Blowback Page 4

  Enzo handed it back to her. “Makes me hungry just to read it.”

  She smiled. “Don’t worry, Monsieur Macleod, we have a place set for you to eat with us tonight en famille in the kitchen.” And he found himself a little disappointed that he would be eating in the kitchen rather than the dining room. The fare would probably be somewhat different.

  He turned back to the desk, fingering things, as if the touch of them might bring him somehow closer to the dead man. A paper punch, a ruler, an eraser. He lifted the lid of the laptop and noticed its power cable snaking away to some concealed power point behind the desk. “Did he use the computer much?”

  “Oh, yes, he spent a lot of time on it. He loved his email. He was forever writing to somebody, and his inbox always seemed full. He used his browser to scour the web in search of ideas. Novel ingredients, novel recipes. And, of course, critiques of his food, articles about himself. He needed the reassurance of constant praise, you see. Sadly, it didn’t matter how many good critiques he received, one bad one would send him spiralling into a depression for days.”

  Enzo closed the lid again and noticed that the laptop sat on a large blotter covered with scribbles, the idle doodling of a dead man. But here were words, too, and names. The initials JR, their contours inked over again and again till they were almost unreadable. A phone number that began with the digits 06. A cellphone number. The phrase, la nature parle et l’experience traduit, written in Marc Fraysse’s distinctive hand. Nature speaks, experience translates. A quote, Enzo knew, from Jean-Paul Sartre. His thoughts were interrupted by the door from the hall opening behind them. Both he and Madame Fraysse turned to be greeted by the grinning, florid face of a large man losing his hair.

  “Ah, Guy. You’re just in time to meet Monsieur Macleod.”

  “They told me you were up here.” Guy extended an enormous hand to crush Enzo’s. The sleeves of his voluminous khaki shirt were rolled up to the elbow, the tails of it out over well-worn denims, and he wore a pair of scuffed sneakers. Not the image Enzo had had in mind of one of the world’s most successful restauranteurs. “A pleasure to meet you, Monsieur Macleod. We have heard a great deal about you.” There was a twinkle in his blue eyes, and an openness that immediately drew Enzo. “Has Elisabeth been filling you in?”

  “She has.”

  “Good. Well, we’re both entirely at your disposal. We want to get to the bottom of this, Monsieur Macleod. It’s been too long, and there is still no closure.”

  “Well, I hope I’ll be able to do that for you, Monsieur Fraysse. But there are no guarantees, I’m afraid.”

  “No, of course not. And it’s Guy, by the way. You don’t mind if I call you… Enzo, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “I hate formalities. And I’m sure my sister-in-law would prefer you to call her Elisabeth.”

  A glance at Elisabeth’s frozen smile told Enzo that perhaps she wouldn’t. He decided to stick with Madame Fraysse.

  “At any rate, if you are finished here, I’m sure you would like to see the kitchen,” Guy said.

  “Very much.”

  “Good. It’s a bit special. I’ll take you down. But first I want to show you my pride and joy.”

  Enzo heard Madame Fraysse’s barely audible sigh. “His wine cellar.”

  Guy beamed. “Exactly. I have more than four thousand labels, Enzo, and nearly seventy thousand bottles. You couldn’t put a price on the collection. I have vintages down there that will never be drunk.”

  Enzo frowned. “Why not?”

  “Because they’re far too valuable to waste on a moment of fleeting pleasure.”

  ***

  The cellar was accessed through a stout oak door off the reception area, just a few paces from the west-facing dining room. Guests were already assembling in the lounge to order aperitifs and await that day’s amuse-bouches, spoonfuls of flavour served on lacquer platters, whatever the chef might have dreamed up during the afternoon to whet the appetites of evening diners.

  Guy flicked a light switch at the top of a flight of wooden steps leading down to the cellar. Lamps flickered and shed soft light on rows of wine racks stretching off into the chill gloom below them. The cellar was enormous, filling the footprint of the entire house, hacked out of the bedrock on which the foundations had been built. The floor was stone flagged, and the walls themselves bedrock rising to stone founds.

  Guy’s voice boomed and echoed as he led Enzo down the steps. “The temperature down here never wavers,” he said. “Summer or winter. Better than any air-conditioning. A constant twelve degrees centigrade. Perfect to keep the wine in best condition.” He started off along a narrow passage between two towering rows of racks. “When success came we spent money on three things. The building itself, Marc’s kitchen, and my cellar. And I’m pretty sure I’ve assembled one of the best in France.” He stopped and turned to confront the following Enzo with a mask of incomprehension. He shook his head. “The strangest thing. Marc was possibly one of the best chefs this country has ever produced. He had an impeccable palate. Incredibly discerning. He should have revelled in the dégustation, the tasting of the wines. But he didn’t drink. Only the odd glass. He had no interest in wine. None. Quite extraordinary.”

  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. “Château 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, tantalisin
g 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. “Château 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.

  “The organisation of the kitchen is fairly simple,” Guy said. “It is divided into four. The larder, or gare manger; the vegetable section; fish and meat; and the boulangerie-patisserie. There is a chef in charge of each, the chef de partie. Then there is the sous chef, or second, the chef de cuisine, and, of course, the chef himself. Le patron.”

  “And who is le patron now?”

  “Let me introduce you.”

  Guy led Enzo across to where a work station was being set up with wooden chopping board, knives, and condiments below a blindingly bright heat lamp. The chef behind it, dressed all in white, was nearly extinguished by the light. A man in his early forties with a neatly trimmed ginger moustache and amber-flecked green eyes, he was almost painfully thin. Enzo wondered how anyone who enjoyed his food could be so emaciated.

  “This is Georges Crozes. He was Marc’s second, promoted to chef when Marc died.”

  Georges wiped a bony hand on a clean torchon dangling from his apron strings and reached over stainless steel to shake Enzo’s hand. He had unsmiling, guarded eyes. “Enchanté, monsieur.” But Enzo felt that he was less than enchanted to meet him.

  Guy seemed oblivious. “Traditionally, when a three-star chef dies, Michelin takes away a star. They say it is a mark of respect for the deceased chef, since how could someone else immediately fill those three-star shoes? In reality, it usually means huge loss of income for the widow or whoever has inherited the restaurant.” He beamed appreciatively in the direction of Georges Crozes. “However, because of the circumstances of Marc’s death, they made an exception for us. And it is very much down to Georges that we have retained that third star ever since.”

  Enzo said, “I understood that Michelin was thought to be on the point of taking away one of Marc’s stars anyway.”

  Guy flicked him a glance. “A rumor. Whether it was true, we’ll never know. At any rate, Georges was his protégé, schooled in the style Fraysse, and although he has introduced his own individual slant on things, it is still essentially Marc’s cuisine that we serve here. And since we still have those stars…” He shrugged to indicate he believed his point had been made.

  “Monsieur Fraysse, your evening meal is ready.”

  Enzo turned to find an older man smiling benignly at them. He was tall, a man in his sixties, almost completely bald, with a tightly trimmed silver moustache. He was dressed all in black like the other servers, but had the relaxed demeanour of someone in charge.

  Guy nodded. “Thank you, Patrick.”

  Patrick waved an open palm toward the marble table and Enzo saw that it was now laden with food. There were a large breadbasket with four different kinds of bread to be broken by hand and eaten with the fingers, bowls of salad and pasta, and a large steaming dish of freshly cooked mussels in a cream and garlic sauce.

  Elisabeth Fraysse bustled out of the office as Guy and Enzo took their seats, and she sat opposite them while Patrick placed clean plates in front of each.

  “Did you get that bottle I asked for?” Guy asked him.

  Patrick made a small bow, for all the world like a well-practised butler, or an old family retainer. “I did, Monsieur Fraysse. I’ve had it breathing for you.”

  Guy grinned at Enzo. “A little something to celebrate your arrival.”

  As they loaded their plates with salad and pasta, and large scoops of shiny, gaping mussel shells revealing succulent orange moules, Patrick brought a bottle to the table and held it with the label toward Guy, bringing a smile to his employer’s face.

  “Perfect.” He turned to Enzo as Patrick poured him a mouthful to taste. “A 19
93 DRC Grand Cru, La Tâche. Domaine de la Romanée Conti. Most people believe you should only drink white with fish and fruits de mer, but a good pinot noir will go with most seafood and is particularly good with moules.” He put his nose in the wine glass, breathed in, swirled it, breathed in again, then took a small sip to wash around his mouth. “Oh.” His eyes almost closed in ecstasy. “This is going to be so very good.”

  Patrick filled Enzo’s glass, then Guy’s, but Enzo noticed that Madame Fraysse was drinking only sparkling mineral water. Guy raised his glass to touch Enzo’s, and they sipped at the pale liquid red. Its wonderful spicy light fruit filled Enzo’s mouth, and he caught Guy watching him for his reaction. “I hope,” Enzo said, “that watching me drink this doesn’t induce you to die a little.”

  Guy laughed. “Never, when a bottle is shared with a friend. What do you think?”

  “I think it’s an extraordinary wine, Guy.”

  “What do you taste?”

  It was, it seemed to Enzo, almost like a test. What did he really know about wines. He took another sip to roll around his mouth and said, “It’s light, elegant. But still rich. Full of plum, berry, and a touch of vanilla. Aged long enough, I guess, for most of the tannins to have turned to fruit.”

  Guy grinned infectiously. “Spot on. You know your wines, Enzo. Not bad for a Scotsman.”

  “Maybe we’ll try a whisky tasting some day, and we’ll see how you get on?”

  Guy threw his head back and roared with laughter. “And I’ll bet there’s a thing or two about drinking whisky that you could teach me.”

  Enzo smiled. “You would win that bet.”

  He turned to the moules, breaking off a piece of bread to dip in their creamy juices, then extracting the first of them with his fork and popping it into his mouth. It was so soft and tender and full of flavour that it seemed to simply melt on his tongue. He used its empty shell as pincers to pick the others from their shells, savouring each one in turn, and cleansing his palate from time to time with some wine and the mildly dressed salad on his plate.