Peter Mayle - The Vintage Caper

And there it was, champagne in glorious abundance, filling racks on either side of a narrow gravel pathway: Krug, Roederer, Bollinger, Perrier-Jouët, Clicquot, Dom Pérignon, Taittinger, Ruinart-in bottles, magnums, Jeroboams, Rehoboams, Methuselahs, and even Nebuchadnezzars. Vial gazed at the display with the fondness of a doting parent before leading them out and down to the next street, the Rue de Meursault, followed in quick succession by the Rue de Montrachet, the Rue de Corton-Charlemagne, the Avenue de Chablis, the Allée de Pouilly-Fuissé, and the Impasse d’Yquem. This side of the main boulevard, Vial explained, was devoted to white wine; the opposite side to reds.

It took them almost an hour to travel the length of the cellar, stopping as they did to pay their respects here and there-to the great red Burgundies, for instance, in the Rue du Côte d’Or, and the legendary trio of Latour, Lafite, and Margaux in the Rue des Merveilles. By the time they had reached Vial’s office they felt curiously light-headed, as if they had been tasting rather than just looking.

“Let me ask you a question,” said Sam. “I didn’t see a Rue de Chianti. Do you have any Italian wines?”

Vial looked at Sam as though he had insulted his mother. When he’d finished shaking his head and clicking his tongue, he allowed himself to speak. “No, no, no, absolutely not. Every bottle here is French, as Monsieur Reboul has insisted. Only the best. Although…” Vial seemed of two minds about what he was going to say. “Entre nous , and not for the book, over there you will see a few cases from your California. Monsieur Reboul has a winery, as you say, in the Valley of Napa. He amuses himself. It’s a hobby.” And, judging from Vial’s expression, not a hobby that he viewed with great enthusiasm.

At the very end of the cellar, a patriotic golf cart, painted in the blue, white, and red of the French tricolore , was parked in a corner, next to a giant pair of doors. At the touch of a button, these swung open to reveal the long driveway that led down to Eugénie’s wistful statue and the gates to the property.

“You see?” said Vial. “The cellar is underneath la grande pelouse , the lawn in front of the house.” He nodded at the cobblestoned area outside the doors. “This is for deliveries. The truck unloads here, into my chariot de golf , and I drive the bottles to their addresses.”

Sophie looked at the golf cart with a frown on her face. “But Monsieur Vial, when you’re ready to drink the wine, how does it get into the house? Not up those stairs, surely? Or do you drive your cart around…”

“Aha!” Vial tapped his nose. “Trust a woman to be practical. I will show you before we leave. Now we go to my office, and you will see my crazy furnishings.”

It was becoming apparent that Vial saw a major supporting role for himself in the book, and he was at pains to point out the many objects of interest in his cluttered office. A colossal corkscrew, easily a meter long, with a handle made from a twisted, highly polished billet of olive wood, leaned against the wall by the side of his desk; a connoisseur’s desk, Vial called it. Apart from the glass top, it had been constructed entirely out of wooden wine crates from the great estates, each crate used as a desk drawer, each drawer identified by the name and mark of an illustrious château stamped into the wood. The unobtrusive drawer handles were circular plugs of wood, stained to resemble corks.

Sam took out his camera and held it up. “Is it OK? Just for reference.”

“But of course!” Vial moved across so that he would be in the shot, placed one hand on the desktop, raised his head and assumed a noble expression: the eminent caviste , caught during a rare moment of reflection.

Sam grinned at him. “You’ve done this before.”

Vial flicked at his moustache and assumed a different pose, this time perching on the edge of the desk, his arms folded. “For wine magazines, yes. They always like what they call the human interest.”

While Sam was taking pictures, Sophie studied the other examples of human interest that covered most of one wall: framed photographs of Vial with movie actors, soccer players, pop stars, fashion designers and models, and other distinguished visitors. These shared wall space with certificates from the Jurade de Saint-Emilion and the Chevaliers du Tastevin, and, in a suitably prominent position, a letter of thanks and appreciation from the Elysée Palace, signed by the President of the Republic himself. Like his boss Reboul, it seemed that Vial was not averse to a little self-promotion.

Moving away from the rogues’ gallery, Sophie stopped at a long, wide shelf filled with alcoholic antiques-unopened bottles from the 1800s, their labels blotched and faded, their contents murky and mysterious. Her eye was caught by a bottle of what had once been white Bordeaux, an 1896 Gradignan, the remains of the wine resting on a five-inch layer of sediment. Vial tore himself away from the camera and brought Sam over to join her.

“My sentimental corner,” he said. “I find these bottles at flea markets and I cannot resist them. Undrinkable, of course, but very picturesque, don’t you think?”

“Fascinating,” said Sophie. “And that, too.” She pointed to a small copper alembic-the apparatus that distills grape sludge into eau-de-vie -standing in the corner. “Look at that, Sam. Do you have those in California?”

Sam shook his head. “Only for show. Does this one still work?”

Vial pretended to be shocked at the very idea. “Do I look like a criminal, monsieur? Not since, let me see, 1916, has it been allowed for private persons to distill their own, as you say, moonshine.” He permitted himself a wink and a pleased smirk at having come up with such an appropriate foreign word. “And now, let me show you how to find your way around my little city.” He walked back and waved an arm at the map that hung on the wall behind his desk.

It was perhaps eighteen inches high and three feet wide, a hand-drawn bird’s-eye view of the cellar, with the street names marked in immaculate copperplate script. Surrounding the map, just inside the simple gilt frame, was a border of colorful miniature corkscrews, each with a different handle. Some were whimsical-a heart, a dog, a French flag, a bird’s beak-others were the artist’s version of more conventional models. The map had been signed in one corner and dated in Roman numerals.

“That’s great,” said Sam. “It would make terrific endpapers.”

Sophie, who had no idea what he was talking about, nodded sagely. “Good idea.”

Sam explained to a puzzled Vial that some books-the more elaborate and expensive editions-often had designs decorating their inside front and back covers. “Your map is a natural for a wine book,” he said, “with all those names and corkscrews. You don’t happen to have copies of it, do you?”

With another wink, Vial darted over to his desk, opened one of the bottom drawers, and produced a scroll, which he spread out on the desk for them to see. “These were printed before we framed the original. We give them as little souvenirs to the friends of Monsieur Reboul who come to the cellar for tastings. Charmant, non?” He rolled up the map and handed it to Sophie.

Vial cut short their thanks by looking at his watch and grimacing. “Peuchère! Where has the morning gone? I have a rendezvous in Marseille.” He shepherded them from the office. “You must come back after lunch.”

He climbed into the golf cart, motioning Sophie and Sam to follow. “Imagine you are a case of wine,” he said to Sam, “and that tonight is your moment of glory, your night to flabbergast the guests of Monsieur Reboul, your night to be consumed with cries of ecstasy.” He started the cart and set off up the Boulevard du Palais.