Blowback

Chapter Twenty-three

Enzo found Guy in the cave. At the north-west corner of the cellar he had a small office, and Enzo saw the light burning in it, reflecting on the rows of precious bottles that lined the floor-to-ceiling racks. His footsteps echoed back from bedrock as he made his way to the far side of the cave, a sense of culture and wealth and history pressing all around him, dark liquid gold in darker, dusty bottles.

Guy looked up from his computer as Enzo’s bulk filled the open doorway. His face lit up in a smile. “Good morning, Enzo. Slept well, I hope.”

Enzo put a rueful hand to his forehead and pulled a face. “Too much whisky.”

“Damnit, man! Solitary drinking’s not good for you. You should have given me a shout. I’d have helped you with the bottle.” He grinned and waved a hand at his computer. “Updating my inventory. Had a delivery this morning of some rather excellent 2005 Bordeaux. I’m very tempted to open a bottle to let you try it. Very frustrating, but the inventory comes first, I’m afraid.” He looked out over his unique collection of wines. “Wine, wine everywhere, and not a drop to drink.”

Enzo tipped his head in smiling acknowledgement. “You know your English poets, then.”

Guy raised his jaw theatrically and quoted from memory.

“And every tongue, through utter drought,

Was withered at the root:

We could not speak, no more than if

We had been choked with soot.”

Enzo grinned. “ The Ancient Mariner.”

“Imagine, Enzo, you’re dying of thirst, and surrounded by water you cannot drink. I just thank the Lord I’m not an alcoholic.” He chuckled. “I’d hate to be the owner of such a cave and unable to drink any of it.”

Enzo shook his head. “Well, as it is, Guy, even if you lived to be a hundred you could only drink a fraction of it.”

“Ah, but I can choose any fraction of it that I want. There’s the rub. And that’s the pleasure in it.” He swivelled round in his chair. “Listen, how would you like to come to market with me one day? Marc used to go to the markets in Clermont Ferrand three days a week. And I still do it. I may not be a three-star chef, but I know about quality in the produce, and I don’t want to leave that to anyone else.”

“I’d like that.”

“Good. Day after tomorrow, then.” Guy paused and gave Enzo a quizzical look. “Did you want me for something special?”

Enzo leaned against the architrave of the door. “I wanted to ask you about Jean-Pierre Graulet.”

“The food critic?”

“Elisabeth told me there was a history of enmity between Marc and Graulet. Just wondered if you could tell me why.”

Guy roared with laughter and slapped his thighs. “Oh, Enzo, I can. I certainly can. It’s one of my favourite Marc stories.” He looked at his watch. “Goddamn, I don’t care if it’s early. This is a story that merits cracking open a bottle. Grab a seat.”

And he vanished off into the gloom of the cave as Enzo eased himself into a hard chair and groaned inwardly. His head was still delicate from last night’s whisky. Guy returned with a bottle of 2005 Chateau Margaux. As he went through the ritual of uncorking it, he said, “Only eight percent Merlot in this, and eight-five percent Cabernet Sauvignon. The Merlot was harvested at more than fourteen percent alcohol. Too rich for the Margaux. So most of it went into the chateau’s second wine, the Pavillon Rouge.” He poured them each a small glass.

“Oh, well, I suppose a hair of the dog will either kill me or cure me.”

Guy frowned. “A hair of the dog?”

Enzo laughed. “Celts have built a whole culture around the need to find a cure for hangovers. In the case of having a hair of the dog that bit you, the cure is more of the same.”

“Ah. Worth a try, then.” Guy breathed in the wine, swirled it, breathed again and then took a small mouthful to wash around his gums. “Oh,” he said, a look of ecstasy washing over his face. “Try it, tell me what you think.”

Enzo sucked oxygen into his mouth along with the wine. He felt the flavours fill his head. “Sensational,” he said. “Wonderful harmony.”

“Yes, first reports suggested it might be overly tannic, but it’s ageing nicely. I’ll not tell you what it cost.” Guy filled both their glasses and sipped pensively at his own. “Yes… Graulet.” And he laughed again. “A pompous ass of a man. Freelance critic. Writes for several of the Paris papers, and has a couple of online blogs of his own. Self-appointed judge of good cuisine on behalf of us poor, ignorant plebs. He sneaks around the top restaurants in various disguises, taking clandestine photographs, and sometimes video, for his blog. He believes that Michelin stands for everything that is dull and old-fashioned in French cuisine and just loves to target their three-star darlings with his most virulent criticism.”

“I thought he was renowned for ‘discovering’ his own restaurants of distinction.”

“Oh he is. He adores finding the undiscovered genius working in the kitchen of some obscure bistro tucked away in a hidden corner of Paris and revealing him to the world.” Guy chortled. “I’ve tried a few of them myself, and can’t say I have ever been particularly impressed.”

“So how did he and Marc come to cross swords?” Enzo let more wine slip back over his tongue, and felt the soothing warmth of the alcohol ease the ache in his head.

Guy perched himself on the edge of his desk. “Not long after Marc got his third star, Graulet came to sample the style Fraysse for himself. Made no secret of his presence, and despite everyone bending over backwards to please him, he was really quite objectionable. Marc had never been a target of his criticism before, and so was quite prepared to give him the benefit of the doubt. Until, that is, his column appeared the following week, panning Marc for his over-priced, over-rated, under-cooked, unimaginative cuisine.”

“How did Marc react?”

“At first he was furious. And then hurt. And then depressed. It sent him into a black funk for nearly a month. Nothing that anyone could say could snap him out of it. But as luck would have it, the following month he had to go to Paris to kneel at the feet of the Michelin gods.”

Enzo frowned. “What do you mean?”

Guy sipped some more of his nectar. “Every year, a procession of three-star chefs present themselves before the headmaster for a kind of end-of-term report. All trooping one by one into the eight-story edifice at No. 46 avenue de Breteuil. No one is above making the pilgrimage. Not even the great Paul Bocuse himself.

“It was the first time Marc had been asked to go and genuflect before the Director himself. But it wasn’t the same Director who had awarded him his third star. Naegellen had been replaced that year by one Derek Brown. An Englishman, for God’s sake! Can you imagine? Some damned rosbif telling us frogs what constitutes good French cuisine!” He laughed. “Actually, he was a good man, Brown. But don’t let on I told you that.”

Enzo grinned.

“Anyway, while in Paris, Marc met up with a few of his three-star compatriots. A couple in particular who had also been on the receiving end of Graulet’s vitriol. They let Marc into a little plot they were hatching, and he was only too happy to participate.

“A young chef who had worked as a second to one of them had just opened a little bistro in Clichy, right on the outskirts of Paris. Graulet was being set up. A strategically placed tip-off had alerted him to the fact that this particular bistro might be an excellent ‘find’ for his blog. And so he had booked a table, and in one of his ridiculous disguises turned up incognito with a group of friends. What he didn’t know was that the food he had ordered was being prepared for him in the kitchen by the very three-star chefs whose talents he had so recently derided.” Guy topped up their glasses and laughed again at the memory.

“Of course, his meal was ‘sublime’. And he wrote as much in his blog, praising this talented young chef that he had ‘discovered’ to the rafters. The following day, the three musketeers as they came to be known, announced to the media that they had in fact cooked Graulet’s meal that night.”

Enzo laughed. “Which must have made Graulet feel like a bit of an idiot.”

“Complete and utter humiliation.” Guy’s face positively glowed with delight at the recollection of the moment. “It took Graulet a long time to get over it. For some reason he got it into his head that Marc had been the ringleader. But he didn’t dare criticise him again. In fact, as far as I’m aware, he never ever mentioned Marc again in his columns or his blogs.” His face darkened. “Until, of course, he became the first to print the rumor that Marc Fraysse was on the verge of being downgraded to two stars.” He gazed thoughtfully into the dark red liquid in his glass. “Which I have no doubt gave him the greatest of pleasure.”