“Wasn’t it just divine?” Gretchen said. “Of course I paid for that good time today. Wicked hangover, and I didn’t get out of bed until two. The phone rang all day with people dying to know how to get on the list for next year.”
I blew kisses to her and kept on my way, interested that she hadn’t heard anything about a corpse dressed in white or the scandalous news from New York.
The bartender must have seen me approaching and alerted Luc, who opened the door and bowed his head to me, taking my hand to kiss it and welcome me inside.
This was the showmanship that Luc Rouget thrived on. He looked dashing in the crisp white chef’s coat with his name embroidered in green thread that was exactly the same shade as the paint trim in the dining room. He wore clogs as his father had decades earlier, long before Mario Batali popularized them as the celebrity chef footwear of choice. Regulars and first-time diners seemed to watch all his movements, curious to see who he favored and whether any glimpse of his mercurial temper would flash.
Every table in the bar, except for the four-top in the far corner, was occupied. The crowd was more youthful and hip, on most nights, than the guests interested in the full experience of the haute cuisine served next door.
Luc escorted me to the table, and I slid into the brown leather banquette against the wall. He called to the bartender, asking for deux coupes, and within seconds there were two glasses of champagne on our table.
“Are the kids okay?” I asked.
Luc hovered over me, leaning one arm on the door frame between the rooms, but he had his eyes set on the action in the restaurant. He would lavish most of his attention on the high rollers who were paying through the nose for the hard-to-get reservation.
“They’re fine. They don’t know anything yet.”
“And Brigitte?”
“What’s to say? She hasn’t seen Lisette in years and doesn’t want to be part of any investigation involving her death. She’s taken the boys out of school for two weeks while she goes to Normandy tomorrow, where her mother is.”
“I take it you’re not happy about that.”
Luc looked down at me and nodded. “I’d prefer they be here. I’d like to be with them, especially before I head to New York.”
“I know that,” I said, sensing tension after his meeting with Brigitte. “Did you have an argument with Brigitte? I mean about taking the kids with her.”
“Brigitte never argues. She’s used to getting her way.”
She left Luc a few years ago for reasons he had never articulated. He wasn’t over her, and maybe never would be. I expected photographs of his two sons to be all over his home-Luc adored them-but I had no clue why he still kept a picture of Brigitte in the single drawer of the table beside the bed.
“Have you spoken to Jacques Belgarde?”
“Not yet.”
“Not even to tell him about the guy with the gun?”
Luc glanced at his watch. “Trust me. He’ll be in before the kitchen closes. He’s got a better nose for black truffles than most pigs, and we’re serving some tonight.”
“Why don’t you sit down with me?” I said, tugging at the sleeve of his jacket. “You look so anxious.”
“Shortly, darling.”
The headwaiter crossed the threshold from the dining room. “Monsieur Rouget, the guests at table six would like to see you.”
“Problem?”
“Not at all. A little stroking perhaps,” he said with a wink. “They knew your father. I think they just want to reminisce.”
“Papa’s my lucky charm, Alex. I’m bringing him to New York for the opening. His old customers will come out in droves,” Luc said, the spark returning to his eyes. “This is a world he created, and he’s electric at making it work.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“As soon as Jim-my wine guru-arrives, I’ll bring him in and we’ll order. Think of something fabulous the kitchen can create for you.”
My thoughts were everywhere except on the dinner menu. I opened my evening bag and took out the small notebook that I carried everywhere. My list-making habit was almost obsessive, and within minutes I had worked up a full page of questions I wanted to ask Captain Belgarde about Lisette and his findings. I was still jotting down ideas when I heard Luc’s voice, and stuffed the papers away.
He reentered the bar, followed by a tall, stocky man who looked more like a fullback than a wine merchant. Luc motioned him to the seat beside me, and I slid over to let him in as he put the two bottles of wine he was carrying on the table.
“Alex, this is Jim Mulroy.”
“Happy to meet you,” I said.
“My pleasure. Luc’s talked about you a lot.” He rubbed his palms together and smiled at Luc. “Open these up, will you? I think I’ve found something unusual for New York.”
While he examined the labels, Luc signaled to the bartender to come over and uncork the bottles. “Bordeaux?”
“Don’t say it.” Jim held up both hands. “Pretentious, stodgy, dull. Your young customers think it’s old-school and over-branded. Taste this, my friend.”
“Domaine de Jeuget. Never heard of it.”
“I don’t know how I got so lucky. Three hundred fifty years this family’s had the vineyards. Just a small estate, Luc. It’s not a château. The old guy who runs it took me down in the cellars. I’m telling you, there are cobwebs on everything except the barrels, and they probably predate Napoléon.”
Jim sniffed the cork before handing it to Luc.
“Fresh and alive, isn’t it?” Jim went on. “There are no chemicals, no manipulation. He does it just like his father and grandfather did before him, keeps it in barrels for thirty months. No oakiness, but a nice subtle aeration.”
Luc poured a bit into a glass. “How much does he produce a year?”
“Six, maybe seven thousand bottles of St. Julien.”
I was watching this dance between them and admiring Jim’s enthusiasm. “Is that a lot or a little?”
“It’s a miniscule output.” Luc laughed at me. “Think of Mouton Rothschild. They put out something like one hundred and seventy thousand bottles of their best wine each year. They’re farming close to three hundred acres.”
“Versus three acres for Jeuget,” Jim said. “It’s graceful, isn’t it? Smell all those violets that make up the aroma, and the minerals, too.”
He tilted his glass toward me and I took a whiff. It just smelled like red wine.
“I get the picture, Jim,” Luc said, explaining to me. “The major importers won’t deal with this, Alex. There isn’t enough product. They can’t buy enough of it to ship to all their clients. They can’t get a bulk price.”
“Let me order five hundred cases for New York. You can charge anything you want for it, anywhere from one to two hundred bucks a bottle.”
“What’s the typical restaurant markup on wine?” I asked.
“Four, maybe five times what we pay for it,” Luc said.
“Starting up a first-rate place in Manhattan these days, with labels you can’t get anywhere else?” Jim said. “The sky’s the limit. What do you say?”
“I think you’ve got a point.” Luc was leaning back in his chair, swirling the glass. “Let me talk to my partners.”
“But fast. This stuff is going to go like lightning. There isn’t much of it, and it’s got soul, Luc.”
I laughed at Jim’s enthusiasm.
“This will round out your cellar. It’s what you’re missing-a really profound Bordeaux.”
“But five hundred cases? I haven’t even opened my doors yet.”
“What you can’t use, I promise you Ken Aretsky will take off your hands. He’s got the best wine list in the city.”
Ken was a longtime friend of mine-one of Manhattan’s legendary restaurateurs. He owned an upscale midtown eatery called Patroon and had become Luc’s unofficial adviser in navigating the difficult waters of the modern-day business of fine dining.