middle-aged couples were murmuring over their menus. There was no sign of Maître Auzet, although, as the waiter told Max, she had reserved her usual table overlooking the sweep of vines to the south.
Max ordered a
kir,
which was delivered with a dish of radishes and some sea salt, together with the menus and the wine list—a tome bound in tooled leather, bulging with expensive bottles. Not surprisingly, Max failed to find any mention of the wine from Le Griffon. He called the waiter over.
“I was told the other day about a local red. I think it’s called Le Griffon,” he said.
The waiter looked impassive.
“Ah bon?”
“What do you think of it? Any good?”
The waiter inclined his upper body toward Max and lowered his voice. “
Entre nous,
monsieur”—he applied his thumb and index finger delicately to the end of his nose—
“pipi de chat.”
He paused to allow this to sink in. “May I recommend something more appropriate? In the summer, Maître Auzet is partial to the rosé of La Figuière, from the Var, pale and dry.”
“What a good idea,” said Max. “It was on the tip of my tongue.”
The arrival of Maître Auzet was marked by a flurry of deference from the waiter, who escorted her to the table and eased her into her chair. She was wearing another of her suits, black and severe, and carried an anorexic briefcase. She had clearly decided that this was to be a strictly business lunch.
“
Bonjour,
Monsieur Skinner . . .”
Max held up his hand. “Please. Call me Max. And I can’t possibly keep calling you
maître.
It makes me think of some old man with a white wig and false teeth.”
She smiled, took a radish from the dish, and dipped it in the salt. “Nathalie,” she said, “and they’re my own teeth.” She bit into the radish, a pink tongue darting out to lick a grain of salt from her lower lip. “So tell me. You found everything in order at the house? Oh, before I forget . . .” She opened her briefcase and took out a folder. “A few more bills—house insurance, some work the electrician did, the quarterly account from the
Cave Co-opérative.
” She slid the folder across the table. “
Voilà.
That’s all. No more disagreeable surprises, I promise you.”
Before Max could reply, the waiter reappeared with an ice bucket and the wine. With the first glasses poured, a light meal of salad and fillets of
rouget
ordered, and the social niceties out of the way, Nathalie began to describe the situation with Roussel and the vines.
In Provence, she explained, as in most other wine-producing regions, there was an arrangement known as
métayage.
Roussel and Max’s uncle had adopted this system many years ago, whereby Roussel did the work on the vines, Uncle Henry paid for the cost of upkeep, and the two of them shared the wine. With Uncle Henry’s death, the change of proprietor had made Roussel anxious. He wanted the arrangement to continue, and was worried that Max might be thinking of ending it.
Max asked if that were technically possible, and Nathalie admitted that it was. But, she said, it would be difficult and perhaps legally complicated to change things. As legal people love to do, she then cited a precedent—a local precedent, in fact. The owners of a nearby vineyard had worked with the same family of peasants for nearly two hundred years. A few generations ago, after a dispute, the owners tried to cancel the arrangement. The peasants resisted. After a prolonged and bitter argument, the peasants won the right to continue working the land, which they still did. But the two families hadn’t spoken to one another since 1923.
Max finished a mouthful of
rouget
and shook his head. “Unbelievable. Is that really true?”
“Of course. There are hundreds of histories like that, feuds over land and water, even within the same family. Brothers against brothers, fathers against sons. It’s good, the fish, no?”
“Terrific. But tell me something. I tasted some of the wine—Le
Max ordered a
kir,
which was delivered with a dish of radishes and some sea salt, together with the menus and the wine list—a tome bound in tooled leather, bulging with expensive bottles. Not surprisingly, Max failed to find any mention of the wine from Le Griffon. He called the waiter over.
“I was told the other day about a local red. I think it’s called Le Griffon,” he said.
The waiter looked impassive.
“Ah bon?”
“What do you think of it? Any good?”
The waiter inclined his upper body toward Max and lowered his voice. “
Entre nous,
monsieur”—he applied his thumb and index finger delicately to the end of his nose—
“pipi de chat.”
He paused to allow this to sink in. “May I recommend something more appropriate? In the summer, Maître Auzet is partial to the rosé of La Figuière, from the Var, pale and dry.”
“What a good idea,” said Max. “It was on the tip of my tongue.”
The arrival of Maître Auzet was marked by a flurry of deference from the waiter, who escorted her to the table and eased her into her chair. She was wearing another of her suits, black and severe, and carried an anorexic briefcase. She had clearly decided that this was to be a strictly business lunch.
“
Bonjour,
Monsieur Skinner . . .”
Max held up his hand. “Please. Call me Max. And I can’t possibly keep calling you
maître.
It makes me think of some old man with a white wig and false teeth.”
She smiled, took a radish from the dish, and dipped it in the salt. “Nathalie,” she said, “and they’re my own teeth.” She bit into the radish, a pink tongue darting out to lick a grain of salt from her lower lip. “So tell me. You found everything in order at the house? Oh, before I forget . . .” She opened her briefcase and took out a folder. “A few more bills—house insurance, some work the electrician did, the quarterly account from the
Cave Co-opérative.
” She slid the folder across the table. “
Voilà.
That’s all. No more disagreeable surprises, I promise you.”
Before Max could reply, the waiter reappeared with an ice bucket and the wine. With the first glasses poured, a light meal of salad and fillets of
rouget
ordered, and the social niceties out of the way, Nathalie began to describe the situation with Roussel and the vines.
In Provence, she explained, as in most other wine-producing regions, there was an arrangement known as
métayage.
Roussel and Max’s uncle had adopted this system many years ago, whereby Roussel did the work on the vines, Uncle Henry paid for the cost of upkeep, and the two of them shared the wine. With Uncle Henry’s death, the change of proprietor had made Roussel anxious. He wanted the arrangement to continue, and was worried that Max might be thinking of ending it.
Max asked if that were technically possible, and Nathalie admitted that it was. But, she said, it would be difficult and perhaps legally complicated to change things. As legal people love to do, she then cited a precedent—a local precedent, in fact. The owners of a nearby vineyard had worked with the same family of peasants for nearly two hundred years. A few generations ago, after a dispute, the owners tried to cancel the arrangement. The peasants resisted. After a prolonged and bitter argument, the peasants won the right to continue working the land, which they still did. But the two families hadn’t spoken to one another since 1923.
Max finished a mouthful of
rouget
and shook his head. “Unbelievable. Is that really true?”
“Of course. There are hundreds of histories like that, feuds over land and water, even within the same family. Brothers against brothers, fathers against sons. It’s good, the fish, no?”
“Terrific. But tell me something. I tasted some of the wine—Le
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