Title:
The Winemaker Detective: An Omnibus
Author: Jean-Pierre Alaux & Noel Balen
Publisher: LeFrench Book
Pages: 309
Genre: Mystery/French Cozy/Culinary Mystery
Author: Jean-Pierre Alaux & Noel Balen
Publisher: LeFrench Book
Pages: 309
Genre: Mystery/French Cozy/Culinary Mystery
An immersion
in French countryside, gourmet attitude, and light-hearted mystery.
Two amateur sleuths
gumshoe around French wine country, where money, deceit, jealousy, inheritance
and greed are all the ingredients needed for crime. Master winemaker Benjamin
Cooker and his sidekick Virgile Lanssien solve mysteries in vineyards with a
dose of Epicurean enjoyment of fine food and beverage. Each story is a homage
to wine and winemakers, as well as a mystery.
In Treachery
in Bordeaux, barrels at the prestigious grand cru Moniales Haut-Brion wine
estate in Bordeaux have been contaminated. Is it negligence or
sabotage?
In Grand Cru
Heist, Benjamin Cooker’s world gets turned upside down one night in Paris. He retreats to the region around Tours to recover. He and his
assistant Virgile turn PI to solve two murders and very particular heist.
In Nightmare
in Burgundy, a dream wine tasting trip to Burgundy that turns into a
troubling nightmare when Cooker and his assistant stumble upon a mystery
revolving around messages from another era.
This made-for-TV series is "difficult
to forget and oddly addictive" (ForeWord Reviews).
For More Information
- The Winemaker Detective: An Omnibus is available at Amazon.
- Pick up your copy at Barnes & Noble.
- Discuss this book at PUYB Virtual Book Club at Goodreads.
The
morning was cool and radiant. A west wind had swept the clouds far inland to
the gentle hills beyond the city of Bordeaux. Benjamin Cooker gave two
whistles, one short, the other drawn out, and Bacchus appeared from the high
grass on the riverbank. He had that impertinent look Irish setters get when you
remind them that they are dogs. Benjamin liked this clever and deceptively
disciplined attitude. He would never roam his childhood landscapes with an
animal that was too docile. The Médoc was still wild, despite its well-ordered
garden veneer, and it would always be that way. In the distance, a few low
wisps of fog were finishing their lazy dance along the Gironde Estuary. It was
nearly eleven and time to go home.
The Grangebelle’s graceful shape rose among the poplar trees. The
building would have seemed bulky, were it not for the elegant roof, the lightly
draped pergola, the delicate sparkling of the greenhouse, and the old varnished
vases set out in the vegetation with studied negligence. Elisabeth moved
silently among the copper pots in the kitchen. She shivered slightly when he
kissed her neck. He poured himself a cup of Grand Yunnan tea with slow and
precise movements. She knew he was tired. She was perfectly aware of his nights
of poor sleep, the deleted pages, the files he relentlessly ordered and
reordered, the doubts he had when he completed a tasting note, his concern for
the smallest detail, and the chronic worry that he would deliver his manuscript
late and disappoint his publisher. Benjamin had worked in his office until five
in the morning, taking refuge in the green opaline halo of his old Empire-style
lamp. Then he had slipped under the covers to join her, his body ice-cold and
his breathing short.
Who could have imagined that France’s most famous winemaker, the
established authority who caused both grand cru estate owners and unknown young
vintners to tremble, was, in fact, a man tormented by the meaning of his words,
the accuracy of his judgments, and an objectivity that he brandished like a
religious credo? When it came time to hand over a manuscript, his self-doubts
assailed him—the man whom the entire profession thought of as entrenched in
certainty and science and masterfully accomplished in the fine art of
critiquing wines. Benjamin Cooker knew that everyone, without exception, would
be waiting for his book to arrive in the stores. They would be weighing his
qualifiers and judging his worst and best choices. It was essential that the
publication of his guide never blemish his reputation as a winemaker and a
sought-after, even secret, advisor in the art of elaborating wines. He made it
a point of honor and proved it with his sometimes scathing criticism of wines
he himself had crafted. To him, moral integrity stemmed more often than not
from this astonishing faculty of uncompromising self-judgment, even when it was
forced and terribly unfair. He sometimes thought it belonged to another
century, a faraway time, when self-esteem and a certain sense of honor
prevailed over the desire for recognition.
He closed his eyes as he drank his tea. He knew that this moment of rest
would not last long and that he should make the most of it, appreciating these
slow, spread-out seconds. Elisabeth remained quiet.
“Send him to me as soon as he gets here. I need to have a few words with
him before lunch,” he said, calmly setting down his cup.
Benjamin Cooker dragged himself back to the half-light of his office. He
spent more than an hour examining his tasting notes for a Premières Côtes de
Blaye and finished by persuading himself that there was nothing left to add.
However, his preamble about the specific characteristics of the soil and the
vineyard’s history was a little short on information, despite his in-depth
knowledge of every acre. There was nothing wrong with what he had written, but
nothing really specific either. He would have to draw a more detailed picture,
refine the contours, and play with an anecdote or two to clarify the text. He
did not even lift his eyes from his notes when the doorbell rang out in the
hallway. He was nervously scribbling some poetic lines about the Blaye citadel
when Elisabeth knocked at the door. She knocked three more times before he told
her to come in.
“Our guest has arrived, Benjamin.”
“Welcome, young man!” the winemaker said, pushing his glasses to his
forehead.
An athletic and honest-looking young man with short hair honored him
with a strong handshake that left Benjamin wondering if his fingers would still
work.
“So you’re Virgile Lanssien,” Benjamin said, lowering his reading
glasses to the tip of his nose.
He invited the young man to sit down and observed him over the top of
his lenses for a minute. His dark, pensive good looks would have been almost
overwhelming, were it not for the spark of mischief in his eyes. He was dressed
simply in a pair of slightly washed-out jeans, a navy blue polo shirt, and
white sneakers. He was smart enough not to feign a laid-back attitude when
everything about him was on edge. Benjamin appreciated people who did not
posture.
“I have heard a lot about the time you spent at the wine school.
Professor Dedieu was unending in his praise for your work, and I have to admit
that I was rather impressed by your thesis. I have a copy of it here. The title
is a little complicated, Maceration Enzyme Preparation: Mechanism of Action
and Reasonable Use, but your reasoning was straightforward and clear,
particularly the section about blind tasting an enzymatic treatment of cabernet
sauvignon must. Well done, very well done! Please do excuse me for not having
been part of the jury when you defended your dissertation.”
“I won’t hide my disappointment, sir.”
“In any case, my presence would not have changed the result: You greatly
deserved the honors you received. I had an emergency call that day to care for
some grapevines in Fronsac, and it couldn’t wait. The flowering was tricky and
required quite a bit of attention.”
“I understand, sir. Did you save them at least?”
“More or less. There were enough grapes for me to offer you a bottle,”
Benjamin said, smiling.
The young man settled into the armchair and relaxed a little. He knew
that these formalities foreshadowed a flow of questions that he would have to
answer with candor and precision. Benjamin Cooker was a master no cheating
could fool. Virgile had read everything written by this man, whose reputation
stretched as far as North America and South Africa. He had also heard
everything there was to know about the “flying winemaker”—all the scandal
mongering and bitter words, along with the passionate commentaries and praise.
Everything and its opposite were the usual lot of exceptional people, the
ransom paid by those who had succeeded in imposing their singularity.
Virgile Lanssien tried to hide his apprehension and answered the sudden
volley of questions that descended on him as distinctly as possible. They
covered so many topics—layering, copper sulfate spraying, sulfur dioxide
additions, microclimates, grand cru longevity, aging on lees, filtering and
fining, gravel or limestone soils, fermentation temperatures, primary aromas, and
degrees of alcohol—in such disorder, yet Virgile managed to avoid the traps
with a skilled farmer’s cunning.
“Well, Virgile—I can call you Virgile, can’t I? I think that after these
appetizers, we have earned the right to a meal.”
Elisabeth, wearing a checkered apron tied at her waist, welcomed them
into the kitchen.
“We will eat in the kitchen, if that does not bother you, Mr. Lanssien.”
“To the contrary, ma’am. May I help with anything?”
“Why don’t you set the table. The plates are in that cupboard. The
cutlery is here.”
Benjamin was surprised to see his wife accept the young man as if he
were already part of the family. But Elisabeth knew her man well enough to
guess that the job interview was going well.
The winemaker grabbed three stem glasses and poured the wine he had
decanted that morning, before the walk with Bacchus.
“Taste this, Virgile.”
Benjamin observed his future assistant while he cut the bread and placed
the even slices in a basket. The boy knew how to taste. He used his eyes, his
nose, and his palate in a natural way, with the attitude of someone who knew
more than he showed.
“Wine can be so good when it’s good!”
An amused smile crossed Benjamin’s lips. The young man had a talent for
finding the truth beneath the surface but also a certain guilelessness. Virgile
was a cultivated ingénue with enough freshness and spontaneity to compensate
for the long years he had focused entirely on his studies.
“I will not be so cruel as to subject you to a blind tasting,” Benjamin
said, turning the empty bottle to display the label.
“Haut-Brion 1982!” the young man said with a note of rapture. “To tell
you the truth, I’ve never tasted one of these before.”
“Enjoy it then. It’s harder and harder to grab this vintage away from
the small-time speculators who are complicating our lives.”
“I made something simple,” Elisabeth interrupted, putting an old
cast-iron casserole on the table.
Virgile paused, unfolded his napkin, and gave the pot an apprehensive
look. Large chunks of eel floated in a thick greenish sauce filled with so many
herbs, it looked like a patch of weeds.
“I know, at first glance it does not look very appetizing, but it is a
recipe that deserves overcoming your first impression.”
“I think I know what it is.”
“Lamprey à la Bordelaise. It’s a classic,” said Elisabeth.
“With this dish, you should always drink the wine that was used in the
cooking,” Benjamin said, dishing out generous portions. “And nothing is better
with lamprey than a red Graves.”
Virgile stuck his fork into a piece of eel, dipped it in the sauce, and
nibbled at it.
“It is first rate, Mrs. Cooker! Excellent.”
“And now, let’s try a little of this Haut-Brion with that,” Benjamin
suggested. “Just a swallow, and then tell me what you think.”
Virgile did as he was told, with a pleasure he had some trouble hiding.
“It is beautifully complex, particularly with the tannins that are very
present. Rather surprising but not aggressive.”
Benjamin remained silent and savored his lamprey.
“It leaves a very smooth sensation in the mouth,” Virgile continued.
“And yet it has a kind of grainy texture.”
“Very perceptive. That is typical of Haut-Brion. It is both strong and
silky. And what else?”
“It’s fruity, wild fruits, with hints of berries, blackberries, and
black currant fruit.”
“True enough,” Benjamin said. “You can taste cherry pits later on, don’t
you think?”
“I didn’t notice, but now that you mention it.”
“Beware of what people say. Some may not find that hint of cherry pits,
and they wouldn’t be wrong.”
The guest took the blow without flinching. Benjamin had no trouble
pushing his interrogation further. The Pessac-Léognan grand cru loosened
Virgile’s tongue, and secrets slipped out in every sentence. He recounted his
childhood in Montravel, near Bergerac, where his father was a wine grower who shipped
his harvest to the wine cooperative and had no ambitions for his estate.
“You’ll take over the business one day, won’t you?” Elisabeth asked.
“I don’t think so. At least not as long as my father is in charge of the
property. My older brother is all they need for now to take care of the
vineyards.”
“That’s too bad. Bergerac wines have come a long way and could certainly
benefit from your talent,” Benjamin said.
“Perhaps one day. I rarely go back, truth be told. Mostly to see my
mother, who accuses me of deserting the nest, and my younger sister, who is the
only one I can confide in.”
He talked a lot, not so much because he wanted to monopolize the
conversation, but rather to satisfy his hosts’ unfeigned curiosity. To earn his
future boss’s trust, he felt it was appropriate to answer the Cooker couple’s
unspoken questions. The winemaker needed to know what was hidden in this
excellent and dedicated student. Never had he experienced a job interview that
was so informal and piecemeal. He disclosed himself without ostentation,
without mystery, and without immodesty. He talked about swimming in the
Dordogne River and playing for the Bergerac rugby club, but only for one
season, because he preferred canoeing and kayaking. He mentioned his first
medals when he joined the swim team, his years studying winemaking at La Tour
Blanche, near Château d’Yquem, before he did his military service, and his
studio apartment on Rue Saint-Rémi, from which you could see a little bit of
the Garonne.
Between two anecdotes, Benjamin went to get a second carafe of
Haut-Brion and allowed himself to share some of his own personal memories. It
pleased Elisabeth to see her husband finally relaxed and able to forget the
tribulations of his writing for a while. Benjamin recounted the crazy,
hare-brained ideas his father, Paul William—an antique dealer in London—had and
his mother Eleonore’s patience. Her maiden name was Fontenac, and she had spent
her entire youth here in Grangebelle, on the banks of the Gironde, before she
fell in love with that extravagant Englishman who collected old books in a shop
at Notting Hill.
Virgile listened. His handsome brown eyes were wide open, and he looked
like a slightly frightened child as he began to fully comprehend that this was
the famous Cooker, the Cooker, whose books he had devoured and who was
now sharing confidences. The oenologist enjoyed telling the young graduate
about his chaotic career. He had studied law for a year in England, spent a
year at the Paris Fine Arts Academy, worked for a year at the Wagons-Lits in
train catering and sleeping-car services, and then bartended for a year at the
Caveau de la Huchette in the capital before being hired at a wine shop in the
fifth arrondissement in Paris, where he worked for three years while taking wine
classes.
“The year I turned thirty, I started my wine consulting business,”
Benjamin said. “Elisabeth and I ended up moving here after my maternal
grandfather, Eugène Fontenac, passed away. Since that day, I haven’t been able
to imagine living anywhere other than Bordeaux.”
“That’s an unusual career path,” Virgile said.
“Yes, it is atypical. I had been around wine since I was a kid, when I
visited my grandfather in Grangebelle during summer vacations, but I needed a
little time for all that to distill. I had a lot of doubts during my Paris
years, and I spent a lot of time searching. I have followed a rather roundabout
path, but I do not regret any of the detours.”
“It’s intriguing, like the path a drop of Armagnac takes before it comes
out of the alembic.”
“That’s a fine image,” Elisabeth said. “But sometimes it is better not
to know all of the mysteries lying in the dark.”
“This is one area in which my wife and I differ. I believe you should
always seek to uncover secrets.”
“I don’t really have an opinion on the subject,” Virgile said, studying
the bottom of his empty glass.
Benjamin Cooker stood up and folded his napkin.
“My dear Virgile, from now on, consider yourself my assistant. We’ll
discuss the conditions later. I hope that this wine cleared your mind, because
I believe you will need all of your faculties. We have a particularly delicate
mission awaiting us.”
“And when will I be starting?”
The winemaker took a last sip of Haut-Brion and set his glass down
slowly. He slipped a hand into his jacket pocket, looked Virgile in the eye,
and handed him a set of keys.
“Right now.”
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