“With vines, you said?”
“Sure. Vines all over the place.”
“Right,” said Charlie. “This calls for something a little out of the ordinary.” He raised an arm and made energetic circling motions at a waiter, calling out for a wine list. Turning back to Max, he said, “You know I’ve always liked a drop of wine. Well, I’m taking it seriously now, starting a cellar. I’m even going to an evening wine-tasting course. This is all most exciting. Ah, there you are.” The sommelier had arrived, and Charlie started to brief him.
“We’re celebrating,” he said. “My friend here has just inherited a chateau and a vineyard in France, and so we’re looking for something appropriate in the way of homemade wine.” He wagged a finger at the sommelier. “Homemade in Bordeaux, mind you. A classic claret. None of your New World novelties.”
Charlie and the sommelier bent over the list, exchanging knowledgeable murmurs while Max looked around the room-glossy women and prosperous-looking men, London ’s privileged class, all of them talking at the top of their voices. Max felt a sudden desire to be somewhere quiet, and then thought of his empty apartment. Not that quiet. He looked down at the letter again, and wondered how much the property would fetch if he decided to sell; certainly more than enough to get him out of the hole he was in. He raised his glass in a private toast to Uncle Henry.
“Excellent,” said Charlie. “That’s the one.”
The sommelier pursed his lips and nodded in silent approval before going off in search of the wine.
“There,” said Charlie, pointing to his choice on the list. “The ’82 Léoville Barton. Top bottle. Can’t do better than that.”
Max looked at where the pointing finger had stopped. “Are you serious? Three hundred and eighty pounds?”
“That’s nothing these days. Not long ago, half a dozen punters-young bankers, I think they were-had dinner at some place in St. James’s and went mad. They blew forty-four thousand quid on six bottles of wine. The chef was so tickled he gave them a free dinner. You must have read about it.”
The sommelier returned, and Charlie paused to watch him perform the opening ceremony. The bottle was presented for inspection, in the way a proud parent displays a particularly well-favored baby. The lead capsule was cut, the long, aristocratic cork withdrawn and sniffed, the dark ruby liquid poured with practiced care into a decanter, with a little more than a mouthful going into a glass.
Now it was time for Charlie’s performance. “There are five steps,” he said, reaching for the glass, “that make all the difference between the art of drinking and the act of swallowing.” The sommelier looked on with the indulgent patience that comes from the thought of a substantial commission. “First,” said Charlie, “mental preparation.” He worshipped his glass for a few moments before raising it to the light. “Next, the pleasure of the eyes.” He tilted the glass so that the differences in color could be seen-deep red at the bottom, fading into a lighter maroon at the top, with a rim that was faintly tinged with brown. “Now for the nose.” He swirled the wine gently, opening it up to the air, before dipping his nose into the glass and inhaling. “Ah,” he said with a slow smile, his eyes closed. “Ah.”
Max felt like a voyeur spying on a profoundly personal moment. Over the years of their friendship, he had always been amused by the passion with which Charlie attacked his hobbies, from skateboarding when they were at school to last year’s preoccupation with karate. Now it seemed that wine had taken over. Max smiled at the expression of purest pleasure that had spread across Charlie’s face. “So far so good?” asked Max.
Charlie ignored him. “Now for the pleasures of mouth, tongue, and palate.” He took a sip of wine, holding it in his mouth while he sucked in a little air, making a discreet lapping sound. For a few seconds his jaw went up and down as though he were chewing, and then he swallowed. “Mmm,” he said. “The final step is appreciation. Messages from the palate to the brain. Thoughts of the wine still to come.” He nodded to the sommelier. “That’ll do nicely. You can let it breathe for a while. No, we can do better than that-you can let it regain its composure.”
“Very impressive,” said Max. “You had me on the edge of my seat. Is that what you learned in the wine-tasting course?”
Charlie nodded. “Elementary stuff, but it’s surprising what a difference it makes-just taking the time to concentrate on what you’re drinking. And we’re in luck tonight. I had a look at the menu while I was waiting, and there’s saddle of lamb. Terrific with a great Bordeaux. And I thought we might start with a few blinis to go with the rest of the champagne. How does that sound?”
The congealed chops of Max’s lunch with Amis seemed a long way away. “Sounds like the ideal diet for an unemployed man.”
Charlie dismissed the problem with a wave of his hand. “You’ll be fine. Anyway, there’s your inheritance. You’re part of the landed gentry now. Tell me about the chateau.”
“The house, Charlie, the house.” Max was silent for a moment, looking back into his memory. “It’s quite old; goes back to the eighteenth century, I think, what they call down there a bastide, which is a step or two up from a farmhouse. Big rooms, high ceilings, tiled floors, tall windows, thick walls. I remember it was always cool indoors. Cool, and actually a bit of a mess. Uncle Henry wasn’t too fussy about housework. A wonderful old dear used to come on a bicycle once a week and rearrange the dust in between drinks. She was always catatonic by lunchtime. There was a little scullery behind the kitchen where she used to sleep it off in the afternoon.”
Charlie nodded. “Probably still there. Now come on, give me something an estate agent could get his teeth into: number of bedrooms, reception rooms, bathrooms-I take it there’s what we in the trade call indoor sanitation facilities-lavish appointments, architectural features, turrets, crenellations, that sort of thing.” He leaned back to allow the waiter to serve the caviar blinis, and the interrogation stopped while they ate the golden, savory pancakes, a perfect foil for the glistening mounds of black, salty bubbles that burst in the mouth.
“I could get used to this,” said Max, as he wiped his plate clean. “Do you think it would taste as good if it were called fish eggs?”
Charlie dabbed his mouth with his napkin, and finished his champagne. “Not another drop of wine do you get until you give me some more details. Furnish me with particulars, old son. Furnish me with particulars.”
“Furnish you? God, you’re beginning to sound like a property ad in Country Life.” Charlie grinned, and nodded in agreement as Max continued. “It’s been a long time since I was there. Years, actually. Let’s see. I remember a library with a huge stuffed bear in it, a dining room we never used because we always ate in the kitchen, an enormous vaulted sitting room, a wine cellar…”
“Good, good,” said Charlie. “Always a most desirable feature.”
“… a row of attics that ran the length of the third floor of the house…”
“Not attics, Max. Staff accommodation,” murmured Charlie. “Excellent. Plenty of room for the odd maid and butler.”