Read Online The Vintage Caper by Peter Mayle - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Peter Mayle
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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,
“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,
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