The Critic

Chapter Fourteen
I

The old man shuffled slowly across the grande salle. Ancient wooden floorboards, supported on centuries-old oak beams, creaked and dipped beneath his feet. An enormous cheminee of white sandstone was set in a blackened wall, rising to a ceiling transected by yet more oak beams.

The last golden light of the day was fading to pink, seeping in through porte-fenetres that opened onto a covered terrasse perched high up on the gable elevation of this fifteenth century gothic residence. Enzo and Bertrand and Sophie followed the old man out on to the terrasse, Braucol trotting obediently at their heels.

The climb, in fading light, up through the steep, cobbled streets of the thirteenth century bastide town of Cordes en Ciel, had left Enzo breathless and perspiring. What little breath remained was taken away completely by the view that opened out before them from the terrasse. To the north, Puech Gabel rose high above the valley of the silver-pink Cerou river. To the east and west, the Saint Marcel heights extended towards the horizon and the brooding dark line of the Forest of Gresigne. A patchwork of green fields smudged dark by trees and villages, lights twinkling sporadically in the fading day. Immediately beneath them, a jumble of tiled roofs fell away to the market square two hundred feet below. Woodsmoke rose in the still air, carrying with it the first portents of winter.

Shortly before his retirement, Jacques Domenech, had been awarded l’ Ordre National de la Legion d’Honneur, by President Chirac, for his services to the French wine industry. In his day he had been, quite possibly, the best known sommelier in France. When, finally, he had sold his string of Michelin-starred restaurants and bought this extraordinary house, he retreated here to gothic retirement, perched high up above the rolling hills of the southwest.

‘For centuries,’ he said, ‘this town was known only as Cordes- a word of Indo-European origin, by the way-meaning rocky heights. It was only recently that they changed the name to Cordes in The Sky. But it’s not until you live here that you see why. In spring and autumn the surrounding valleys fill with mist, and one wakes to the illusion of floating in the sky above the clouds. It is almost as heady as good wine.’

He regarded Bertrand with affection, and put a hand on his shoulder.

‘My boy, you haven’t changed a bit. Except for those bits of metal in your face. Is this your girlfriend?’ He peered at Sophie.

‘My daughter,’ Enzo said.

He looked at Enzo and nodded. ‘Lucky man.’ Then turned towards Bertrand. ‘Best pupil of his year, you know. Could have been a professional sommelier, had he chosen to.’ He sighed. ‘But that would have been a long, hard road, Bertrand, eh? And you were too impatient.’ And to Enzo, ‘He’s like all the youngsters these days. They want everything now. And who knows, maybe they’re right.’ He raised a finger in the air and quoted, ‘All things come to those who wait, I say these words to make me glad, But something answers soft and sad, They come, but often come too late.’ He chuckled. ‘I had a long and very successful career as a sommelier. But it wasn’t until I retired and got bored and agreed to do a little teaching at Toulouse, that I discovered the rewards of imparting wisdom to others. Too late.’ He waved a hand towards the chairs set around a long, wooden table. ‘Take a seat.’

Half a dozen bottles of fine Bordeaux were set out with a dozen or more tasting glasses. A Chateau Cheval Blanc, Enzo noticed, and a Chateau Lafite Rothschild. His eyes widened. These were wines you tasted rarely in a lifetime, if ever. There was a large basket of hard-crusted bread cut into thick chunks, and three bottles of still mineral water. Several yellowed and well-thumbed editions of Petty’s The Wine Critic, lay open, pages separated by pink Post-its.

‘Have you brought the Gaillacs?’

Enzo put his carrier bag on the table and lifted out the three bottles.

Old Domenech examined them each in turn. ‘Syrah, eh? Classified as a vin de pays because it doesn’t contain the minimum quantities of the proscribed grapes to qualify for the Gaillac Appellation Controlee. Stupid system. Making French wines uncompetitive in a changing world.’ He looked at the faces turned towards him in the twilight. ‘You know, ten years ago France exported three times as much wine as the so-called New World countries. Today we sell fifteen percent less than they do. We’re making wine we can’t sell. Even in Bordeaux there are tankers queuing daily outside distilleries to take advantage of government subsidies for turning unsold wine into industrial alcohol. What a waste!’

He moved on to the next bottle. ‘Domaine Vaysette. Cuvee Lea 2001. Don’t know it.’ And the next. ‘Chateau Lastours, Cuvee Special 2001. Ah, yes. A fine wine. You have Petty’s codes?’

Enzo placed the computer print-outs on the table. ‘It’s a matter of trying to identify flavours and smells and cross-referencing them between different reviews.’

‘I understand the principle, monsieur. But I can’t make any promises. I met Petty a few times. Didn’t know him well and didn’t like him much. His tastes and mine were somewhat different. But it’s a challenge. Since young Bertrand called, I’ve been going through some of Petty’s old newsletters from my files, and I went down to my cellar to dig out some of the Bordeaux he reviewed. That way we can make a direct comparison between what I taste and what he’s already described.’ He beamed. ‘But first, a few glasses of wine amongst friends for pleasure, eh?’

He reached for the Cheval Blanc, and Enzo’s heart nearly stopped. It was a 2005, and probably cost somewhere in the region of five hundred euros.

As old Domenech went through the ritual of opening the bottle and pouring a little of the wine into each of their glasses, he said, ‘You know, it’s odd how few female sommeliers there are. Most wine critics are men, too. Yet, all the research shows that women are better tasters than men and have a particularly heightened sense of smell during ovulation.’ He passed a glass to Sophie. ‘So our young lady should have the honour of tasting first.’ He grinned. ‘Although it’s not compulsory to tell us whether you’re ovulating or not.’

Sophie blushed deeply, and took a sip of the wine to cover her embarrassment. In an evolution of only two or three seconds, her expression changed completely. ‘Oh, my God!’ Her voice was almost a whisper. ‘I’ve never tasted wine this good.’ She immediately revised her statement. ‘I’ve never tasted anything this good.’

Domenech beamed his pleasure.