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.”
Sam wasn’t convinced, but he let it pass. He saw that there were a couple of glasses still left in the bottle, and he felt the need to do them justice. “Well, professor, what would you say to a little cheese?”
Sophie was smiling as she leaned forward. “I have one word for you,” she said, wagging a finger at him. “Camembert.”
And Camembert it was, delicate and salty, which they agreed was the only possible way to end the meal.
When they parted company after dinner, Sam found himself watching her walk away. A fine-looking woman, he thought. That night he dreamed of teaching Elena to eat oysters à la française.
Sophie had pleasant memories of her first meeting with Sam. He was good company, he seemed to know his wine, and his slightly battered appearance was not unattractive. And there were those wonderful American teeth. Perhaps this assignment wouldn’t be so dull after all.
Nine
For Sam, the next two days were pleasant, instructive, and increasingly frustrating. Thanks to Sophie’s contacts, they had access to all the châteaus, including those where visitors were not normally welcome. It was thanks to Sophie, too, that the estate managers and cellar masters went out of their way to be helpful. At château after château-from the magnificent Lafite Rothschild to the diminutive Pétrus-the two investigators had been courteously received. Their story was listened to with patient attention. Their questions were answered. They were even given the occasional glass of nectar. But Sam had to admit that the visits, while they had added to his wine education, had failed to produce any progress. It was a discouraging list: two days, six châteaus, six dead ends.
On the evening of the second day, feeling tired and flat, Sam and Sophie looked for consolation in the hotel bar. Champagne, that unfailing restorative, was ordered and served.
“Well, I guess that’s it,” said Sam, raising his glass. “I’m sorry to have wasted your time. Thanks for all your help. You were terrific.”
Sophie shrugged. “At least you can tell them back in Los Angeles that you saw some of the great châteaus.” She smiled at him. “Our little version of the Napa Valley.”
Her cell phone rang. She looked at it, made a face, sighed, and put down her champagne. “My lawyer. Excuse me.” She got up and walked away to take the call.
Sam had noticed this before in France, and couldn’t make up his mind whether it was due to good manners or fear of eavesdroppers. But whenever possible, the French tried not to inflict their cell phone conversations on other people, preferring to find a private corner somewhere. It was a civilized habit that he wished his compatriots would adopt.
While he was waiting for the call to finish, he went back over the notes he’d taken during the château visits. At each château, they had asked who the regular clients were, the big buyers with serious caves to keep stocked. For the most part, the answers they had been given were unsurprising: Ducasse, Bocuse, Taillevent, the Elysée Palace, the Tour d’Argent, one or two private banks, half a dozen billionaires (whose names, of course, were not revealed). In other words, the usual suspects.