the baron opened the Krug and refilled all the glasses. Bruno glanced out at the barbecue, which was starting to glow nicely, and tossed a large lump of duck fat into his huge frying pan. When it was hot enough, he used a small press to add the juice of two cloves of garlic, poured in the eggs and began to twirl the large pan over the flaming gas ring.
“A master at work,” said Pamela, raising her glass to him through the window. Keeping his eyes on the eggs, Bruno took his own glass from the counter, raised it in return and drank more champagne before he took up his spatula, dark with age and many meals, and began pushing the eggs away from the sides of the pan.
“When it’s done we let it rest a moment while you take your seats at the table,” said Bruno, darting out to the barbecue to prepare the next course. He was back in less than a minute, and paraded in front of his guests the golden-yellow omelette, rolled into the shape of a fat baguette and sprinkled with flat-leaf parsley. He sliced and served it at the table.
“My first omelette aux truffes,” said Jacqueline, her eyes shining. “Thank you, Bruno.”
“And the eggs and truffles come from within a few footsteps of this table,” said the baron, who leaned forward to pick up the bottle of white wine. “New Zealand? What’s this?”
“Try it with the omelette. You’ll be very pleasantly surprised,” said Nathalie. “It’s one of Bruno’s finds. Hubert wants to see if he can make a sauvignon blanc like it in the new vineyard.”
“New vineyard?” queried the baron. “This is a fine omelette, Bruno, very fine. Your truffles are coming on splendidly. But, Hubert, I want to hear your plans.”
“Well, since we’re among friends, and this should go no further, I bought old Philibert’s place by the Domaine as an investment, but I’ll plant vines on the land in November. Nathalie’s right: I’m going to experiment with sauvignon blanc. I think the grapes could do well there.”
“I thought that grape was mainly grown in the Loire Valley for Pouilly-Fumé,” said Jacqueline. “Is that not right, Monsieur le Baron? I’m sure you’re an expert.” The baron preened, and Bruno was surprised once again by Jacqueline’s gaiety.
“So it is, but it is also grown in Bordeaux, and some of the best whites from Grave are sauvignon,” said Hubert. “By the way, I’m with the baron; the omelette is perfect. Now let me try your experiment, Bruno.” He sipped, and the rest of the table followed. They all waited in silence for Hubert’s verdict. “I think it’s a really good combination, as creamy as your eggs and sharp enough to balance the truffles.”
“Jacqueline, you must tell the rest of the table about your family’s wines,” Hubert went on. “It will come as a surprise to most of them to hear that a country as far north as Canada makes excellent wine.”
“Well, it may be north, but near Niagara Falls we have a microclimate that lets us produce ice wine, from grapes picked very late when they have shriveled and frozen. They make a wonderful dessert wine. It’s very concentrated, so we sell it in small bottles. Hubert knows it, but not much gets exported except to the States.”
“I tasted an Inniskillin, thought it was marvelous and was able to get some cases. But I never tried the Duplessis—that’s Jacqueline’s family’s wine—until she brought me a bottle. So as you can tell, I have employed someone with wine in her veins. Now you must tell us about this New Zealand wine you chose for the omelette. I was surprised when you asked me to find some for you.”
“It’s a long story,” said Bruno. “I first tasted it in Bosnia, thanks to the quartermasters of the French army, who have my deep admiration since they always managed to track down something that might be called wine for us, whether in the jungles of Côte d’Ivoire and Madagascar or in the deserts of Tchad. But it was difficult in Sarajevo until they reached an arrangement with the NATO base in Italy, and then a strange assortment of Californian zinfandels and Australian shirazes and Chilean wines found its way to our commissary. And on one memorable evening I drank a white wine of such remarkable freshness and style that I vowed to track it down again someday. It was named after the English general Milord Marlborough. And I’m delighted that you all approve.”
Bruno stood and bowed, earning him a brief round of applause, picked up the empty serving plate and went out to his barbecue.
Back in the kitchen with the birds, Br
uno put more duck fat into the frying pan, along with thick slices of garlic, and tossed in the sliced waxy rat potatoes that he had parboiled and dried earlier. He added parsley and another squeeze from the garlic press, and was pushing the potatoes around with the spatula when Pamela came in carrying two glasses of wine and handed one to him.
“It’s a magnificent dinner, Bruno. Just what we all needed. So kind of you.”
Six shining plates, still warm from the omelette, greeted Bruno as he returned with another great platter, the six grilled bécasses neatly arrayed. Their heads and long beaks were still attached, but each bird had been split down the middle, and six slices of freshly grilled baguette were lined up beside them.
“This is for Jacqueline and Pamela, who have never tasted this delicacy,” Bruno said, standing at the head of the table. “Hubert, please start by pouring the Saint-Estèphe, and thanks for bringing it. You should all know that the bécasse has a peculiar characteristic. When it is startled and flies from the ground, it evacuates its bowel. This is easy since it has a very simple digestive system, just a single stomach in the shape of a fat tube, which is completely emptied when it takes flight. That tube is a delicacy. When cooked, it softens into a most delicious and creamy consistency, which we spread on the grilled bread.”
He took a long spoon and scraped from the inside of each grilled bird a white tube, perhaps half an inch wide and less than two inches long. He placed each one on a slice of bread, spread it with the back of the spoon, handed one to each of his guests and then served the bird itself.
Hubert stood and raised his glass of wine. “A toast to our chef, my dear friend, but also to the memory of our young friend Max, whom we all miss. Let us hope they serve wine as good as this in heaven.”
“And let’s not forget Cresseil, a Resistance fighter who then joined the army to chase the invader back into Germany,” added the baron. “We honor a brave son of France, and this is a fitting wine to drink to him.”
They each raised a glass in salute, and then savored the Saint-Estèphe. Even Jacqueline joined in the murmurs of appreciation as they all addressed themselves to the food.
“But I want to hear more of your vineyard plans, Hubert,” the baron went on. “I have never been much impressed with Julien’s wine. You think you can do better?”
“I know he can,” said Nathalie. “The land is good, the drainage excellent, and some of Julien’s most recent wines have a lot of promise. Obviously we are not suggesting that we can make a new Saint-Estèphe, but I think we can match the best of Bergerac. Anyway, we’re going to try. But first, I’m going to eat my favorite part of the bécasse.”
She neatly severed the charred head of the bird from the remains of its body, and then picked it up by the beak. She put the head of the bird into her mouth and cracked the thin skull, tossed the beak back into the plate and chewed with evident pleasure. The other French people at the table followed her example. Jacqueline and Pamela stared.
“I don’t believe I’m doing this,” said Jacqueline, but copied the others. Very gingerly, Pamela did the same.
“But that’s delicious,” said Pamela, obviously surprised. “I thought it would be all bone.”
“One of the secrets of French cooking,” said the baron, “is never to let anything go to waste.”
Hubert began talking enthusiastically of the blend of cabernet sauvignon, merlot and cabernet franc that he thought would best suit the land around the Domaine. Jacqueline sat with her chin in her hands, taking in every word, her eyes fixed on Hubert’s animated face. Nathalie observed Jacqueline coldly. Aha, thought Bruno, a little tension seems to be developing. He looked across at Pamela, who glanced at Nathalie and returned an amused glance at him. Time to change the tempo, thought Bruno.
“Is it time for the baron’s Beaune, Hubert?” he asked.
“Ah, yes; excuse me,” said Hubert, picking up the second decanter and pouring into the fresh glasses. Bruno preferred to use the same plates for his dishes—after they were scraped clean by bread, leaving only a hint of the preceding course—but he always offered different glasses for different wines.
“Well, if you think there’s real potential there, that could be interesting to me,” the baron said. “You know I own some of that land by the Domaine and I had an interesting offer for it just the other day from some Parisian. He wanted to pay me for an option to buy it by the end of the year, but he was a bit too cagey about his plans for me to bite.”
“What did he offer?” Hubert asked, rather too innocently. “You know some of that land has been going for four thousand euros a hectare and more.”
The baron looked across the table at Hubert, weighing whether to answer or to concentrate on his food and drink. Courtesy won the day. “He offered more for the barns and buildings. I was quite surprised.”
“You turned him down?” asked Nathalie.
“No; we’ll be meeting again. But I need to make some inquiries about land values and what it might cost me to restore the buildings.”
“Houses and land, you should ask at least six hundred thousand,” said Hubert.
“His offer was short of that. We’ll see what happens when we meet again.”
“You should hold out for a lot more,” said Jacqueline. “Did you know that the real buyer is Bondino, the big American company? Max told me they’re trying to buy up all the land, including Cresseil’s.”
Hubert threw her a frosty glance, as if he’d have preferred this information not be revealed. But her remark made Bruno pensive. That might explain why she spent time with Bondino. Max may have asked her to find out more about Bondino’s plans.
“Bondino? That’s very interesting,” said the baron, finishing his Beaune with a satisfied smack of his lips. “I must make more inquiries. Thank you, mademoiselle.” He glanced at his watch. “No more for me, Bruno. No dessert, none of your Monbazillac, just in case the gendarmes are out tonight.”
“I couldn’t manage another thing,” said Nathalie. “Not a bite and not a drop. It was lovely, Bruno, a dinner to remember, despite everything that’s happened.”
“It was your wine that made it.” Bruno smiled. “But no Monbazillac? No coffee? No little digestif?” he asked, to a chorus of nos and much patting of full stomachs.
“So it seems there is a choice to be made, Hubert. Either you will bring our valley back to its wine-growing tradition, or the Americans will. We should discuss this further,” said the baron, strolling out to the garden, where the two dogs waited hungrily by the still glowing barbecue.
26
Bruno was just piling dishes beside his sink when he heard the rattling of Pamela’s starter, over and over. Wearing around his waist the old towel he used as an apron, he went out to see what the problem was.
“The car likes to tease me,” said Pamela. “It usually starts the first time. But it can be moody.” She tried again, and this time Bruno heard the slowing of the starter motor as the battery began to fade. “Oh God, the battery’s dying on me. I knew it was time for a new one.”
“I’ll drive you both back in my van, but someone will have to ride in the back, which is kind of a mess,” Bruno said. “I have a charger for the battery in my barn. I’ll attach it overnight and your car will be fine tomorrow.”
Bruno quickly cleared some of the jumble in the back of his van and turned his sports bag into a makeshift seat. Then he went back to the house for his keys and called the duty sergeant at the gendarmerie to ask if the patrols were out. He’d have to drive through town and over the bridge, and the last thing he needed was to try to talk himself out of a breath test. Jules answered the phone sleepily and told him all was quiet.
Once they were en route, Jacqueline spoke from the back. “That was an amazing dinner, Bruno. Really, I can’t think when I ever dined as well.”
“And those wines were heavenly,” added Pamela.
“Sadly, I can’t afford to drink like that often,” he said.
Jacqueline chattered
away happily until he came to the Bar des Amateurs, where she asked to be dropped off, saying she had to meet someone for a nightcap. Raising his eyebrows slightly, Bruno pulled over and let her out. She thanked him again before running into the bar. He drove through town.
“I’ll bring you your car in the morning,” he told Pamela. “Then you can drive me back to my house to pick up my van.”
“I’ll have some coffee ready for you. About eight?”
“Fine. I’ll bring some croissants.” They drove on in silence over the bridge, then she turned to him.
“Jacqueline certainly seems to have gotten over Max’s death pretty fast,” Pamela said. “I thought their relationship was more serious than that. But then, she’s still very young.”
“She’s still a kid in many ways, although I suspect she can be a calculating one,” Bruno said. “But I honestly wondered if she’d come tonight. I thought she might be too upset. How’s she going to get back to your place?”
“I know she left her bike at the cave. She came straight to your dinner from work with Hubert and Nathalie.”
“Did you notice her showing off about wine to Hubert over dinner?”
“Who could have missed it?” she said with a laugh. “Nathalie was looking daggers at her. It’s just the way Jacqueline is, realizing how attractive she is to men and trying out her powers. She’ll grow out of it.”
“You haven’t grown out of it.” He grinned in the darkness, his eyes on the narrow road ahead. And not many women do, thanks to le bon Dieu, he thought.
“I hope I’m a little more subtle than that. She’s in her early twenties, finished with her education. You’d think she would have matured by now,” said Pamela, staring ahead. Bruno felt comfortable with her in the strange mix of intimacy that came with driving together at night, almost like a confessional.
“Tell me what brought you to Saint-Denis.”
“A divorce. I married far too young, almost straight out of university, and my husband was in banking, working very long hours in the city. It was the usual story. He fell in love with his secretary. Well, he probably fell in love with the money, but she happened to be around and available. I was teaching, which I quite enjoyed, but not enough to devote my life to it. I’d always loved France, so when we sold the house and divided the property it was an opportunity to come here and have some horses. It worked out very well for me, but he’s divorced again, poor man.”
Bruno 02 - The Dark Vineyard Page 16