The Vintage Caper (5 page)

As the final indulgence of his day off, Sam was going to the Cigale Récamier for an early dinner, and he was going to dine alone. This was for him another small pleasure, summed up by a phrase he had first encountered while he was taking the wine course at Suze-la-Rousse. It had originated with the financier Nubar Gulbenkian, whose firm belief was that the ideal number for dinner is two: “Myself and the sommelier.” (The sommelier was Sam’s personal variation. Gulbenkian had specified a headwaiter.)

In today’s gregarious world, the solitary diner is a misunderstood figure. He might even be the object of some pity, since popular opinion finds it hard to accept that anyone would choose to sit alone in a crowded restaurant. And yet, for those who are comfortable in their own company, there is a lot to be said for a table for one. Without the distraction of a companion, food and wine can be given the attention they deserve. Eavesdropping is often rewarded by the fascinating indiscretions that drift across from neighboring tables. And, of course, a keen observer can enjoy the sideshow provided by the other diners, essential viewing for anyone amused and intrigued by the ever-changing mosaic of human behavior.

The Cigale Récamier, a five-minute stroll from the hotel, was one of Sam’s favorite stops in Paris. Hidden away at the end of a cul-de-sac off the Rue de Sèvres, it had all the qualities he liked in a restaurant. It was simple, unpretentious, and highly professional. The waiters had been there forever; they knew their métier to a fault and the wine list by heart. The clientele was an interesting mixture—Sam had seen government ministers, top international tennis players, and movie actors among the Parisian regulars. And then there were the soufflés, airy and delicate, savory and sweet. If these were your particular weakness, you could make an entire meal out of them.

Sam was shown to a small table in front of the wide pillar that took up part of the center of the room. Seated with his back to the pillar, he was facing a row of tables set against a wall that was mostly mirror. Thus he could see the comings and goings behind him as well as his fellow diners across the way. A perfect spot for the restaurant voyeur.

His waiter brought a glass of Chablis and the menu, and pointed out the blackboard listing the specials of the day. Sam chose lamb chops—simple, honest, rosy, perfectly cooked lamb chops, to be followed by a little cheese and then a caramel soufflé. The choice of wine he left to the waiter, knowing that he was in good hands. With a small sigh of satisfaction, he leaned back in his chair as his thoughts turned to the last dinner he had eaten before leaving Los Angeles.

It had been one of his regular outings with Bookman. They had decided to try a wildly fashionable restaurant in Santa Monica, a temple dedicated to the extremes of fusion cuisine and daring culinary experimentation. It was, according to one breathless restaurant review, a gastronomic laboratory. They should have known better. There were multiple tiny courses—some of which arrived perched on a teaspoon, others contained in a glass eyedropper. Sauces were served in a syringe, and precise instructions were given, by a rather precious waiter, as to exactly how to eat each course. As the meal tiptoed from one edible bijou to the next, Bookman became increasingly morose. He asked for bread, only to be told that the chef didn’t approve of bread with his cooking. Bookman’s patience was finally exhausted when the waiter went into raptures about the
dessert du jour
, which was bacon-and-egg ice cream. That did it for both of them. They left and went off to find something to eat.

The tables around Sam were beginning to fill up, and his eye was caught by the couple sitting side by side at a table opposite him. The man was middle-aged, nicely dressed, and seemed to be well known by the waiters. His companion was an exquisite girl of perhaps eighteen, with a face like a young Jeanne Moreau. She was listening intently to what the man was saying. They sat very close to one another, sharing the same menu. Sam realized that he was staring.

“Elle est mignonne, eh?” s
aid Sam’s waiter, cocking an eyebrow toward the girl as he arrived with the lamb chops. Sam nodded, and the waiter lowered his voice. “Monsieur is an old client of ours, and the girl is his daughter. He is teaching her how to have dinner with a man.” Only in France, Sam thought. Only in France.

Later, as he took a turn around the side streets on the way back to the hotel, Sam reflected on his off-duty day. From Manet and Monet to the lamb chops and the memorable caramel soufflé, it had been a voyage of rediscovery mixed with frequent twinges of nostalgia. Despite the absence of leaves on the trees, Paris looked ravishing. The Parisians, who seemed to be in danger of losing their reputation for arrogance and
froideur
, had been affable. The music of the French language spoken around him, the warm whiff of freshly baked bread from the
boulangeries
, the steel-gray glint of the Seine—it was all as he remembered it. And yet, somehow, it felt new. Paris does that to you.

It had been a day well spent. Pleasantly weary, he soaked the jet lag out of his bones in a hot tub and slept like a stone.

Eight

The next day, during the short flight down to Bordeaux, Sam passed the time by considering the differences between a plane full of Frenchmen and a plane full of Americans. Settling into his seat, his first impression was that the sound level in the cabin was lower. Conversations were muted, reflecting the French horror of being overheard. The passengers were smaller and darker; there were fewer blonds of either sex. There were also fewer iPods, but more books. The American addiction to drinking bottled water throughout the day hadn’t yet reached the French passengers (although since many of them were from Bordeaux it was possible that, for medical reasons, they restricted themselves to wine). There was no snacking. Sartorially, the style was somewhere between a day at the office and a day of bird hunting. Moss-colored, hip-length shooting jackets were worn over business suits, and Sam half expected to see the head of a dead pheasant poking out of a side pocket. Men’s hair was longer, and there were significant gusts of aftershave, but there were no masculine earrings or baseball caps to be seen. In general, the look was more formal.

There was, however, one overwhelming similarity between the Frenchman and his American cousin. Once the plane had reached the arrivals gate, two hundred cell phones appeared, as if on a preordained maneuver, so that passengers could tell wives, mistresses, lovers, secretaries, and business colleagues that, yet again, the pilot had foiled death and had managed a safe landing. Sam, who tended to agree with the theory that ninety percent of cell phone calls were unnecessary, was happy to wait for his bag in silence, a mute among babblers.

Looking for his contact, Madame Costes, he scanned the crowd in the arrivals area until his eye fell on a woman standing alone. She was holding a piece of cardboard with his name on it, at waist level. She looked almost as though she were embarrassed to be seen soliciting a stranger off a plane. He walked over to introduce himself.

Madame Costes was a pleasant surprise—not at all the sturdy old matron with flat feet and a faint moustache that Sam had anticipated. She was slim, in her midthirties, simply dressed in sweater and slacks, a silk scarf knotted loosely around her neck. Her sunglasses were pushed up into tawny, not-quite-blond hair. Her face was the kind one sees in society magazines: long and narrow and well-bred. In short, she was a prime example of
bon chic bon genre
. On his previous visits to France, Sam had often heard the phrase—usually abbreviated to
BCBG
—used to describe people of a certain class and style: they were chic, they were conservative, and they were devoted to anything made by Hermès.

Sam smiled as he took her hand. “Thanks for coming out to meet me. I hope it hasn’t messed up your afternoon.”

“Of course not. It’s good to get out of the office. Welcome to Bordeaux, Mr. Levitt.”

“Please. Sam.”

She tilted her head and raised her eyebrows, as if taken by surprise at such instant familiarity. But then, he was American. “I am Sophie. Come—we find the car just outside.”

She led the way out of the terminal, fishing for the car keys in the depths of a large leather bag the color and texture of a well-worn saddle. Sam was expecting her car to be the standard-issue French model: small, lively, and impossibly cramped for anyone with American-length legs. Instead, they stopped at a dark-green, mud-spattered Range Rover.

Sophie clicked her tongue in disapproval. “You must forgive the car,” she said. “I have been in the country yesterday. Mud everywhere.”

Sam grinned. “In L.A., the highway patrol would probably pull you over for driving an unhygienic vehicle.”

“Ah bon?
Pull me over?”

“Just kidding.” Sam settled back into his seat as Sophie, driving quickly and decisively, negotiated the airport traffic. Her hands on the wheel were as
BCBG
as the rest of her—polished but unvarnished nails cut short, a small gold signet ring on the little finger, so old that the family crest had worn smooth, and a vintage Cartier tank watch with a black crocodile strap.

“I made a reservation for you at the Splendide,” Sophie said. “It’s in the old part of town, near the Maison du Vin. I hope that’s good for you. Difficult for me to know, because I live here. I never stay in Bordeaux hotels.”

“Have you been here long?”

“I was born in Pauillac, about fifty kilometers from Bordeaux. So—
une fille du coin
, a local girl.”

“And your English? Don’t tell me that comes from Pauillac.”

“Years ago, I spent some time in London. In those days, one had to speak English; nobody spoke French. Today London is almost like
une ville française
. More than three hundred thousand French people live there. They say it’s easier for business.” Sophie leaned forward over the wheel. “Now, no more questions. I have to concentrate.”

Sophie threaded her way through a web of one-way streets and pulled up outside the hotel, an eighteenth-century building with a pompous façade and an air of self-satisfied respectability.

“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.”