by Peter Mayle
“Voilà,” she said. “I need to go back to the office, but we can meet for dinner if you like.”
Sam nodded and smiled. “I would like.”
Waiting for her in the hotel lounge-or, as the official description in the hotel brochure put it, the salon bourgeois “cosy”-Sam felt both relieved and encouraged by his first exposure to Sophie Costes. It was entirely unworthy and chauvinistic of him, he knew, but he was much happier working with good-looking women. And he was encouraged by the fact that Sophie was a born and bred Bordelaise. From everything he had read about Bordeaux society, it was a maze of family connections and disconnections, feuds and alliances that had been developed over a couple of centuries. An insider as a guide was going to be invaluable.
The click of high heels across the floor announced Sophie’s arrival. She had changed for dinner. A little black dress, naturellement. Two strands of pearls. A heavy black cashmere shawl. An interesting hint of scent. Sam straightened his tie.
“I’m glad I wore a suit,” he said.
Sophie laughed. “What do men normally wear to go out to dinner in Los Angeles?”
“Oh, five-hundred-dollar jeans, snakeskin cowboy boots, Armani T-shirts, silk jackets, Louis Vuitton baseball caps-you know, rough country clothes. But no pearls. Real men don’t do pearls.”
Sophie looked as though this last piece of information confirmed a previous impression. “I think you are not a serious man.”
“I try not to be,” Sam admitted, “but I can get very serious about dinner. Where are we going? Should I get a cab?”
“We can walk. It’s just around the corner-a little place, but the food is good and so is the wine list.” Sophie turned to look up at Sam as they went down the street. “You do drink wine, don’t you?”
“And how. What were you expecting me to drink? Diet Coke? Iced tea?”
Sophie waved the question away. “One never knows with Americans.”
Sam liked the restaurant at first sight. It was snug, not much bigger than his living room at the Chateau Marmont, with a tiny bar at one end, mirrors and framed black-and-white portrait photographs along the walls, unfussy furniture, and thick, white tablecloths. A dark-haired, smiling woman came forward to greet them, and was introduced to Sam as Delphine, the chef’s wife. Judging by the exchange of kisses between the two women it seemed that Sophie was a regular client. Delphine showed them to a corner table, suggested a glass of champagne while they studied the menu, and bustled back to the kitchen.
“This is exactly my kind of place,” said Sam as he looked around. “Great choice.” He nodded toward the wall opposite them. “Tell me, who are those guys in the photographs?”
“They’re vignerons, friends of Olivier, the chef. You will see their wines on the list. Don’t be disappointed if you don’t find anything from California.”
Delphine arrived with the champagne and the menus. Sam raised his glass. “Thanks for agreeing to help me out. It’s made the job a whole lot nicer.”
Sophie inclined her head. “You must tell me about it. But first, we choose.”
She watched as Sam went immediately to the wine list. “You’re like my grandfather. He always picked the wine first, and then the food.”
“Smart guy,” said Sam, with his nose deep in the list. “Well, this must be my lucky night. Look what I found-an ’85 Lynch-Bages. How can we not have that? It’s from your hometown.” He grinned at Sophie. “Now, what would your grandfather eat to go with it?”
Sophie closed her menu. “No question. Breast of duck, cooked pink. Perhaps some oysters to start, with another glass of champagne?”
Sam looked at her as he closed the wine list, his mind going back to dinners in L.A. with girls who felt gastronomically challenged by anything more substantial than two shrimps and a lettuce leaf. What a pleasure it was to share a meal with a woman who liked her food.
Delphine took their order and came back almost immediately with the wine and a decanter. She presented the bottle to Sam for his nod of approval, removed the top of the capsule, drew out the cork-the extra-long cork, dark and moist-sniffed it, wiped the neck of the bottle, and decanted the wine.
“How do they feel about screw-top bottles in Bordeaux?” Despite the practical advantages, Sam hated the idea of wonderful wine suffering such an indignity.
Sophie allowed herself a small shudder at the thought. “I know. Some people are doing it here. But most of us are very traditional. I think it will be a long time before we put our wine in lemonade bottles.”
“Glad to hear it. I guess I’m a cork snob.” Sam reached into his pocket and took out a pad on which he’d made some notes. “Shall we do a little business before the oysters? I don’t know how much the people in Paris told you.”
Sophie listened attentively while Sam took her quickly through the robbery and the fruitless background checks that had led to his decision to come to Bordeaux. He was about to suggest a plan of action when the oysters arrived-two dozen of them, giving off a whiff of the sea, accompanied by thin slices of brown bread and the second round of champagne.
Sophie took her first oyster from its shell and held it in her mouth for a moment before swallowing. Then she picked up the shell, tilting her head back to expose the slender column of her neck, and sucked out the juice. It was a performance that Sam found extremely distracting.
Sophie realized that she was being watched. “You’re staring,” she said.
“I was admiring your technique. I can never do that without getting the juice on my chin.”
Sophie reached for her second oyster. “Very simple,” she said. “For the juice, you must make your mouth like this.” She pursed her lips and pushed them forward until they made an O. “Bring the shell up until it touches your bottom lip. Make your head go back, a little suck, et voilà. No juice on the chin. Now you try.”
Sam tried, and tried again, and by his fourth attempt Sophie judged him to be safe with oysters. The educational interlude had encouraged her to relax, and she became inquisitive, asking Sam where he had learned enough about Bordeaux to recognize a gem on the wine list when he saw it. From there, the conversation flowed, and by the time the duck arrived they were pleasantly at ease with one another.
Sam set about the ritual of tasting the wine, conscious of the expert eye watching him. He held his glass to the light to study the color. He swirled the wine gently. He sniffed; not once, not twice, but three times. He sipped, and waited for a few reflective seconds before swallowing. He looked at Sophie and tapped the rim of his glass.
“Poetry in a bottle,” he said, his voice low with mock reverence. “Robust but elegant. Hints of pencil shavings-and what’s this? Do I detect just a soupçon of tobacco? Beautifully constructed, long finish.” His voice returned to normal. “How am I doing so far?”
“Pas mal,” said Sophie. “Much better than you were with oysters.”
They ate and drank slowly, and Sophie told Sam one of her favorite wine stories, which happened to take place in a restaurant in America. The customers had ordered a bottle of ’82 Pétrus, priced at six thousand dollars. This was drunk with due respect and enjoyment. A second bottle was ordered, for another six thousand dollars. But this one tasted different, noticeably different, and it was sent back. The restaurant owner, suitably apologetic, provided a third bottle of ’82 Pétrus. Happily, it was reckoned to be just as good as the first.
After the diners had left, the puzzled restaurant owner took the three bottles to have them examined by an expert, who identified the problem with the second bottle. Unlike the other two, it was genuine.
“I know why you like that story,” said Sam. “Because it shows how dumb Americans can be about wine.” He wagged a finger at Sophie. “I have two words for you: Robert Parker.”
She was shaking her head before he had finished. “No, no, not at all. This could happen in France. You must know about the blind tasting here when the tasters mistook a room temperature white for a red. No, it’s a good
story because it makes a point.” She picked up her glass and cupped it between both hands. “There’s no such thing as a perfect palate.”
Sam wasn’t convinced, but he let it pass. He saw that there were a couple of glasses still left in the bottle, and he felt the need to do them justice. “Well, professor, what would you say to a little cheese?”
Sophie was smiling as she leaned forward. “I have one word for you,” she said, wagging a finger at him. “Camembert.”
And Camembert it was, delicate and salty, which they agreed was the only possible way to end the meal.
When they parted company after dinner, Sam found himself watching her walk away. A fine-looking woman, he thought. That night he dreamed of teaching Elena to eat oysters à la française.
Sophie had pleasant memories of her first meeting with Sam. He was good company, he seemed to know his wine, and his slightly battered appearance was not unattractive. And there were those wonderful American teeth. Perhaps this assignment wouldn’t be so dull after all.
Nine
For Sam, the next two days were pleasant, instructive, and increasingly frustrating. Thanks to Sophie’s contacts, they had access to all the châteaus, including those where visitors were not normally welcome. It was thanks to Sophie, too, that the estate managers and cellar masters went out of their way to be helpful. At château after château-from the magnificent Lafite Rothschild to the diminutive Pétrus-the two investigators had been courteously received. Their story was listened to with patient attention. Their questions were answered. They were even given the occasional glass of nectar. But Sam had to admit that the visits, while they had added to his wine education, had failed to produce any progress. It was a discouraging list: two days, six châteaus, six dead ends.
On the evening of the second day, feeling tired and flat, Sam and Sophie looked for consolation in the hotel bar. Champagne, that unfailing restorative, was ordered and served.
“Well, I guess that’s it,” said Sam, raising his glass. “I’m sorry to have wasted your time. Thanks for all your help. You were terrific.”
Sophie shrugged. “At least you can tell them back in Los Angeles that you saw some of the great châteaus.” She smiled at him. “Our little version of the Napa Valley.”
Her cell phone rang. She looked at it, made a face, sighed, and put down her champagne. “My lawyer. Excuse me.” She got up and walked away to take the call.
Sam had noticed this before in France, and couldn’t make up his mind whether it was due to good manners or fear of eavesdroppers. But whenever possible, the French tried not to inflict their cell phone conversations on other people, preferring to find a private corner somewhere. It was a civilized habit that he wished his compatriots would adopt.
While he was waiting for the call to finish, he went back over the notes he’d taken during the château visits. At each château, they had asked who the regular clients were, the big buyers with serious caves to keep stocked. For the most part, the answers they had been given were unsurprising: Ducasse, Bocuse, Taillevent, the Elysée Palace, the Tour d’Argent, one or two private banks, half a dozen billionaires (whose names, of course, were not revealed). In other words, the usual suspects.
Sam sat and stared at his notes. And as he stared, another question occurred to him, a question that they hadn’t thought of asking. He was still mentally kicking himself when Sophie came back from her call.
He leaned forward, looking as pleased as a dog that had just unearthed a previously forgotten bone. “You know those old French detective movies?”
Sophie looked blank.
“You know, when the detective remembers something he’s overlooked?”
Still no reaction from Sophie.
“There’s this moment of revelation. He smacks his forehead with the palm of his hand.” Sam suited the action to the word. “‘Zut!’ he says. ‘But of course!’” By now, he had a broad smile on his face.
“Zut?” said Sophie. “What is this zut and the head-slapping? Are you all right?”
“Sorry. Yes, I’m fine. But it just struck me that maybe we’ve been asking the wrong questions. Maybe we should be asking if anyone has tried to buy those particular vintages and been disappointed, because they’ve all been sold. Maybe there’s an obsessive enthusiast out there, someone like that guy who wanted to line his cellar with vintages from 150 years of Latour, someone who’s determined to fill the gaps in his collection at any price. That’s a motive, isn’t it?” His face was a hopeful question mark.
Sophie pursed her lips and nodded slowly. “It’s possible,” she said, “but in any case, we have nothing else to try.” And besides, she thought, this was much more amusing than sitting behind a desk dealing with a vigneron’s insurance claim for frost damage. “Well, what do you want to do? We go again to the châteaus? It’s better than the phone, I think.”
“We go again to the châteaus. Bright and early tomorrow morning.”
Sophie looked at her watch, frowned, and picked up her handbag. “I’m going to be late for my meeting, and my lawyer charges by the minute. So tomorrow-shall I come for you at ten?”
“Is that bright and early?”
“Sam. This is France.”
Sam woke early. The night before, there had been second thoughts, worries about dragging Sophie out for another day of dead ends. But sleep had restored his optimism, and the sun was shining. A good omen. He decided to go out for breakfast, found a busy café opposite the Grand Théâtre, and settled down with a café crème and the Herald Tribune.
A glance at the headlines did little to improve the morning. It was business as usual throughout the world. There were more wildfires in southern California, a futile barrage of political name-calling in Washington, the ever-thickening fog of pollution in China, unrest in the Middle East, tub-thumping from Russia, alarm and despondency in Europe, and a dose of gloom from Wall Street. Scattered throughout this litany of woe were advertisements for watches and handbags, each one more ostentatious than the last. A reminder that no matter how bad the news, it would never overcome the primordial human urge to go shopping.
Sam put aside the newspaper and looked around him. The other customers appeared curiously cheerful. Eating their tartines and drinking their coffee, their fresh morning faces as yet unmarked by the rigors of the day ahead, they seemed unaware that, based on this morning’s news, the world might well come to an end before lunchtime.
He ordered another crème and jotted down the wines and vintages that he was searching for: ’53 Lafite, ’61 Latour, ’70 Pétrus, ’75 Yquem, ’82 Figeac, ’83 Margaux. What a list. Sam couldn’t help but feel that these treasures were wasted on Danny Roth. To him, they were merely bottled status, and slightly unsatisfactory status at that, since he couldn’t put them on the wall for all to see. What would he do with the insurance money, Sam wondered, if the wine was never found?
His musings were interrupted by the ringing of his cell phone. It was Sophie, calling to say it was not even ten o’clock yet, and here she was already at the hotel. Bright and early, as agreed. But where was he? Did they usually sleep this late in California?
He hurried back to the hotel to find her in the lobby. She was clearly in good spirits-smiling, holding up her arm, and tapping the watch on her wrist, pleased to have arrived before him. This morning she was dressed as if she had come on horseback-close-fitting riding pants tucked into soft leather boots, a tweed hacking jacket, a silk scarf with a subtle horseshoe motif (undoubtedly Hermès) knotted around her neck. The height of equestrian chic. Sam wondered if he should whinny as he looked her up and down with an appreciative eye. This was something you didn’t see every day in L.A.
“Great outfit,” he said. “Too bad you forgot the spurs. Sorry to keep you waiting. Are you feeling lucky today?”
“Of course,” she said. “Très optimiste. Today we find something. You will see.” She slipped her arm through his as they walked to the car. “Shall we start with Lafite?”
During the drive up from Bordeaux to the Médoc, Sophie explained the reason for her buoyant mood. The previous evening, after leaving Sam, she had met with her lawyer, who had told her that the three-year squabble with her ex-husband was finally settled, and she would shortly be free to remarry. Terms had been agreed upon. Her ex would keep the boat that he ran as a charter business in Saint-Barth; Sophie would keep the apartment in Bordeaux. Maybe they could even be friends. Or maybe not. He had been trouble from the start, Sophie said, always running off somewhere on a boat, and usually ending up with some unsuitable girl.
“Hmm,” said Sam. “Sounds like a man after my own heart.”
Sophie laughed. “You like boats?”
“I prefer girls. I don’t get seasick with girls.”
Sophie had chosen a road that bisected flat, immaculate countryside, with ruler-straight lines of vines running off to the horizon. There were châteaus to the left of them, châteaus to the right: Léoville Barton, Latour, Pichon-Lalande, Lynch-Bages, Pontet-Canet. Sam felt as though they were driving through a top-class wine list.
“Have you ever been to the wine country in California?” he asked.
“ Napa and Sonoma? No, never. Perhaps one day. Is it anything like this?”
Sam thought of the dry, brown hills, the vast modern wineries with their gift boutiques, and the busloads of visitors. “Not exactly. But some of the wine is pretty good.”
“You know why that is?” Sophie didn’t give him the chance to answer. “Because you have so many French making wine over there now.” She grinned at him. “I am very chauvine. For me, French wine is best.”
“Try telling that to an Italian.”
“Italians make clothes and shoes. And one good cheese. Their wine…” Her mouth turned down, and there was a dismissive waggle from her hand. There was clearly no room for debate. Another victory, Sam thought, for the French superiority complex.
Leaving the center of Pauillac behind them, they could now see Château Lafite, standing on a low hill well back from the road. Sophie stopped the Range Rover and turned to Sam. “It’s just the one question, yes? Has anyone during the past year tried to buy the ’53 and been disappointed?”