“Why did he feel compelled to do these broadcasts?”
“If you are wondering if it was ego, then I would have to say yes. To an extent it was. But there was also a very practical purpose in them, monsieur. Marc understood that if you were going to draw customers to a restaurant tucked away in a remote corner of the Massif Central, then you would have to keep it in constant view. If you own a restaurant in Paris, it is not hard to fill it, especially if you have three stars. But out here…” She glanced out at the view. “If you are stuck away out here, then you have to persuade the mountain to come to you.”
Enzo nodded and refilled his coffee cup, before reaching for another croissant. “What else did Marc do in Paris, Madame Fraysse?”
She pushed up her eyebrows, but he could see in her eyes that her surprise was not genuine. “What do you mean?”
“I understand that Marc was fond of putting money on horses. In fact, more than fond of it. It was a daily ritual.”
Whatever warmth the chef’s widow might have shown Enzo when he first arrived vanished now, along with the sun as it slipped behind a passing cloud. Her tone was frosty. “I’m not sure that I understand the point you are trying to make.”
“I was just wondering if he ever went racing when he was up in Paris.”
“I have no idea where you heard that. But it is absolutely untrue.”
“I didn’t hear anything, Madame Fraysse. I’m just asking.”
Her face had become quite flushed, and she was containing her anger with some difficulty. Whether it was real or feigned, Enzo couldn’t tell. But he noticed that the dark smudges below her eyes had grown penumbrous. “Yes, he enjoyed the odd flutter.” Her voice was brittle but controlled. “Everyone knew that. But there was no question of his having a problem. None at all.” She pushed her cup away and rose stiffly. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a very busy morning ahead of me.”
Enzo watched her stride away across the dining room, then turned back, compelled by the view to gaze out over the kaleidoscope of color that characterised the plateau. And he wondered about her use of the word “problem”. The thought may have been in his head, but while he had not actually given voice to it, she had.
Chapter Twenty-three
Enzo found Guy in the cave. At the north-west corner of the cellar he had a small office, and Enzo saw the light burning in it, reflecting on the rows of precious bottles that lined the floor-to-ceiling racks. His footsteps echoed back from bedrock as he made his way to the far side of the cave, a sense of culture and wealth and history pressing all around him, dark liquid gold in darker, dusty bottles.
Guy looked up from his computer as Enzo’s bulk filled the open doorway. His face lit up in a smile. “Good morning, Enzo. Slept well, I hope.”
Enzo put a rueful hand to his forehead and pulled a face. “Too much whisky.”
“Damnit, man! Solitary drinking’s not good for you. You should have given me a shout. I’d have helped you with the bottle.” He grinned and waved a hand at his computer. “Updating my inventory. Had a delivery this morning of some rather excellent 2005 Bordeaux. I’m very tempted to open a bottle to let you try it. Very frustrating, but the inventory comes first, I’m afraid.” He looked out over his unique collection of wines. “Wine, wine everywhere, and not a drop to drink.”
Enzo tipped his head in smiling acknowledgement. “You know your English poets, then.”
Guy raised his jaw theatrically and quoted from memory.
“And every tongue, through utter drought,
Was withered at the root:
We could not speak, no more than if
We had been choked with soot.”
Enzo grinned. “ The Ancient Mariner.”
“Imagine, Enzo, you’re dying of thirst, and surrounded by water you cannot drink. I just thank the Lord I’m not an alcoholic.” He chuckled. “I’d hate to be the owner of such a cave and unable to drink any of it.”
Enzo shook his head. “Well, as it is, Guy, even if you lived to be a hundred you could only drink a fraction of it.”
“Ah, but I can choose any fraction of it that I want. There’s the rub. And that’s the pleasure in it.” He swivelled round in his chair. “Listen, how would you like to come to market with me one day? Marc used to go to the markets in Clermont Ferrand three days a week. And I still do it. I may not be a three-star chef, but I know about quality in the produce, and I don’t want to leave that to anyone else.”
“I’d like that.”
“Good. Day after tomorrow, then.” Guy paused and gave Enzo a quizzical look. “Did you want me for something special?”
Enzo leaned against the architrave of the door. “I wanted to ask you about Jean-Pierre Graulet.”
“The food critic?”
“Elisabeth told me there was a history of enmity between Marc and Graulet. Just wondered if you could tell me why.”
Guy roared with laughter and slapped his thighs. “Oh, Enzo, I can. I certainly can. It’s one of my favourite Marc stories.” He looked at his watch. “Goddamn, I don’t care if it’s early. This is a story that merits cracking open a bottle. Grab a seat.”
And he vanished off into the gloom of the cave as Enzo eased himself into a hard chair and groaned inwardly. His head was still delicate from last night’s whisky. Guy returned with a bottle of 2005 Chateau Margaux. As he went through the ritual of uncorking it, he said, “Only eight percent Merlot in this, and eight-five percent Cabernet Sauvignon. The Merlot was harvested at more than fourteen percent alcohol. Too rich for the Margaux. So most of it went into the chateau’s second wine, the Pavillon Rouge.” He poured them each a small glass.
“Oh, well, I suppose a hair of the dog will either kill me or cure me.”
Guy frowned. “A hair of the dog?”
Enzo laughed. “Celts have built a whole culture around the need to find a cure for hangovers. In the case of having a hair of the dog that bit you, the cure is more of the same.”
“Ah. Worth a try, then.” Guy breathed in the wine, swirled it, breathed again and then took a small mouthful to wash around his gums. “Oh,” he said, a look of ecstasy washing over his face. “Try it, tell me what you think.”
Enzo sucked oxygen into his mouth along with the wine. He felt the flavours fill his head. “Sensational,” he said. “Wonderful harmony.”
“Yes, first reports suggested it might be overly tannic, but it’s ageing nicely. I’ll not tell you what it cost.” Guy filled both their glasses and sipped pensively at his own. “Yes… Graulet.” And he laughed again. “A pompous ass of a man. Freelance critic. Writes for several of the Paris papers, and has a couple of online blogs of his own. Self-appointed judge of good cuisine on behalf of us poor, ignorant plebs. He sneaks around the top restaurants in various disguises, taking clandestine photographs, and sometimes video, for his blog. He believes that Michelin stands for everything that is dull and old-fashioned in French cuisine and just loves to target their three-star darlings with his most virulent criticism.”
“I thought he was renowned for ‘discovering’ his own restaurants of distinction.”
“Oh he is. He adores finding the undiscovered genius working in the kitchen of some obscure bistro tucked away in a hidden corner of Paris and revealing him to the world.” Guy chortled. “I’ve tried a few of them myself, and can’t say I have ever been particularly impressed.”