Excerpt from Flambé in Armagnac by Jean-Pierre Alaux and Noël Balen, translated by Sally Pane, published by Le French Book (www.lefrenchbook.com) (©Librairie Arthème Fayard, 2004; English translation copyright ©2015 Sally Pane)

1

A hot-air balloon was slipping into the clouds above a herd of wild horses. A village of rustic chalets hewn from rough logs stood silently on a ridge against a blue sky. Naiads in Brazilian bikinis frolicked beneath a blue waterfall. Swans in a Japanese-style pond navigated around pastel water lilies and gleaming orange koi.

“Which calendar would you like, Mr. Cooker?” Angèle was standing on the doorstep, stamping her feet and wrapped in a blue and yellow coat bearing the postal service insignia. Benjamin Cooker studied the images, where eternal peace reigned on earth and life was so simple and innocent. He pretended to hesitate between one filled with sandy beaches and rolling surf and another featuring nostalgic side streets in Caribbean locales. He finally chose the dog calendar, with an Irish setter that looked like a younger version of his canine companion Bacchus.

Once a year, Angèle rang the doorbells on her delivery route, not for the mail, but to sell calendars. It was a holiday ritual postal service workers in France shared with street cleaners and firefighters. Benjamin always bought one from each group, occasionally wondering what the money went for. Perhaps it was for an end-of-year bonus or for widows and orphans. Of course he never asked. That wouldn’t do, not with a tradition nearly as old as the postal service itself.

Benjamin offered the woman a cup of tea, but quickly added, “Or a cup of coffee?”

“Frankly, I’d prefer that!”

“One sugar?”

“Two, if you please. And how is Mrs. Cooker?”

“Well. Very well, indeed! She’s preparing for our daughter Margaux’s impending arrival—out shopping in Bordeaux. This visit is a real treat for us. It’s not often that Margaux tears herself away from New York these days. At any rate, I do hope Mrs. Cooker doesn’t go overboard, or I may not want to open our next credit-card statement!”

“How you do go on, Mr. Cooker. You of all people know that wine is made to be drunk. It’s the same with money; it’s made to be spent. Don’t you agree?”

The renowned wine consultant and author of the bestselling Cooker Guide wasn’t sure he wanted to engage in a discussion that he knew he couldn’t win. So he walked over to the mantel to pick up the envelope he had prepared. Angèle was all smiles.

“Happy New Year, Mr. Cooker!” Angèle said, leaning in for good-bye cheek kisses. Two pecks, one on each side, was standard in the Bordeaux region. It was three in southeastern France and four farther north.

The winemaker was hardly a fan of such effusion. Angèle’s kisses, however, were something no healthy man could refuse. The young woman’s cheeks were pink from a morning spent in the cold, and her chestnut hair smelled of coffee.

Benjamin watched from the warmth of Grangebelle as the mail carrier’s van disappeared down the drive. The weather was cold enough to chill Champagne, and some of the elderly residents of Saint-Julien were fearfully recalling the winter of 1954, although, on average, temperatures this winter had been warmer than usual. Benjamin had decided against going to his office on the Allées de Tourny. It felt good to be at Grangebelle, quietly watching the flames in the fireplace. The scent of the burning wood mingled with the slightly bitter smell of cigar.

The winemaker poured himself another cup of tea before perusing his mail a bit wearily. Bacchus was dozing on the old Persian rug in front of the fire. This was the dog’s favorite pastime in the winter. When the temperature dropped, Benjamin had a hard time rousing him for the long walks they usually loved to take. The old dog would not budge.

In the bundle of mail, one envelope caught his attention. In black and red letters, it bore the name Protection Insurance. Cooker & Co. occasionally did work for this company, and Benjamin always wound up chastising himself for not charging more, considering the time the cases took. Judging from the impersonal form letters they always sent, they clearly didn’t know him from Adam. In all of southwest France, he was the sole wine expert whose testimony was accepted without question by the courts in Toulouse and Bordeaux. He drew deeply on his Havana and put on his reading glasses.

Protection Insurance
Building Pierre-Paul-de-Riquet, C3 Quartier Compans- Caffarelli 31026 Toulouse Cedex

Dear Sir,

Pursuant to claim No. 455/JV/40, we are pleased to appoint you to estimate the damages suffered by our client, Mr. Jean-Charles de Castayrac, as a result of an accidental fire that destroyed the wine cellar on his property, Château Blanzac in Labastide- d’Armagnac, on December 24.

Your assignment is to provide a precise determination of the Armagnac reserves stored in the claimant’s cellar preceding the fire, to assess the quality of his eau-de-vie products up until that time, to estimate Mr. Castayrac’s loss, based on the market value of the Armagnac, and to examine Mr. Castayrac’s records.

Your expert report must be sent to our company headquarters within thirty days. It is your responsibility to investigate this matter with the diligence and skill you have always exercised and for which our company is grateful.

Sincerely,
Étienne Valéry
Manager, Claims Investigation

Benjamin considered turning down the assignment. But then he realized that the job would be an excellent excuse to pay a visit to his old friend Philippe de Bouglon. The fact that they had not been in touch for months did not diminish their friendship. And besides, his reserves of Armagnac were running low, and it was high time to replenish the liquor cabinet at Grangebelle.

Just a month earlier, in fact, Elisabeth and he had taken a drive through Labastide, hoping to visit the Bouglons and buy some Armagnac. Unfortunately, Philippe and his wife, Beatrice, had been away on vacation, but in town they had come across Francisco, the cellar master at Château Blanzac. He apologized for not being able to accommodate them immediately, but had promised to personally deliver some of the highly regarded eau-de-vie that he planned to distill be- fore the holidays. Elisabeth had assured Francisco that they could wait.

“I didn’t know the Blanzac cellar master was so charming,” Elisabeth had remarked, a smile on her face as she watched the man hurry off.

“Oh yes, as appealing as his Armagnac,” Benjamin had said with a bit of a grumble.

Had any of Château Blanzac’s fine Armagnac survived the fire? He’d find out. At any rate, Benjamin would catch the Bouglons at home. He decided not to call ahead. He would simply show up unannounced. After all, the Bouglons were two of the most hospitable people he knew. So the New Year was getting off to a good start. The winemaker threw another log on the fire. Bacchus just yawned and closed his eyes again. Benjamin savored another puff of his morning cigar. It was beginning to taste exquisite. What a pity the teapot was empty.

Benjamin opened the door to feel the chill on his face. The outdoor thermometer read six degrees below zero. The Gironde River and the fields of the Médoc, all speckled in white, seemed to be reaching toward the patches of pale sunshine from heaven. He did prefer the cold to the rain, but driving on ice was not his favorite sport. At any rate, Virgile, his assistant, would take the wheel.

Benjamin closed the door and headed to the phone.

“Hello, Virgile? Cooker here. Happy New Year, my boy! Let’s celebrate with a glass of Armagnac. What do you say? Meet me at Grangebelle. And bring along some warm clothes and your toothbrush.”

Benjamin quickly scribbled a note for Elisabeth telling her where he’d be and went into his bedroom to fetch his own toothbrush and an overnight bag.