Monsieur Pamplemousse Afloat (11 page)

Madame Ambert found a hint of nectarine in the finish, Monsieur Pamplemousse elicited honey and lime. Both agreed it more than lived up to its maker’s reputation. He wondered what verdict Abeille’s electronic analyser would deliver, or what Madame Ambert might have to say about such an unholy device.

A team of waiters arrived bearing the result of the fishing activities.

‘
C’est très chaud, Monsieur
.’ The waiter anticipated Monsieur Pamplemousse’s intention as he laid the plate before him. Points were added below the starched white tablecloth.

Fried in a light coating of oil and flour, the outside of the trout was crisp and golden, the parsley butter hot and foaming as it should be. It came with a simple dish of
pommes purée
and a sauceboat of melted butter. Although beautifully clean, the potatoes tasted as though they had been boiled in their skins to preserve the flavour. It was the mark of a perfectionist chef who took endless trouble. Lemon juice had been added to the butter.

As they finished the wine Madame Ambert held forth on the importance of knowing who were the best producers.

‘Burgundy is different to any other region of France. Bordeaux is made up of large vineyards, many
of which are owned either by corporations or banks. They are heavily financed, prestige operations well able to withstand the ups and downs of the market. The people who make the TGV, for example, also own Château Gruaud-Larose. Money is no object. They are the glamorous side of the business.

‘For historical reasons Burgundy is made up of many tiny parcels of land. Over the years the land has become fragmented by inheritance and most of the growers are small. Clos de Vougeot is a good example; 123 acres with 85 owners. Like many peasant farmers, they do everything. In the day they work in the fields; in the evening they work in the cellars; at night they do the books. At the end of it all some of them make a little wine for themselves and their friends, but most sell the grapes or the juice on to people like ourselves or Leflaive. Apart from our vineyard in Chambertin we have a few parcels of land in other
appellations
, but mostly we buy in. Pinot noir is a very fickle grape. Knowing which growers are good and which are not, those who can be trusted and those who can’t, is knowledge beyond price and it works both ways. Trust is a very special commodity. That is one of the things Fabrice brings to the company.’

She broke off as an ’88 Chambertin Clos
d’Ambert-Celeste
was brought to replace the now empty bottle of Bâtard Montrachet. Having shown it to Madame Ambert with all the reverence of his calling, the
sommelier
withdrew to a small table in the middle of the dining-room. Decanted, tasted and approved, glasses filled, the bottle and the cork were left on the table alongside the decanter.

Escargots à la façon d’un gourmand
arrived; snails as the connoisseur likes them. They had been cooked in the classic gourmet manner that had earned the dish its name; in meat jelly and butter, with truffles, chopped parsley, garlic, and a sprinkling of breadcrumbs added at the last moment.

They were the best he had tasted for many a year; beautifully fat and piping hot; still sizzling in their dish.

‘André rears them on his own organically grown vines. He finds the pinot noir grape gives them their special flavour.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse made a note in his book. It was what France was all about; France and
Le Guide
.

The
pintade rôti
which followed was exquisitely, deceptively simple. A guinea-fowl stuffed with liver, rosemary and thyme, roasted and served with potatoes which had been cooked in the same baking tray. Each plate was decorated with a single lettuce leaf, crisply fresh from the garden. Pommes Frites would have signalled his approval. But then Pommes Frites would have approved of the whole thing, probably rounding things off afterwards with a romp in the stream, trying to catch his own trout.

Monsieur Pamplemousse congratulated Madame Ambert on the wine. ‘It is very elegant,’ he said. ‘You must feel rewarded.’

Madame Ambert acknowledged the compliment. ‘It is just ready for drinking but it has many years of life yet. It has good “weight” in the mouth. All the flavours are present: raspberry, cherry … plum. They almost mask the tannin, but it is there. In a few years’ time it should be even better.’

She lowered her glass and viewed it against the white tablecloth. ‘It is a little hazy, but that is because we do not filter. Fabrice refuses to – he says it removes some of the natural qualities of the wine.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse listened with interest, but all the same he couldn’t help wondering when they would get down to business.

It was reminiscent of the time, some years earlier, when he had taken early retirement from the
Sûreté
and the Director had offered him a job with
Le Guide
. He had found himself working his way through a vast lunch wondering why he was there and which course would produce the moment of truth. In the Director’s case it had been over the second cup of coffee.

He picked up the empty bottle and studied the label. Madame Ambert’s name appeared in isolation at the bottom. It seemed as good a time as any to bring the matter up.

‘May I ask if that was your brother sitting beside you at yesterday evening’s pageant?’

‘Dominique?’ She nodded.

‘How long has he been part of your company?’

Madame Ambert hesitated before gently correcting him. ‘
Our
company.’ It was as though she had swallowed something that left a nasty taste. ‘Under French law, when Papa died the estate was divided between the two of us. Strictly speaking his name ought always to have been on the label, but since to all intents and purposes he had disappeared off the face of the earth, it never happened.’

‘When did your father die?’

‘Soon after the war.’

‘And your mother?’

‘She died during the war. I think they both, in their different ways and for different reasons, died of a broken heart.

‘Dominique went to school in Dijon. He was arrested in 1941 along with four other classmates for persistent singing of the British national anthem.

‘He was taken to the rue Docteur-Chassier …’

‘The Gestapo headquarters?’

‘Number 9
bis
. There used to be a plaque marking the spot, but it has gone now.

‘He had already been caught red-handed once before, standing in front of a blackboard with the chalk in his hand. Some other boy – Dominique denied all responsibility – had drawn the Cross of Lorraine on the board. The “V-campaign” was at its height and he was eventually deported along with the
rest to “finish his studies” in Germany. I remember crying myself to sleep.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse nodded. It brought back memories of his own wartime childhood. The list of ‘crimes’ was endless: everything from spitting at German soldiers, jostling the officers, not replying quickly enough to questions, hoisting the French flag without permission, listening to foreign radio stations, smuggling letters, delivering tracts, reading books like
All Quiet on the Western Front
. Punishment ranged from a ‘going over’ by the Gestapo to the death penalty.

He reached for the decanter in order to replenish their glasses and was beaten to it by the
sommelier
, who appeared as if from nowhere. The better the restaurant the harder it was to have a private conversation. At least the wine hadn’t been taken off to a separate table out of anyone’s reach except the staff.

‘And when the war ended?’

‘He survived. You could say he was the lucky one – the others died in a concentration camp – but when he returned he was not the same person who had left us. He had grown up and he had learnt all the tricks. He found it hard to settle down. I think perhaps he had suffered a lot and he was determined to make up for it. He stuck it at home for six months and then he made tracks for America. Papa was heartbroken; he had always pictured Dominique taking over the
vineyard. He had plans for him to go to the
Lycée Viticole
in Beaune, and afterwards on a tour of the world to see how people did things elsewhere. Instead of which,’ she shrugged, ‘it was left to me.

‘It was not easy for a woman in those days. It had always been predominantly a man’s world and you had to be tough to succeed. It went against my nature. Now, there are many others, from Lalou Bize-Leroy here in Burgundy to Madame Mentzelopoulos and her daughter at Château Margaux in Bordeaux …’

‘But now your brother has come back to claim his share of the property?’

‘Dominique has totally different ideas about what should be done. He is very commercial. He speaks a foreign language in more ways than one. He is full of phrases like “capital formation” and “maximising our potential”. You will have seen what is happening at our offices in Beaune, but it is worse at the vineyard.

‘We have moved with the times, but we still try to produce wine the old way. That is the French way of doing things. As a nation we love progress. We are always eager to embrace the latest invention, but at the same time we do not throw out the old without good reason.

‘Dominique has only been here five minutes and already he is talking of having his own image on the bottle! He wants to throw the
château
open, take in guests, open up a shop – make more commercial wine which matures earlier. He wants it filtered so
that he can take advantage of the American market. If a wine does not arrive in America crystal clear there are problems with the health regulations. We have always used vats that have been properly aged so that the taste of the oak does not predominate and denature the wine. He wishes to change that too.’

‘In short,’ he said, ‘your brother wants to follow the market trends rather than lead them. Sadly, that is the same in many areas.’

Madame Ambert nodded. ‘I am afraid he is resented. In this part of the world you have to earn people’s respect, otherwise they can make the going very hard. There are those winemakers in Bourgogne who, for want of a better description, are in the tourist trade. They would argue that they are helping to spread the light, and no doubt there is a certain amount of truth in that; there is good and bad in everything.

‘But either way you should be true to yourself and to your customers. To me, making good wine is the beginning and end of everything. What Dominique is doing is selling off the family silver and that won’t last for ever.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse thought of the pruning shears manufactured in China and mentally substituted ‘hasn’t lasted’ for ‘won’t last’.

He watched Madame Ambert while she was talking. In some respects it all added up: the return of the ne’er do well, the upheaval it had caused, the
arguments and the recriminations. But … But, someone had made an attempt to kill someone else …

The cheese trolley arrived and broke up the conversation. Madame Ambert chose a local Epoisse, waving aside the others. Monsieur Pamplemousse followed suit. It was one of the few good cheeses made in a region given over to vines rather than grazing. Cured in humid cellars for three months, with frequent washings in Burgundy, it was smooth without being cloying. Overall, there was a spicy, tangy flavour which complemented the last of the wine. Doubtless that was the main reason why, over the years, it had evolved the way that it had; to complement wine.

Fabrice Delamain had painted a vivid picture of immutable laws, of changes brought about slowly with the passage of time. Old habits died hard and people were naturally resistant to change, but the kind of things Madame Ambert had been talking about were hardly likely to make people start taking pot shots at each other. Or were they? There was a lot of money tied up in the cellars in Beaune. Probably a lot of undercurrents too.

One way and another Burgundy had acquired a bad reputation in the period after the war. The very nature of the way it was organised, the complexities of land ownership, where one vineyard could have a dozen different owners, laid it open to abuse. Who knew what went on after dark in some of the
cellars? Who could say for certain, hand on heart, that the label on the barrel was always a wholly honest description of what it contained? Things were much better now, new laws had been brought in, but they weren’t always easy to administer. In the end, as Madame Ambert rightly said, trust was of the utmost importance. It could take years to build up and then be lost overnight.

‘Am I right in thinking you do not like your brother?’

She was immediately on her guard.

‘Why should it be assumed that two people who have been apart for so many years should automatically like each other? Dominique is at best a faded memory. If I search my mind I can picture playing with him when I was small; but he was always telling tales and I was the one who got the blame. He is older than me and he used to go off and do other things.’

‘But do you dislike him?’ persisted Monsieur Pamplemousse.

‘It is worse than that. I find I have no feelings for him one way or the other. Or rather I
had
no feelings until he turned up out of the blue. For years I heard nothing at all. Not even so much as a postcard to say he was alive and well. Now, he wishes to take over everything. If I am totally honest I would say I resent him because he represents a threat to all I believe in and have worked for. Apart from
which, I cannot stand the almost daily rows and recriminations.’

The meal ended as simply as it had begun; the mark of a confident chef who had no need to prove himself. White peaches poached in sweet champagne to which a vanilla pod had been added. Chilled and halved, the hollow of each had been filled with a mixture of grated and sugared strawberries, cream and lemon juice. The juice in which the peaches had been poached was served in a separate bowl.

‘I trust you enjoyed it.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse made a final note, then closed his pad with a sigh. ‘I will tell you what I have written. “It is a good restaurant. There is no deception. It did not disappoint”.’

‘I did not tell André who you are.’

‘
Merci. Monsieur le Directeur
has a very high regard for anonymity. That, combined with total honesty in reporting and the preservation of established standards, are his three main preoccupations in life.’