“You can’t be serious.”
“Do I look like I’m joking? There are idiots everywhere. Haven’t you heard about the French firm that’s producing red wine mixed with cola? And I hear that marrying wine and cola is all the rage in the Basque region.”
“So if I follow, the quality of the wine would be secondary. It’s being trendy that counts. Am I correct?”
“In my assistant’s vernacular, you have to create buzz. You need to keep up with the times—not too far in front and not too far behind. Beware, for example, of the Chinese market, which has already started to dip. That goes back to what people have been doing with the wine—it has been a status symbol, perfect for gift-giving. Sales began to drop when the Chinese government started cracking down on corruption.”
Périthiard arranged his fork and knife on this plate and took a sip of his Morgon. He seemed preoccupied, off somewhere far from the brouhaha of the restaurant. Benjamin kept an eye on him as he finished his dish.
“I like your exactitude,” Périthiard said, suddenly back to reality. “That’s very important to me.”
Benjamin stayed focused on cleaning his plate. He didn’t want to feed the conversation any more. He was waiting for Périthiard to put his cards on the table.
“That said, for one to be on time, both hands of the clock must meet.”
“Let me stop you right away, Mr. Périthiard. There’s a big hand and a little hand, and every hour on the hour, the little hand disappears under the big one. I may be here to advise you, but I’m not keen on playing the role of the little hand or even that of the big hand.”
“So you would rather be a cog?”
“You could put it that way, or, to be more precise, I’m the oil in the mainspring.”
“In that case, find me the person who will pull out all the stops.”
“Just as I’m not a wine trader, I’m not a headhunter, Mr. Périthiard.”
The businessman stiffened and glanced at his wrist.
“That’s a fine watch you have there.”
“A 1949 Bubble Back. So far, it hasn’t brought me much luck, though. Should I consider your refusal to be unequivocal, Mr. Cooker?”
“You should.”
6
The news traveled fast, spreading from Romanèche Thorins to Villefranche like a vine shoot. Overnight, Maison Coultard-Périthiard had pulled a fast one on Dujaray. Everyone had an opinion. The same people who took offense at the butcher shop in Gleize turned around and chuckled about it at the bistro in Saint Lager. In any case, it made for conversation. That’s how Virgile picked up on it the next morning, when he went out to buy fresh croissants at the local bakery.
“Boss, our man isn’t being discreet in regard to Maison Coultard,” Virgile said as he removed the croissants and a fresh baguette from their bags and set them out on the table.
“What do you mean?” Benjamin said. He was already sipping his Grand Yunnan tea. Their hosts were nowhere to be seen.
“François Dujaray’s protégé and top business-school graduate, Laurent Quillebaud, has accepted a job offer from Périthiard. Dujaray’s vice president of export has joined the enemy. He’ll be in charge of conquering new international markets, building domestic sales, and developing an overall strategy to make Maison Coultard a powerhouse.”
“How do you know that, son?”
“Here,” Virgile said, handing over the morning paper.
Benjamin put on his reading glasses and found the article. In an interview, Périthiard clearly communicated his objectives and ambitions, in no way hiding his proactive stance. He set the goal of reviving the négociant business in two years’ time.
François Dujaray refused to comment at length, saying only that he’d seen others try and fail.
“Périthiard doesn’t waste any time, does he?” Benjamin said. “The war is on. Now they’ll greet each other at trade meetings with stiff smiles and handshakes and tactfully avoid attending certain public events at the same time, while in the back rooms they’ll sharpen their weapons and draw up plans to bring each other down.”
“Boss, I did a little research yesterday, while our client was wining and dining you. Dujaray has three sons, but it seems none of them have what it takes to run the family business. Fabrice is too young. Franck’s too arrogant, and for some reason, Dujaray doesn’t trust Fabien, his firstborn.”
“I have a hunch that you did your research in the cafés, Virgile, and without opening your laptop.”
“You underestimate me, boss. You know that all good detectives rely on what they get from informants, as well as what they find on the Internet. In any case, the Beaujolais guru’s descendants are said to be too spoiled to roll up their sleeves. I guess the old man will have no choice but to find another over-educated outsider.”
“This recent desertion proves that Dujaray could have a hard time finding anyone who’s reliable. Surely one of his boys must want the job.”
“The youngest one is off at boarding school. The next one up is traveling around the world, and Fabien is the only one left in town.”
“Périthiard must be satisfied with his parry. I’m sure he thinks he has weakened the enemy. I hope he doesn’t gloat. He should at least put on a pretense of humility and try not to irritate those in the industry who are set in their ways.”
“Well, I also heard that Vol-au-Vent was an all-cash purchase. A girl I met at the café last night works at the Chavannes real estate agency. She was there when he came in to sign the papers. She said just before he signed, he was arguing with someone on the phone. He told the person on the other end that his mind was made up—no one could talk him out of it, and he didn’t care how much he was spending.”
“That must have been his wife. I get the feeling that he’ll have hell to pay for his folly.”
“The girl from the real estate agency also said he arrived with an Alexander McQueen briefcase filled with bills. He handed the owners the contents just so they’d let his workers get started on the renovation before the sale closed.”
“Well, she was quite well informed, and now you are too. I see you didn’t have a tough time getting that information out of her. Exactly how did you thank her for being so helpful, Virgile?” Benjamin winked at his assistant.
“Don’t get the wrong idea, boss. This whole region seems like a small town—gossips everywhere.”
Benjamin finished his slice of the baguette, slathered with butter and jam, before reading more of the newspaper article.
“It says here that Laurent Quillebaud will start his new job today. He wants to give Maison Coultard a social media presence and introduce a more efficient lead-generation process. He also intends to—get this—‘better navigate the rough waters of exports,’ whatever that means. Let’s go, Virgile. We have vineyards to visit and soil to test.”
Benjamin and Virgile had first inspected Vol-au-Vent’s outlying vines, starting with those in Brouilly, then Beaujeu, and finally Morgon. All three were in impeccable shape. The plots were small but had excellent exposure conducive to making prestigious wines for restaurants and connoisseurs. Virgile was now busy measuring the surface area of the cellar and drawing a map of the winery buildings. The plans they had gotten from the Chavannes agency had proved to be approximate, and Benjamin wanted precise measurements in order to optimize production.
The purr of a precision engine drew Benjamin and Virgile outside. Guillaume Périthiard was getting out of his Maserati, when a shiny black Range Rover pulled up.
“Another fine British vehicle handed over to a foreign automaker,” Benjamin muttered.
“What, boss?”
“I was talking about Tata Motors, the Indian outfit that makes the Range Rover these days. Never mind. It’s not important.”
A neatly dressed, jolly-looking man with a rounded belly jumped out of the SUV.
“Mr. Cooker, let me introduce Laurent Quillebaud, Maison Coultard-Périthiard’s new vice president of sales. I’m showing him aroun
d this new venture of mine.”
The two men exchanged a firm handshake and looked each other over. Benjamin immediately saw through the friendly expression on Quillebaud’s face. It was too practiced. Quillebaud could try to look good-natured and approachable, but underneath, he was a fierce player.
Benjamin introduced Virgile, and Périthiard asked the winemaker to join him as he showed his second-in-command around the estate.
“I can’t wait to see what you have here,” Quillebaud said. “Let’s get started!”
In each room, the freshly appointed vice president had something flattering to say. He laid it on even thicker as they toured the grounds, with its stone fountain and orangery containing scores of fruit trees and exotic plants. Périthiard swaggered. He clearly enjoyed having a sycophant.
When they arrived at the buildings destined for the winemaking operations, Quillebaud turned to Benjamin and asked about the plans for renovation, vinification, and expected yield. Benjamin chewed his Cuban cigar and gave vague answers.
“You’re quite a thought leader, Mr. Cooker. I’m sure you’ve got some interesting ideas about growth hacking,” Quillebaud said.
Benjamin eyed the man. He hated people who used the latest jargon to sound smart—as though they were trying to prove they had gone to business school.
“It’s a fine estate with potential,” Benjamin said. He flicked an ash off his cigar and added, “The vineyards could use a little discipline. The winery is in need of a substantial investment, and, of course, the label will need just the right touch.”
“That last point is key. I totally agree. Design is essential. The label has to align with our marketing goals. We have to make sure we’re thinking H2H…”
“Yes, I imagine you consider such things essential in your sales approach, and you’re a top-notch goal digger,” Benjamin said, not without a hint of mockery.
“How right you are, Mr. Cooker. Branding makes all the difference when you want more than the low-hanging fruit. That’s the new paradigm. A total game changer. We at Coultard-Périthiard must have a high-impact label that’s capable of going viral—nothing less.”
“It might help to make a drinkable wine too,” Benjamin said, no longer able to hide his irritation. “At least I hope that counts for something.”
“For that, Mr. Périthiard chose the best,” Quillebaud said, still fawning. “I’m sure you could repurpose any plonk into a decent wine and give it the ‘it factor’ we need.”
“I’ll certainly do what I can for the estate. But remember, only a third of all wine produced in Beaujolais goes to négociants.”
“Oh, you won’t need to worry about my end of things,” Quillebaud said, flashing a grin surprisingly similar to Périthiard’s.
Périthiard had been watching the exchange between his cocky new hire and the mature wine expert with a sharp tongue and little patience for hypocrisy. Périthiard had managed people for many years and knew how to get the most out of bootlickers. Without a doubt, this Laurent Quillebaud was a deluxe model—a shameless flatterer and an Olympic brownnoser. Perfect.
“I clearly chose the best people,” he said. “The best winemaker of our times for our cru production and the most promising VP for our négociant business. What more could I ask for?”
Benjamin tossed his spent cigar butt into the weeds and looked Périthiard in the eye. “What more could you ask for? Clement weather, just the right amount of rain, no parasites, bad yeast, or nasty bacteria. Perhaps some machines that don’t break down, too, along with some daring and elbow grease to get it all going.”
Without responding, the new owner of Vol-au-Vent took Benjamin by the elbow and ushered him toward the wine cellar, abandoning his vice president of sales in the vines. He could see Virgile unrolling a tape measure.
“Your assistant is hard at work. It’s nice to see a young person so devoted to his job.”
“I sometimes wonder how I managed to run my firm without him.”
“I must make a confession, Mr. Cooker.”
“What could that be?”
“I don’t regret grabbing this estate, but I admit that the undertaking frightens me a bit. I’m not really panicked, but let’s just say a little anxious.”
“That sounds about right. This is no small affair.”
“I’m counting on you. I’ve already told you that. Don’t forget it. At my age, this could be my last venture. It can’t fail. That would be a disaster. I want to make sure you fully understand my meaning.”
“I grasp it perfectly. I’m sure you’re determined to invest money and heart in this estate. I’ve worked before with neo-winemakers who mix passion and reason. People who’ve built business empires often return to the land to live out dreams that I might call fantasies.”
“Don’t go thinking I want to play the landed nobleman.”
“Far from it. I have no doubt that you’re committed to making this a thriving estate. A true interest in wine doesn’t usually escape me.”
“I knew I could succeed if I partnered with a man like you. My idea isn’t to put everything on your shoulders, but, well…”
“That is, nevertheless, the case—at least to an extent.”
“You could say that, but it’s more complicated.”
“As complicated as you?”
Périthiard didn’t respond, not knowing if he should take that as a compliment or a reproach. The winemaker was skilled at firing shots that just grazed but still stung.
“Beware, Mr. Périthiard, of a world you think you know but have only glimpsed. Wine growers are clever, but they like to keep things simple. Convoluted approaches are not to their taste. It’s better to be direct, to plow your furrow without any curves, and to plant your rootstock in a straight row. For the love of God, don’t show them your complicated side. They’ll end up thinking you’re delusional. The people in this arena like straight business and round figures.”
“Well, I would like to talk business with you. I hired you to help make the wine, but your opinion on the trade side is important for my négociant business. You surely know that over a hundred million bottles of Beaujolais are sold annually in more than a hundred different countries. And Beaujolais Nouveau is big business, bringing in 110 million euros.”
“You don’t have to go to business school to know that Beaujolais makes money. The fluctuations in production are what you have to worry about. From one year to the next, you can see the harvest drop by fifty percent, which means that négociants can only buy half as much to sell. Prices per hectoliter can jump from 235 euros to over 300 euros. Meanwhile, Beaujolais Nouveau continues to sell abroad, but when will that change? It’s wise to be prudent.”
“You’re right,” Périthiard said. “I need to be careful, but I’m sure we can find new markets in emerging countries. Poland, Russia, North Korea… That’s why I hired Quillebaud.”
“You mean why you poached him.”
Périthiard smiled. “All is fair in business. And Dujaray’s fighting back. He’s suing his former employee.”
“That was to be expected.”
“Evidently, there was a noncompetition clause in Quillebaud’s contract. I’ve put a battalion of attorneys on it to protect our interests.”
“I’m sure you know exactly what you want from your new employee.”
“At Dujaray, he did a remarkable job of developing the Asian market, especially Japan’s. He was responsible for a sixty-eight percent gain in sales.”
“Impressive. But again, keep in mind how foreign markets can quickly change. Germany, Italy, and the United Kingdom haven’t shown any interest in Beaujolais Nouveau for some time now. If I may suggest…”
Benjamin went silent, and Périthiard waited, allowing the winemaker a moment of suspense. “Go on,” he finally said.
“Don’t neglect the French market. It may not show any huge fluctuations, but you must pay attention to your identity and legitimacy as a wine merchant.”
“I totally agre
e. In fact, I have some plans on that front too.”
“That said, Mr. Périthiard, there’s no cheating. It wasn’t so long ago that a major wine trader’s production manager was charged with fraud for mixing in low-grade wines. Growers have also been accused of chaptalization—adding sugar to the must to spike the alcohol content. You must be careful.”
“I’ll keep that in mind, Mr. Cooker.”
The businessman had listened to enough warnings. He looked at his Leroy & Cie watch. It was time to go.
“I’m running late, Mr. Cooker.”
He gestured to his new vice president and pointed to his Maserati. Once in the car, he revved the engine, hoping it would be heard all the way to the Château de Pizy. He wanted the whole region to know he had arrived.
Benjamin and Virgile spent two days at Vol-au-Vent, getting a complete picture of the work that needed to be accomplished.
On the second day, Périthiard showed up with a tall bearded man in neat jeans and a crisply ironed shirt.
“Mr. Cooker, this is my cousin, Sylvain Périthiard. He has vineyards the next town over, and I’ve hired him to help us. Sylvain and I were very close when we were growing up. But then I came back as a young man to introduce Bérangère to my family, and I briefly thought that he might want to steal her away from me. You had your eye on her, didn’t you, Sylvain?”
The man’s cheeks flushed under his beard. He cleared his throat and didn’t say anything.
Benjamin felt embarrassed for him. He immediately extended his hand to break the tension. Sylvain’s grip was strong, but his hand was surprisingly smooth for someone who worked in the vines. Benjamin could see the family resemblance. The two cousins had the same wide-set eyes and prominent foreheads. Sylvain, however, was more handsome.
Périthiard, seemingly blithe to the awkward moment he had created, moved along. “Mr. Cooker, I’d like you to work with Sylvain to get the winery up and running as soon as possible. He’ll be the site manager for the renovations, and he’ll hire the contractors. You can return to Bordeaux and keep in touch by phone.”
Backstabbing in Beaujolais (Winemaker Detective Book 9) Page 4