The disappearance of a friend and millions of Francs worth of wine interrupts David's buying trip in France when he pauses to assist and comfort his friend's wife, Catherine. Their lives are threatened, the intensifying circumstances draw them close...
Dark. Must have drifted off to sleep. I glanced at my watch – still early, not quite twenty fifteen. The dining room will soon be busy. After a quick shower and fresh clothes, I headed out. Downstairs and along to the dining room, I was led to my reserved table, my favourite in the corner by the window. From here I can survey the whole room or simply look out at the river.
When the waiter arrived with the menu and the cartes, I asked, "Does the chef have the coquilles de Saint-Brieuc this evening?"
"Yes, I served some earlier, but let me check if any are left."
"If there are, have the sommelier bring me a bottle of Guigal's '83 Condrieu."
The Condrieu arrived, was opened and poured, and I sat back to enjoy the action in the room. It's off-season, and there were several empty tables, but there were more than enough diners to make it a profitable evening for the hotel. I spotted two other wine buyers in the room, neither of whom I knew. But the little clues in their behaviour and manner tell me they are. I wondered whether they could do the same with me.
I instructed the waiter to have the chef prepare the scallops my preferred way: the ends seared very hot and very quickly, with thin crusts and the centres like the Japanese serve seafood – raw or nearly so. They arrived at the table perfectly done.
Most French scallops are small, a far cry from the huge, tender, and sweet Digby scallops I grew up with. But the scallops from Saint-Brieuc on the north coast of Brittany are similar to those of my youth. The Condrieu complemented perfectly, its rich oily texture and apricot-citrus fruit matching and harmonising with the rich, salty sweetness of the Saint-Jacques.
Because of the lunch at La Pyramide, I wanted only some cheese and breads to finish. After the trolley had been rolled away, I sat enjoying my small selection with the remainder of the bottle while I continued reminiscing.
After meeting Louis, I had driven down the narrow road from Clos de Bèze toward the village of Morey-Saint-Denis, past signs in the vineyards I knew from the books: Le Chambertin, Latricières-Chambertin, Clos-de-la-Roche. Then noting the place where I was to later meet, I continued into and through the village past Clos du Tart, Clos-Saint-Denis and Bonnes-Mares. While circling Clos de Vougeot, my fuel pump began acting up again, so I jiggled it into a more regular beat and headed back to my rendezvous, not wanting to be late.
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A tractor pulled into the courtyard as I got out of the car. "Come, but let me clean my hands, then we greet," said the stocky man, then added, "Deux minutes," as he disappeared through a door in what he had earlier called the house. The house was an imposing three-storey château of beige and deep rose masonry with ornate façades in the Beaux-Arts style.
"I am Louis," he said as he emerged from the château with two wine stems and a long glass tube dangling from his left hand and his right hand extended to shake.
"I'm David, from Canada. Thank you for giving me your time."
"I thought back there at the vines, not many young people drink Clos de Bèze or want to know about it. This man is different I think, so I am curious." Motioning toward the big oak door, he said, "Come, come, it is cold out here. It is warmer in the cellar, always around 12º, winter, summer, it does not matter.
