The Lost Vintage

by Ann Mah

  “Actually, I came down a little early, because”—I lowered my voice—“I wanted to run something by you.”

  “Hmm?” She fiddled with the back of her earring. “What’s that?”

  “I was thinking,” I said slowly, “that today might be a good time to ask Uncle Philippe about Hélène. Remember Nico said he keeps the family records?”

  “No!” Heather’s eyes widened. “We can’t tell his father about what we found. Because he’ll want to know why we’re cleaning out the cave, and—” She bit back the end of her sentence.

  I watched as her face turned various shades of mottled red. “But don’t you want to know who she is?” I demanded.

  Heather fingered a button on her coat. “I guess I’m curious, yeah. But we can’t ask your uncle.”

  “What if we told him one of the kids is doing a genealogy project for school?”

  She shook her head. “Thibault did one last year. It was a big deal and everyone’s grandparents were invited for goûter. Unfortunately, the family tree only went back one generation.” She stared out the window for several seconds. “If we could just check the livret de famille—the family record book—we could find out how Hélène is related, and when she died.”

  “If she’s dead.”

  “She graduated from lycée in 1940. If she’s still alive, she’d be in her nineties. I mean, I guess it’s possible. But unlikely.”

  “True.” I chewed the inside of my lip. “Do you know where they keep this thing?”

  Her shoulders drooped. “No. And obviously we can’t just ask to see it—Papi would be suspicious.”

  Before I could respond, Nico and the kids appeared with combed hair and shining faces, looking as if butter wouldn’t melt in their mouths.

  “What are you two whispering about?” Nico asked.

  “Oh, we were just reminiscing,” Heather said, not untruthfully. “You guys look great! Let’s go!”

  Once we were strapped into the car, Heather switched back into instructive mode. “Remember—don’t speak too loudly at the table,” she said, swiveling around from the front seat to fix her children with a steely glare. “Don’t take more than two helpings from the cheese plate, or Mémé will think you didn’t like her cooking. Do be patient—remember lunch at Mémé and Papi’s house takes a very, very long time. Do use your knife and fork the French way—don’t cut off a bite and switch your fork from hand to hand, like Grammy taught you. Mémé hates American table manners.”

  Wedged between Anna and Thibault, I felt like another one of the kids, being prodded into good behavior.

  “Please eat everything Mémé serves you today,” Heather continued. “Even if you hate it, don’t say anything—just take tiny bites, and chew and swallow really fast.”

  “Even if it’s blanquette de veau?” Thibault asked. “The mushrooms . . .” He shuddered.

  “Oui, même la blanquette de veau,” Nico broke in. “It’s part of your heritage.”

  “It won’t be blanquette de veau,” Heather reassured him. “Mémé made veal last week.”

  Beside me, Thibault’s little chest rose and fell with a gulp.

  “If it’s really, truly awful, give it to me,” I whispered to him. “I love blanquette de veau.” He turned huge, dark eyes on me, and nodded, grateful.

  My aunt had positioned a long table in the garden, angling it under an old oak tree so that dappled shade fell in artful patterns over a fine blue linen cloth. Sunlight glinted on the antique silverware and china, and a light breeze ruffled the sprigs of lavender tied to each napkin. Uncle Philippe poured crémant into delicate flutes and handed them around.

  “Santé,” he said, raising a glass, and we echoed him. While we sipped our sparkling wine, Nico rotated tiny lamb chops on the gas grill.

  “Bonjour, tout le monde !” called a fluting voice and my cousin Chloé—Nico’s sister—sashayed into the garden, small and slender in grey trousers and a matching dove-colored sweater. She embraced her parents, then sought out each person to exchange cheek kisses, trailing a musky cloud of scent behind her. “Venez, les enfants! Donnez des bises !” she commanded, and three tiny dark-haired children appeared, two girls and a boy dressed in matching smocked rompers with pristine Peter Pan collars. They dutifully pressed their cheeks to everyone present, even to Thibault and Anna, even to me—a virtual stranger. I was beginning to understand why Heather dreaded Sundays.

  “Where’s Paul?” Nico asked, feeding desiccated rosemary branches into the barbecue fire.

  “Au boulot. Next week’s fashion week,” Chloé said, and I remembered that she and her husband owned a boutique publicity firm that represented young designers. She ran a hand through her thick, dark hair. “The children and I are taking the train back to Paris immediately after lunch.”

  “Would you help me serve, Bruyère?” Aunt Jeanne appeared with a vegetable terrine, cut into slices so that the layers of eggplant, tomatoes, basil, and goat cheese gleamed like jewels. Heather began distributing a piece at each place setting, while Nico followed with the wine bottle.

  “Juste quelques gouttes pour moi,” said Chloé, and Nico obligingly poured her only a few drops. I eyed my cousin. Was she pregnant again—for the fourth time?

  “Are we expecting someone else?” Nico asked. He counted the place settings. “Five kids and seven adults, n’est-ce pas?”

  “Huit adultes,” corrected his mother. “Since Kate’s here, I invited Jean-Luc.” She turned to me. “You two knew each other in Paris, didn’t you? I thought it would be festive.”

  I examined her face, but found no intrigue there. “How nice!” I said, as cheerfully as I could.

  Uncle Philippe appeared at the French doors that led from the house to the garden, with Jean-Luc trailing behind him. “I found this jeune homme snooping in my bookshelves,” he said, clapping a hand on Jean-Luc’s shoulder and drawing him forward.

  “I was looking for last year’s Guide Hachette des Vins,” Jean-Luc explained. “I wanted to photocopy our listing for the press kit.”

  “Bien sûr, bien sûr. I’ll find it for you after lunch,” Uncle Philippe said.

  “Hey, Jeel, ça va?” Nico greeted Jean-Luc with a kiss on each cheek and I considered, not for the first time, the differences between French and American culture and their perceptions of manliness.

  “Is, er, Louise joining us?” Heather asked, deliberately casual.

  “No, she’s at her parents’ house. Bonjour.” Jean-Luc greeted me, stepping forward to touch his face to mine.

  “Hi.” Our eyes met, and I looked away, burned by the cold politeness I found there. His rough cheeks scratched my own and then he moved to greet Chloé.

  “Allez!” called Aunt Jeanne. “Tout le monde, à table!”

  At the sound of their grandmother’s voice, the children ran to their chairs. Heather nudged me to the seat beside her, with Uncle Philippe across from us. Aunt Jeanne fluttered from the kitchen to the garden, ferrying baskets of bread, pitchers of water, a platter of grilled baby lamb chops scattered with rosemary flowers that she’d snipped from her herb garden seconds before.

  “The terrine is delicious, Mémé,” said Heather. Did she ever feel silly calling her in-laws by the same pet names her children used? “Mémé” was short for “grandmère,” and “Papi” for “grandpère,” the French equivalents of “granny” and “grampy.” Then again, I supposed it was better than addressing them with a vague “vous”—like she used to do before Anna had been born.

  “C’est très simple, Bruyère,” Aunt Jeanne replied. “First, you cook the tomatoes in a slow oven for twelve hours.” She continued detailing the recipe, which seemed to involve more steps than the pas de deux in Swan Lake.

  I glanced at the children’s end of the table where Anna and Thibault sat with their three cousins. “J’ADORE l’aubergine,” said Chloe’s youngest daughter, Isabelle, gobbling eggplant. How old was she? Three? Next to her, Thibault had picked a lamb chop clean, but eaten only t
he cheese and tomatoes from his half slice of terrine. He caught his mother’s eye and placed a piece of eggplant in his mouth, gulping it down with a slug of water. The basil leaves he dropped on the ground, where they blended into the grass.

  My aunt rose from the table and moved toward the house. A few seconds later, Chloé popped up and began stacking plates. “C’est bon, c’est bon,” she said, waving at us to remain seated.

  The men began discussing the upcoming visit of an American exporter. “But do you know who else he’s meeting?” Jean-Luc asked, and the three launched into intense speculation.

  Aunt Jeanne reappeared with a large tureen in her hands. Chloé followed with a dish of boiled potatoes. “Mmm . . . ça sent . . .” Heather’s voice trailed off as Aunt Jeanne whisked the lid off the tureen.

  “Voilà! Tripes à la mode de Caen!” she proclaimed.

  A savory aroma wafted toward me, leeks and carrots heightened by the sharp tang of dry cider . . . and lurking underneath, the dark scent of tripe, unmistakable.

  “C’est la recette de ma grandmère,” said Aunt Jeanne proudly.

  “Her grandmother’s recipe,” Heather repeated faintly.

  “She was from Normandy!” boomed Uncle Philippe.

  “Oh, how . . . nice!” I said. “What is it?”

  “Beef tripe braised in cider for hours and hours, until it’s so tender it just melts under the fork,” said Nico.

  “Ohh, Madame C.! You’re spoiling us,” said Jean-Luc in French.

  Aunt Jeanne spooned a portion onto my plate, the thin sauce puddling around sliced carrots and pale squares of tripe. I added a few potatoes.

  “You must have been preparing this for days,” Jean-Luc was saying to my aunt. “What a treat!”

  She let out a girlish trill. “I know you miss your maman’s cooking,” she said, giving him an extra scoop.

  Uncle Philippe raised his glass. “Merci, chérie,” he thanked his wife. “This looks delicious.” She shrugged off his praise, while managing to simultaneously appear pleased. “Bon appétit!” Everyone clinked glasses.

  I picked up my cutlery and began sawing through a square of tripe so rubbery it seemed to actually repel the blunt edge of my knife. When I managed to slice off a small morsel, I popped it into my mouth. The first bite tasted bright, the cider’s tangy sweetness masking the offal’s unsavory whiff. But not even hours of slow braising could soften the tripe’s elasticity. It bounced like rubber bands between my teeth. The unbidden image of a cow’s stomach appeared in my mind’s eye—a dingy white flap of spongy, honeycombed flesh—and with it came a wave of disgust. I tried to bat it away, averting my eyes from the plate, forcing myself to take another bite, then another. Eventually, with several strategic sips of wine, I managed to choke down most of the food. Tripe, no matter how carefully prepared, was not for the faint of heart.

  “Katreen, encore un tout petit peu?” Aunt Jeanne gestured at the tureen.

  “Oh, non, merci. It was delicious, but”—I summoned up a bit of politesse learned in college—“je reserve.” I’m saving room.

  She nodded and bent toward Heather, speaking in a slight undertone. “Did you want to put your tart back in the oven for a few minutes? Or did you mean to serve it a little pale like that?”

  The muscles in Heather’s throat moved, as if she were swallowing something whole. “Yes. A few more minutes in the oven.” She pushed her chair back. “I’ll go do that now.”

  “Kate,” Chloé caught my eye from across the table. “Nico says you’re here preparing for an important wine exam?”

  I nodded. “The Master of Wine.”

  “There are so many wine competitions these days,” Jean-Luc said in clipped tones. “Master of Wine, Master Sommelier, the Court of Master Sommeliers, Best Sommelier in the World . . . it’s hard to keep track of them all.”

  Beside me, Uncle Philippe snorted. “Les américains! They have to make everything a competition. Wine should be studied for the knowledge and pleasure of wine itself.”

  “Well, actually, the Master of Wine program is British,” I said.

  “Les anglais,” he snorted. “Even worse.”

  Chloé ignored her father. “Has your time in Burgundy been helping your studies?”

  “Oh yes! I’m starting to meet with local winemakers next week. Everyone has been incredibly generous.”

  “I’ve been testing Kate,” Nico broke in. “She could use more practice . . . but she can get by.” Elle peut se débrouiller. From a Frenchman, it was a compliment of the highest regard.

  “I wonder if Bruyère needs help turning on the oven,” Aunt Jeanne murmured, turning to peer fretfully at the kitchen windows.

  “I’m sure she’s fine, Maman,” Nico assured her, mopping up sauce with a crust of bread. “Is there any more tripe?”

  She beamed at him and whisked the lid off the tureen. “I used the cider we bought in Normandy last summer. Your father says he can’t tell the difference, but I think it gives a delicate aroma, almost flowery, don’t you?”

  Nico bent obediently to his plate. “You know, I do smell—” He stopped. “Is that smoke? Smoke? FIRE!”

  A harsh, acrid cloud was billowing from the kitchen windows. I shoved my chair back, but the others were swifter than me. They sprinted toward the house, Nico, Jean-Luc, and Chloé first, with my aunt and uncle panting behind. Before I could follow, I felt a tug at my sleeve.

  “Kate. Kate,” said a voice. I looked down and there was Thibault holding a heaping plate of tripe. “You said you would help me. Can you help me?” He gazed up at me with enormous eyes.

  I gulped. “That’s a lot of tripe, sweetie.”

  “Ouais, Anna, mes cousins, et moi.” He gestured at all the kids. “We combined all of ours together. I told them what you said.” He whispered: “They hate tripe, too.” I glanced at their end of the table. Four kids were staring at me, wearing expressions of pure hope.

  I surveyed the yard. Maybe I could hide it? Bury it? Aunt Jeanne’s garden stared back at me, unforgiving clipped box hedges and immaculate flower beds—even the vegetable patch contained pumpkins and late tomatoes as perfectly uniform as the produce in a Japanese department store. “Okay,” I finally conceded. “Give it to me.” I took the plate from his hands, shocked by its weight.

  “Merci, Kate!” He skipped back to rejoin his cousins.

  I set the plate down and poured more wine in my glass—I’d need it. Then I looked around to make sure no one had seen me commit the sin of serving wine to myself.

  “Hungry?” Jean-Luc was striding toward the table with the others trailing in his wake. He raised an eyebrow at the pile of offal before me.

  “I didn’t think I was, but somehow this appeared.” I gestured at my plate. “Is everything okay?”

  “Everything’s fine. It smells worse than it is.” Heather slid back into her chair. “I thought I was turning on the oven, but I accidentally lit the broiler instead. When I put the tart in, the parchment paper caught fire. Smoke started pouring everywhere.”

  “I always keep a close eye on the oven—at least for the first few minutes,” clucked Aunt Jeanne.

  “Mama, can we have cheese now?” piped Thibault.

  “No, love. Not until you’re done with the plat,” she responded automatically.

  “All done! Cheese, please!” he sang, and the other kids joined the chorus: “On a terminé! Fro-mage, s’il vous plaît! On a terminé! Fro-mage, s’il vous plaît!”

  “Attendez les adultes,” Chloé admonished them with a stern look.

  “Another little bit of tripe, anyone?” Aunt Jeanne rested a hand on the lid of the tureen.

  “I didn’t realize you were such a tripe enthusiast.” Heather nodded at my plate as her mother-in-law served seconds to Chloé and Uncle Philippe.

  “Me neither. It crept up on me,” I said, eyeing the rubbery squares with their dull color and peculiar rough texture. When I looked up again, I saw Jean-Luc studying the children’s empty plate
s with a thoughtful expression.

  “Actually”—he rose halfway in his chair—“Katreen has my plate.” He reached over, removed the dish to his place, and began to apply himself to the food.

  Across the table, Uncle Philippe was staring at me. I felt his gaze of appraisal traveling over my face, but when I tried to meet his eye, he glanced away.

  “If you little monkeys like cheese so much,” Jean-Luc said to the kids with a teasing lilt to his voice, “tell me—what’s your favorite kind? Jeune homme?” he asked Thibault.

  “Comté!”

  He turned to the girls. “Et vous, les filles? ”

  “Comté!” shouted Isabelle. Soon, all the kids were talking about different types of cheese—goat, sheep, cow— chèvre, brebis, vache—and making the noises of their favorite animals. Their cries were so joyful, I didn’t have the opportunity to thank Jean-Luc. In any case, his attention was so resolutely focused on the children, I suspected that my gratitude was the last thing he wanted to hear.

  I sank back in my chair. This lunch—the wine, the stress, Jean-Luc’s icy demeanor, followed by his unexpected kindness—all of it pressed upon me until I felt my chest constrict. Mumbling an excuse, I pushed back my chair and headed toward the house.

  Inside, the living room dimmed before my sun-dazzled eyes. I waited for them to adjust, listening to the tick of a clock, breathing in the smells of smoke and lemon oil soap. Eventually, the details began to take shape, familiar from my childhood visits. A brass clock gleaming faintly in the diffused light. The mantelpiece of pale stone, carved with bunches of grapes and leaves. Two deep leather sofas flanking the fireplace. A pair of Turkish rugs softening the tiled floors. Above, beams of dark polished wood ran across the entire ceiling, casting the room in a somber pall. My heels clicked on the floor as I moved toward the powder room in the front hall. Here, the light was tinted pale green from the ivy that grew on this side of the house, covering the walls and shading the windows. I shut the bathroom door and leaned against it, closing my eyes.