Peter May - The Critic

He dipped his head, putting his nose right into the glass, and breathed deeply.

‘This is important. The first smell. Don’t shake the glass or disturb the wine.’ He watched as the others followed his example. ‘So what do you think? What do you smell?’

No one had any immediate thoughts to offer. Nicole looked disappointed. ‘I don’t really smell anything. I thought I was supposed to be a supertaster.’

Bertrand shook his head. ‘No, you smelled something. You just haven’t identified it. Try again.’

They all tried again.

‘Fruit,’ Enzo said.

‘Yeah, fruit,’ Sophie agreed.

‘Yes, but what kind of fruit?’

‘Plums.’ Nicole looked pleased with herself. ‘Red plums.’

‘No, I’m getting strawberries,’ Sophie said. ‘And maybe something a little more tart, like black currants.

‘Could be rasperries there,’ Enzo said.

‘Yeh, and ripe melon.’ Nicole was on a roll now.

Bertrand sighed in exasperation. ‘Sounds like you’ve found a whole fruit salad in there.’

‘Okay, smartass, what do you smell?’ Nicole thrust her jaw at him.

Bertrand sniffed again. ‘Strawberries certainly. Raspberries, maybe. Red fruit, for sure. But we need to swirl the glass and smell again?’

‘Why?’ Sophie asked.

‘To get oxygen into the wine and release more of the smell molecules.’

So they all swirled their glasses and hung their noses over the rims once again.

‘Big fruit,’ Enzo said. ‘And something meaty, maybe. Gibier. Like game. That…what was it, umami smell?’

Bertrand canted his head doubtfully. ‘I don’t know. I’d say it was more…woody. Oak, maybe.’

‘Liquorice!’ Nicole looked pleased with herself. ‘I can smell liquorice.’

Sophie breathed deeply from her glass. ‘Me, too.’

Enzo began counting on his fingers. ‘Okay, so now we’ve got strawberry, raspberry, red plum, ripe melon, black currant, meat, liquorice and oak. That’s eight different smells.’ He looked up at the whiteboard. ‘Petty lists five.’

‘I thought you said we could only smell four things at the same time,’ Nicole said.

It was Bertrand who responded. ‘Yes, but we’ve had two tries at it, the second time after oxygenation. So we’re picking up different things.’

‘Too many things,’ Enzo said. ‘I’m not sure this is going to work, Bertrand.’

But Bertrand was not to be deterred. ‘We’ve still to taste it, Monsieur Macleod.’

‘About time.’ Nicole raised her glass with relish.

Bertrand lifted his own glass to his lips. ‘Just take a small mouthful, then let it flow back over your tongue. The front of the tongue is more sensitive to sweet tastes, the back of it will pick out the sharper notes. And while the wine is still in your mouth, suck in a little oxygen to help the wine release its flavours.’

They all gurgled and slurped, and Nicole nearly choked.

Bertrand kept up his commentary. ‘The first thing you experience is the attack. That initial flavour and texture in the mouth. Then as the complexity of the wine develops, you should start being able to distinguish all the flavours. And after you’ve swallowed, there’ll be an aftertaste-what’s called the finish. The longer that lasts, the better. Provided, of course, that it’s a pleasant taste. Then, really, we should spit it out.’

‘I’m not wasting wine this good.’ Sophie rolled her eyes dreamily. ‘It’s fantastic. Smooth and silky. And I’m not getting any of that meat that you were smelling, Papa. But I’m still getting strawberries.’

‘And liquorice,’ Nicole chipped in.

‘And soft, soft tannins,’ Bertrand said. ‘And vanilla from the oak.’ He smacked his lips noisily several times. ‘And the finish just goes on forever.’

But Enzo was looking at the board again. ‘Petty lists codes for six flavours. We’ve come up with three.’

‘Yes, but he’s also describing textures, tannins, acidity, complexity, finish,’ Bertrand said. ‘Just look at any of his reviews. And those pluses, and plus-pluses alongside the codes probably translate as something like very and extremely, or words to that effect.’

Enzo shook his head. ‘All of which means, we’re wasting our time here. There are too many variables. We’ve hardly agreed on a single smell, or flavour.’

‘Can’t we even just try the other wines?’ Sophie said, disappointed.

‘Or even just finish this one.’ Nicole held out her glass for Bertrand to fill it up.

‘Apart from drinking them for the pleasure of it,’ Enzo said, ‘I don’t see the point. Like Bertrand said, you can’t just walk in off the street and be a professional wine taster. It would take an experienced professional to identify the smells and flavours we’re looking for.’

Bertrand sipped thoughtfully at his syrah. ‘And I know a man who might be able to do just that, Monsieur Macleod.’

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.’