Enzo nodded his agreement. “Yes.” How anyone, never mind a three-star chef, could not enjoy a glass of good wine was beyond him.
“You’re a wine man yourself, I take it?”
Enzo grinned. “One of my great pleasures in life, Guy, is to sit back and enjoy a bottle of fine wine.”
Guy’s beam stretched his face. “Excellent! A man after my own heart, then. I know that you are here on… what shall we say… rather unpleasant business. But we’ll break open a few good bottles as compensation while you are. And have some damned good food, too. Marc would have approved of that.” He paused. “You’re from Cahors, aren’t you?”
“That’s right.”
“Yes… the black wine of Cahors. The Malbec is a difficult grape, but when it’s crafted properly the results can be magnificent.” He reached up and carefully drew out a dusty bottle. “Chateau La Caminade. Ninety-five. Wonderful with a civet de sanglier. The blood of the earth mixed with the blood of the wild boar. But I’m sure you’ve had many a bottle of La Caminade.”
“I have.” Enzo felt his mouth water with anticipation.
But to his disappointment Guy slipped it back into its rack, and headed off among the canyons of wine. Once again he stopped, stooping this time to very carefully extract a bottle from one of the lower racks. He turned, holding the bottle in both hands, to present the label to Enzo. “What, I am sure, you won’t have tasted before, is one of these.”
Enzo peered at the faded and browning label and raised his eyebrows in surprise.
Guy roared with laughter. “Shocked?”
Enzo couldn’t help but laugh. “I am a little.”
“Never expected a dyed in the wool Frenchman to have a Californian vintage in his cellar, did you?”
“I certainly didn’t.”
Guy turned the bottle to look at the label himself. “Opus One was the brainchild of two of the world’s great winemakers, you know. Baron Philippe de Rothschild and Robert Mondavi. They hatched the idea between them in Hawaii in 1970, and this was their first vintage, more than thirty years old now, but still wonderful. Cabernet sauvignon blended with sixteen percent cabernet franc and four percent merlot. It cost three hundred and fifty dollars when they first produced it. You can imagine what it is worth now.”
“Only as much as someone is prepared to pay for it.”
“True. But let me assure you Enzo, there are many people who would pay plenty for a bottle like this. Just to experience those flavours. That wonderfully evolved, intense and fragrant nose of cedar, black fruits, smoked meat, leather spice. So full of fruit and soft tannins, but still elegant in its complexity.”
Enzo felt saliva filling his mouth again. It was almost as if Guy were tormenting him on purpose, tantalising him with the promise of something he would never deliver. The Frenchman slipped the bottle back into its resting place, and set off again at pace. Enzo struggled to keep up.
“So many wines to choose from. You could debate with yourself all day which one to have.” He stopped at the end of a row. “I do understand, you know, that the cellar is ostensibly for the pleasure of our diners, that we offer them possibly one of the best wine lists in the world. But they are like my children, these bottles. Every last one of them. I hate to see them opened at the table of strangers. It’s like a little part of me dies each time one is drunk.”
He turned to his left and drew out a bottle at chest height. “Now this…” he swivelled, beaming, toward Enzo, “…is something you are only ever likely to see once in a lifetime. And most people never will. I have all the best vintages here from Bordeaux and Burgundy, from ‘59 to 2005. Cheval Blanc, Ausone, Haut Brion, Lafite, Margaux, Petrus…” He paused, eyes wide and shining with excitement at the recital of these unsurpassable vintages and labels, as if in owning the bottles he owned everything else about them, too. “But this… this is special.”
He turned the label toward Enzo with reverential hands.
Enzo’s eyes opened wide. “Chateau Latour, 1863,” he read. The label was only barely legible.
Guy almost trembled with the excitement of holding it. “Here. Take it.” He held it out toward Enzo, but the Scotsman shook his head.
“I couldn’t. What if I dropped it?”
Guy laughed heartily. “I would dispatch you in swift order to join my brother, wherever he might be.” He almost thrust it at Enzo. “Go on, take it!”
Enzo tensed as he grasped the bottle firmly, the glass cool on the skin of his palms, the smell of age rising from its label, and it felt like holding history in his hands. Such a bottle would never even appear on a wine list. No one could put a price on it. And yet Guy had acquired it, probably at auction. So he had put a price on it then. He wondered what it was, but knew Guy would never tell.
Guy watched him intently, knowing exactly how Enzo must be feeling, enjoying it, even second-hand. He took the bottle back, and Enzo breathed a sigh of relief, which Guy detected immediately. He grinned. “Like I said. There are some bottles that will never be drunk, simply treasured by their owners. Sometimes the joy of collecting is almost better than drinking.” He fed it gingerly back into its cradle and turned to Enzo, the tension of the moment evaporating into the cool air. He smiled. “Let’s show you the kitchen.”
Chapter Four
Sliding glass doors parted to usher Guy and Enzo into the kitchen. Enzo had been unsure what to expect, never having been in the kitchen of a three-star restaurant before, but this surpassed anything he might have imagined. It was vast. A huge rectangular space divided in two halves. One half was shared by a servers’ station where the cheese trolleys were loaded and the coffees made, and by the boulangerie-patisserie which baked the bread and prepared the desserts. The other half was where the serious cooking was done. There were hotplates and gas rings, ovens, freezers, larders, and a charcoal grill. A dazzling array of shiny, stainless steel surfaces.
The whole kitchen was alive with activity. Extractors hummed and timers pinged, and an extraordinary number of men and women in white, sporting long green aprons and tall white hats, moved among the preparation and cooking areas with all the sure-footedness of a well-choreographed ballet company. Evening service was imminent.
“There are anything up to twenty chefs working here at any one time,” Guy said. “Although the bulk of them are stagiaires. Most trainees spend a season here, learning from the bottom up. But we have short term trainees, too, who normally come to us on release from college courses. The stagiaires get all the donkey work to do. Chopping vegetables, preparing stocks, jointing the birds, trimming the meat, washing the floor.” He wandered across the space that divided the two halves of the kitchen, where a long, low, marble table was laid out with three place settings. Beyond it, floor to ceiling glass windows gave on to what Enzo assumed must have been Marc’s office.
Servers in loose black tops and pants glided in and out bearing large silver trays loaded with amuse bouches prepared in the patisserie to serve guests in the lounge. Enzo was aware of curious eyes flickering in his direction, then away again. There couldn’t have been anyone in the kitchen who did not know why he was here.