RED STREAM
by Paul Tracy
Max
Christian smiled, held up the glass against the white cloth and plunged his
nose into the rim. He stared without expression into the middle distance,
swirled the glass and tasted. The sound he made as he drew air through the wine
in his mouth was unspeakable.
-Well?
asked the girl.
Max
spat into a nearby spittoon and asked abruptly:
-
Where did you say this came from?
-
It came in last week from the South-West.
-
Where exactly?
-
Cahors, like most Malbec.
-
Cooperative or independent?
-
Independent. Small one, I think. Max, what is this?
-
Labelled as?
-
Labelled simply as Malbec of last year's vintage. Routine control sample.
He
nodded and tasted the red wine again, and this time swallowed it.
-
I don’t agree, Béatrice, he said. This is Malbec.
-
Max, I have never tasted Malbec as fruity as this.
-
You don't travel enough, Béa. I am sure this is Malbec, he said looking at her.
Only it's not from
Her
eyes opened wide, her gaze went quickly from him to the glass standing on the
white cloth and back to him.
-
Merde, she exclaimed.
As
they walked across the road to lunch, Max was thoughtful. And perplexed.
-
Do you know this outfit, Béa?
-
Not specially, but I don't know most of the producers who send us samples.
They're names on bottles.
-
What is the name?
-
We'll take a look when we get back. It shows the full address and the name of
the person who submitted the sample. What do we do?
Max
thought for a moment, pursing his lips.
-
Look, Béatrice, can you delay submitting a report on this one? Find a pretext
to lose a few days?
She
looked at him in surprise.
-
Sure I can say we need another test, confirm our findings before release, with
the 2nd bottle.
Max
looked at her open-mouthed.
-
There's another bottle of this?
-
Well, of course Max, there's always a second bottle. In case the first is
corked or broken or whatever. You know that.
-
I suppose I do. Can we taste it after lunch?
-
Max, this is not very catholic.
-
Neither is Argentine wine being passed off as French. But I suspect it's not as
simple as that. I'd like to know why. Eat up.
He
smiled as he poured her a small glass of the Cuvée du Patron.
On
returning to the wine lab, they were disappointed however. Béatrice's bright
young assistant just out of viticultural school told them that sample R2135
Cahors from Fourlac & fils had been checked in as 1 bottle only.
-
Strange, he said, don't often see that. Bit mean, if they're looking for a
stamp of approval.
-
I'm not sure that's what they are looking for, Max replied, and then pulled
himself up. Oh well not to worry. Béatrice, a couple of things before I go.
They
spent 10 minutes planning his next visit; Béatrice asked as he was leaving:
-
Where to now, flying wine man?
-
-
Max, are you sure...?
-
Not at all but I intend to set my mind at rest.
-
So Max Christian, great wine man, plans to simply turn up chez Fourlac &
fils, unannounced, and expect to be told all there is to know about this
company's latest Malbec. Have you ever been there before?
Max
looked around and dropped into a chair. He looked up at Béatrice, raising his
eyebrows.
-
All right Béa, give it to me. What do you suggest ?
-
Two alternatives: one, you fly off to
Max
listened carefully to her and when she finished looked her in the eyes calmly.
Beautiful eyes, he thought, not for the first time. He leant forward in his
chair and spoke slowly with great emphasis.
-
Béatrice, why do you think you employ me, as you say, to come here at your
request once a month? I come to taste a bunch of wines with you because you
consider that a 2nd opinion helps you and may modify or confirm your
judgment. It may be subjective – God knows the journalists tell us that often
enough – but what they forget is that we unlike them are not here to give our
opinion of the quality of a wine. We both know that there are few great wines,
the vast majority are strictly average. Our purpose is to answer two very
different questions: is this wine technically irreproachable and is it what it
purports to be? Two yeses and the wine
gets our nod whether or not we actually enjoyed it. No on either count and we
are duty bound to flag it up. This morning, our Malbec was technically perfect,
it was also incidentally quite agreeable. It also tastes of Malbec. Our problem
is that it doesn't taste like Cahors Malbec. So what do we do before passing
judgment? We investigate further before either throwing it out or passing it.
Neither of us knows if Cahors is producing Malbec like this nowadays. Why not,
it wouldn't be illegal. So I want to go chez Fourlac and nose around a bit to
satisfy my mind one way or the other.
-
You've made up your mind already, said Béa.
-
No, I've worked in this business long enough to get used to surprises. But bear
in mind that this may not be what it looks.
She
frowned.
-
Not the wine, Béa, the people. Maybe this sample found its way here because
someone is trying to warn the institute. Someone who doesn't know you submit
two samples rather than one as a matter of course.
-
Machiavel, toi!
-
Sure, I'll just tell Fourlac that we're convinced he imports his Malbec from
Cahors, Friday April 23rd
When
Max Christian walked into the offices of Caves Fourlac & fils, he had
devised what he imagined to be a plausible excuse for being in Cahors. An
English magazine had asked him to write an article on the region's wines. The
institute in
Béatrice
had caught up with him as his train pulled out of
-
M.Fourlac is charming but you won't see him. He's leaving town tonight. Don't
worry you'll see his cellarmaster, Monsieur Berton. He makes the wine so he'll
be more useful anyway, dixit Fourlac.
-
Fine, what time?
-
Whenever, he'll be there all day.
-
Ok. I'll report back.
-
You better. Call me before you fly off to the west coast or take me with you or
something.
-
I'll decide tomorrow.
-
Salaud. Take care.
Which,
he thought later, was an odd thing to say to someone about to visit a wine
cellar.
The
courtyard was dingy enough but no more so than a hundred other such places all
across
-
Monsieur, said a voice behind him. Monsieur,
vous cherchez?
- Monsieur Berton, please. I have an
appointment this morning
-
The English gentleman, Monsieur Christian?
-
Yes, he replied slowly, just so, the English gentleman.
Curious,
he thought, unlike Béa to mention that. A woman, dressed in a less than
flattering blue smock, came down a flight of steps and asked him to follow her.
They entered a large hall where a distinctly modern bottling line was
momentarily stopped
-
Have you seen
-
He's over in the cellar, said one. The barrel cellar.
Before
Max had time to wander over to the line to look at what was being bottled
today, he was called to order by Bluecoat to accompany her to the barrel
cellar. However when they reached the far door of the bottling shed, she just
pointed to the building opposite, older and more elegant.
-
You'll find
-
Merci Madame. What does he look like?, Max asked
She
laughed.
-
There won't be anyone else, Monsieur. Forty years old.
And
she was gone.
Max
looked across at the chai de barriques in front of him and wondered how many
times he had done this before. Yet, visiting a wine cellar for the first time
always excited him however gloomy the place, miserable the welcome, indifferent
the wine. The thought that here there might be a hidden jewel, a forgotten barrel
of supreme quality, a winemaker full of unorthodox challenging ideas, this is
what made wine so gloriously unpredictable. Maybe Pierre Berton would turn out
to be one of the unlikely heroes of this fabulous trade.
The
immediate problem however seemed to be finding him. Max paced slowly through
the barrel cellar, an ocean of calm compared to the noise next door. He noticed
that most were fairly new, from quality coopers, Taransaud, François frères,
Seguin Moreau. Serious investment for a small Cahors producer. Or maybe not so
small. It was a very fine barrel cellar with, Max guessed, some 500 barrels
each containing the equivalent of 300 bottles. No shortage of cash here.
Pierre
Berton was not here and neither was anyone else, but just as Max was turning
back the way he'd come, he noticed a door leading off to the right. He tried
the handle and found himself in a hall full of stainless steel vats. For a few
minutes, he was lost in admiration at these giants which, unknown to most wine
drinkers, had transformed over the past few decades what found its way into
their bottles and glasses. Temperature control, clean winemaking, good fruit,
these monsters beat the old "traditional" wooden fermentation vats
out of sight. They cost a fortune but...
Max
paused and bent his head at an angle to get a better look. That was wine, a
leak coming from one of the vats, not much, a dribble but definitely a leak
wending its way across the slightly sloping floor of the cellar into the gutter
running down the middle. He walked briskly towards it then stopped, catching
his breath.
The
shiny black shoes stuck out foolishly into the alley, just below the blue
overalls. Pierre Berton, a youngish man with sandy hair lay on his side with a
sad expression on his face. The red stream gently seeping across the cellar
floor was not wine.
City of
-
It's a wonder the gendarmerie didn't clap you in the local clink
-
They would have done, if Fourlac hadn't confirmed that I was visiting with the
institute's blessing.
-
So la belle Béatrice was right after all
Nick
Marsh chuckled and blew a cloud of cigar smoke in Max's face.
-
So what was the verdict on poor Monsieur Berton?, he growled
-
As far as I know there isn't one. The post-mortem concluded that his throat had
been cut by a stiletto
-
Stiletto? How melodramatic
-
Which was not found, Max continued, and no other evidence of a prowler or
stranger in the cellar
-
Except Max Christian
-
Precisely
Nick
Marsh sat back and looked at Max intently. They were almost alone now in a
bistro near Nick's office in the city of
-
All right, Max, spit it out. Tell me your theory and what it is you want me to
do. You do want me to do something, I take it.
It
was a blunt statement not a question.
-
Nick, I need a sounding board. I want you to listen to me and then tell me why
it's all bullshit.
Nick
shrugged and looked at his watch.
-Ten
minutes. Go on.
-
For some time now Fourlac has been importing Argentine wine and passing it off
as Cahors. I don't know why or how yet, but I will. It might have been for
blending or quality improvement or simply because it was cheaper but somehow I
don't think so. If you needed Malbec that badly, it's a lot cheaper to buy it
in the south of
-
But more public.
-
Check. But it had to be Malbec because that's the Cahors grape. However a
sample of this wine found its way conveniently to the institute. When I tasted
it the other day, it was quite clearly not Cahors, it was so obviously
Argentine that I thought someone at Fourlac, perhaps poor Monsieur Berton, was
trying to warn us.
-
Sounds plausible, Nick interjected, crisis of conscience maybe.
-
Plausible, but now I wonder, Max replied.
-
Wonder what?
-
Wonder whether this isn't all a hoax. Someone trying to convince the institute,
us, the world of wine that Cahors is cheating.
-That's
a long shot, Nick was restive, and where does that leave "poor Monsieur
Berton" ?
-
Poor Monsieur Berton had probably discovered something he didn't like very
much.
-
Good God, Max, these are fairy tales, bloody complicated ones at that..
He
heaved himself to his feet. Max stared at him coldly.
-
To think I was convinced you loved this business, Nick Marsh
The
Marsh forehead creased into a massive frown.
-
Stupid bastard, Christian.
-
Nick, if someone has been smart enough and ruthless enough to do this in
Cahors, then this is just a dry run. Cahors is a drop in an
-
You don't have to sell wine, Max, I do. It's not particularly easy, you know.
-
No, I just make it. Without people like me you would have nothing to sell.
Marsh
sat down again and drained his cognac with a gulp
-
All right, tell me why, if they're out to ruin the reputation of Cahors, they
don't just produce undrinkable plonk under a famous name?
-
That's the clever part, Nick. Corrupt a wine so that it ends up tasting like
something just as good but at only half the price.
-
Bullshit
-
What?
-
Bullshit, Max. I am giving you my opinion. It's too far-fetched. Look, wine
fraud has gone on for years, my grandfather, bless his heart, merrily mixed
Hermitage into
-
Will you put out feelers for me?
-
If you mean, will I ask around if there's any dubious trans-shipments then the
answer's no. But if I hear anything I'll let you know straight away.
-
Thank you Nick, Max murmured.
-
You don't have to be so bloody enthusiastic.
Nick
leant over him, casting a massive shadow.
-
Max, I’ve worked in this business for 25 years. I do love it. I spend my time
doing little else but talking, buying, selling and believe it or not tasting
wine. I will know before any customer of mine if my Meursault starts tasting of
Max
gazed back and shrugged.
-
Maybe, Nick. If only it were that easy. You'll see, this game has only just
begun
Max
Christian flew from Charles de Gaulle airport to
He
walked through
-
You may be a week late but you're still the first out of the gate.
-
Is that compliment or criticism?
-Take
your pick. Either way they'll sure be glad to see you up in
-
What's up, asked Max, they do without me 11 months out of 12.
-
Just what I said, Dan chuckled. You don't need Max that bad I said, 'cos if you
do, you won't have no job left. But you know them. They just tell me to go back
and run around my vineyard, concentrate on bringing in the fruit.
Dan
was a field manager, at home amongst his Chardonnay, Cabernet and Pinot Noir
vines. He knew practically all there was to know about pruning, flowering,
treating, and harvesting. He watched the sky all day and half the night. But
once he'd delivered his grapes to the winery door he lost interest. Too much
fuss, he said, too much chemistry and wood. He drank beer most of the time and
wine hardly ever.
-
Is Tom there?
-
Sure, and the new guy. You met him?
-
No, who's that?
-
Damon, his name is, Damon something. Guys in
Dan
chuckled and continued:
-
Leastways that's what they said to me. Some big shot from
-
They'll be back, said Max.
-
Sure they will, sighed Dan.
-
So what's worrying Tom?
-
That only he can tell you, Mr Christian. But try to get out before dawn for a
few beers.
-
You bet, said Max.
Two
hours later, after weaving their way through the city, across the Golden Gate
bridge, and due north up the freeway, the car came to a halt in the courtyard
of a Spanish style winery a mile or two beyond the town of Sonoma. Max climbed
out of the car and stretched; it was April 30th, a warm evening in
one of the most beautiful places in the wine world. Tough life.
-
Get to work, buddy, said Dan. This ain't vacation.
-
What's vacation, Croft?
Tom
Coppell ambled out of the low white building, dressed in his uniform of dirty
blue jeans and trainers, looking anything but worried.
-
The French, late as ever, he barked.
-
That's why they sent a Brit this time, Max grinned.
-
Now you're here, follow me, Christian.
Tom
turned on his heel and they moved into an airy functional building, leaving the
soft evening sunlight behind them. This being
They
entered a small office with a view over the barrel cellar, and Tom closed the
glass door. Max moved instinctively to the window to gaze down at the vast room
with its seemingly endless line of identical oak barrels full of quietly ageing
fine wine.
-
Sit down, Max, said Tom, gesturing to one of the room's two chairs. Max remained
on his feet.
-
OK Tom what's up?, he said turning towards the winemaker.
-
What's up where?
-
What's so urgent that Dan is asked to bring me straight here, that you're
waiting for me to arrive, that we're in your office now just two minutes later?
What's up?
-
Blending, said Tom, leaning back in his chair, looking suddenly tired.
-
Blending, why is there a problem?
-
You could say that, Max. You arrived here late so we started without you.
Preliminary tests and so forth.
-
As we agreed, said Max.
-
Right, as we agreed. Well, we hit a problem. Like a serious problem. These
wines are dead.
-
What do you mean, dead?
The
door opened and a tall slim young man rather smartly dressed came in. Max
raised his eyebrows at the intrusion.
-
Damon Johnson, the young man said. I guess you're Max.
-
You guess right, Max replied flatly. He turned back to Tom.
-
Damon has joined the team, Max. About how long now, Damon?
-
Just a month, Damon smiled.
-
You were saying, Tom. Max watched him closely.
-
The wine's dead, Max, as I say. No fruit. We've done a bunch of tests and
everything checks out. But when we come to blend, we can't. The juice has no
fruit.
-
Since when?
-
Since we started, four days ago.
-
And before that?
-
Before that, everything was fine. Damon checked it most days, I guess. That
right, Damon ?
-
Every day, Damon replied.
-
We had no problem until Monday, Max, he continued
Max
interrupted:
-
Is everything still in tank?
-
Yes, practically everything. Except the Cabernet reserve which is already in
barrel.
-
And that?
Tom
looked at him blankly.
-
What about it?
-
What is the Cabernet doing, Tom? Is that dead too?
-
I don't know, it didn't occur to me...
-
And you call yourself a winemaker? Your best wine and you don't know? Do you
know?
Max
turned to look accusingly at the newcomer.
-
No sir.
-
Let's go, said Max. While there's still time.
The
trio walked quickly into the barrel cellar. Max realized suddenly how little
difference there was between this place and the other cellar he had visited barely
a week before. His mind began working overtime.
-
How many of the tanks have you checked? he snapped.
It
was Damon who answered:
-
All of them, Max. No measurable difference between them.
-
Is that judgment based on tasting or analysis?
-
Both. Here's the Cabernet.
The
three men jostled around the first barrel as Damon drew a tasting sample. They
spent a minute chewing over the juice before spitting it out.
-
Perfect, said Damon.
-
Immaculate, agreed Tom.
-
It won't be bad, Max conceded, loath as ever to use superlatives. Wine could
always be improved.
-
Don't listen to him, Tom muttered, he'd look for faults in Cheval Blanc 47.
-
I look for faults in every wine, Tom. It's in my blood.
-
Blood eh?
They
sampled half a dozen barrels at random from the 60 or so holding the precious
Cabernet. Max also insisted on tasting a few other vintages, clambering up on
barrels perched above their heads on a mezzanine overlooking the main cellar.
They found no problems.
Tom
drove Max back to his hotel. They agreed to meet the next morning, Saturday as
usual at 8 to run through tank samples. Week-ends were work days during Max's
visits to the valley. He and Tom generally spent Saturday and half Sunday at
the winery and then indulged in a lazy Sunday lunch at Tom's place. More often
than not this was prolonged into the evening as Max was kidnapped to give ad
hoc French lessons to the kids.
Tom
swung the little convertible to a halt in front of the hotel entrance. Max
glanced over at him.
-
Your new guy, Damon, where's he from?
-
-
I mean, where did he work, what's he done?
-
A couple of
Max
nodded.
-
That's interesting. Which cantina?
-
No idea.
Max
whistled. He turned towards Tom.
-
Does he know anything?
-
Sure does, knows a lot. Full of ideas. Last week he wanted to buy in Malbec.
Max
stared.
-
Malbec, here? Why?
-
Search me. Experiments or something.
-Who
grows Malbec around here, Tom ?
-
I don't know and frankly, Max, I don't care.
-
It's your name on the wines, Tom.
-
Yeah, that's the way it looks, Mr Christian. But there's a lot happening here
which is not the way it looks right now. We'll talk about it maybe. See you
tomorrow.
Max
watched the bright red sports car disappear and turned with a sigh into the
lobby. Five years ago Tom Coppell was one of the top winemakers in the valley,
and fun too. Then
Before
falling asleep, Max e-mailed Béatrice asking her what she knew or could dig up
on a winemaker called Damon Johnson, who had worked recently in
Saturday, May 1st
He
was out well before 8 drinking coffee on the square in
Max
had decided not to taste the tanks last night but to make a systematic check
this morning. Whilst he had been searching for a pretext to work alone with
Tom, Damon had to his surprise forestalled him by asking Tom if he minded if he
joined them later as he had a grower to see that morning.
-
Sure, said Tom, we'll manage. Max and I always manage, God knows how.
Tom
was late, which was unusual, but not unknown. Max gazed out of the window on to
the square, and was surprised to see a pick-up truck pull up outside from which
Damon Johnson emerged in a hurry. He burst into the coffee house, visibly
agitated
-
Max, it's Tom.
-
What is it?, Max looked up at him with foreboding
-
Accident. This morning. On the way here, on the highway from Healdsburg. He hit
a truck.
-
A truck? On a Saturday morning? Max realized how stupid it sounded. How is he?
-
Neck injury. He's on his way to the clinic. In the city. Unconscious but they
say he'll be ok.
Damon
collapsed in a chair and buried his head in his arms.
Max
leant over and asked sternly:
-
Who says he'll be ok?
Damon
looked up, surprised.
-
Why, the medics of course. That damn car. Just like fucking James Dean.
Max
put his hand on his shoulder.
-
What about Cat? Anyone called her?
-
I don't know. Dan called me and told me to get over here fast. I was still in
bed.
-
Call Dan, will you? Max looked intently
at Damon, his face not showing his worry.
A
few moments sufficed to discover that Dan had not spoken to Tom's wife and clearly
didn’t want to.
-
Bit early to call perhaps, Dan said hopefully
-
We're on our way, Max grunted. Keep us informed about Tom
15
minutes later the pick-up rolled into the Coppell driveway. It was not that
early as the lady of the house was already staggering about a striking garden
with handfuls of what looked like branches of young trees.
-
The Christian in person, Cat smiled with obvious pleasure. What are you doing
here? You and Tom are meant to be working.
-
Bad news, Cat, I'm afraid. Tom's had an accident.
-
Tom...an accident? She opened her mouth and clumsily tried to catch the
branches as they slipped from her hands. - What's happened, Max?
-
His car hit a truck, Cat, on the way in. He's on his way to Frisco now, he has
neck injuries but they say he'll be ok. Max
repeated mechanically the words he had heard a short time before.
Cat
fell into his arms.
-
Oh Max, whatever next?
He
stiffened and looked over at Damon, an embarrassed witness on the driveway.
Max
took her by the shoulders.
-
Cat, is there anyone, a neighbour or someone, who can look after the kids. I'll
take you to the clinic.
-
They're not here, Max, they're at camp this weekend.
He
gave silent thanks for the first time ever to the god of schoolchildren for
American camps.
-
Right, he said turning to Damon. I'll see you back in the winery later.
_______________________________________________________________
In
fact it was Cat who drove the 90 minutes to the clinic; she preferred it, she
said, as her husband had just had a road accident. Max escorted her to the
clinic door and then walked out in the gardens, trying to make some sense of
their conversation on the journey in.
She
had told him that Tom had been uneasy recently.
-
Uneasy, he said, what do you mean?
-
He's not happy at 3 Stones any longer, Max, you don't need me to tell you that.
But it's more serious, he thinks something's going on behind his back.
-
What kind of thing?
-
He hasn't told me much, you know how cagey he is, but grapes have shown up at
the winery from growers Tom knew nothing about, and he mentioned some problem
about stock control. He came back one evening pretty mad saying he'd walk out
if they tried that on again. Said
someone had been tinkering with stock figures. Those were his words "tinkering with the stock".
-
When was this?
-
Oh, a month or so ago. Since then he's been like I say uneasy. He even asked me
the other day if anyone from 3 Stones had come to the house recently.
Cat
laughed brightly, a little too brightly.
-
Can you imagine that, Max?
-
And had they?
-
Of course not. What would they want here?
Max
shrugged.
-
What about Damon, his new colleague? You seen him before?
-
Not until today. Tom mentioned the name a couple of times.
They
drove on in silence for a while but as they came down through Marin and on to
the bridge, Max said
-
Cat, you've been in the valley for years, you've plenty of friends, have you
talked about this to anyone. I mean, about Tom's worries?
-
Correction, we have a load of acquaintances, not friends. I wouldn't breathe a
word to people here. This is a glittering little microcosm here, Max, all
facade, where everyone works in the same business. A bunch of people envy Tom
his job, you know.
-
I suppose they do, he sighed.
-
You cannot imagine, Max, how much Tom looks forward to your visits.
Cat
turned towards him, her soft grey eyes seeming to plead Max to understand a man
who he felt was probably beyond his understanding.
-
Now this, she said shortly.
-
That's why he needs you, Cat.
-
You're not going straight off again are you, Max ?
-
I'll be here for a while yet. Whilst you need me.
______________________________________________________________
Max
spent the afternoon with Damon at the winery doing what he and Tom would have
done. Cat called to say that Tom was out of danger but with multiple fractures
and concussion, he was going to be out of circulation for a while.
The
two men worked methodically through the tank samples that Damon had drawn off
that morning. The Stone tank cellar was huge, there were 30 storage tanks all
told, inside and out. Most of the wines were red, but there was Chardonnay and
a little Viognier, which Max had persuaded Tom to make this vintage. They
started with these.
Max,
like most professional wine- tasters, preferred to work through the wines
individually and then compare notes at the end of each set or flight as they
were called. He started straight into the whites and realized at once that this
tasting was going to be different from usual.
-
Damon, when were these last tasted ?
-
Yesterday, tanks 1 & 4. The others the day before
-
By both of you?
-
Tom and me yesterday. I taste every day.
-
Seen any evolution over the past few days?
-
Nope.
The
young men looked at him frankly, stating a simple fact apparently.
They
tasted the Viognier. No perfume, none of the rather luscious aroma you looked
for when it was young, just a hint of sulphur. Max made a note.
They
went on to Merlot, a Merlot almost totally devoid of fruit.
-
Have tank temperatures shown variance?
asked Max, knowing this is the first point any wine man checks
-
No more than a degree either side. Not possible, anyway, as the emergency
system cuts in if the main system goes down.
-
Of course it did, thought Max. There was too much at stake in this business
nowadays, cash, reputations. Nobody could afford to leave things to chance or
the vagaries of cellar temperatures. That was old-fashioned wine -making
inconceivable to today's Young Turks.
He
paused over a wine in the middle of a flight of Cabernets, by far the largest
wine set. He tasted the wine again, set
the glass aside and then moved on to the next. By the end of the session, he
had set 5 red glasses apart from the others. He sat back.
-
Fire away, Damon, let's hear your thoughts on the whole set.
If
Tom's colleague was disconcerted by the question, he failed to show it. He
almost seemed to be waiting for the opportunity to show off his knowledge.
-
All wines close up at some point in their early life. What has happened here is
a general close-up much earlier than usual. We can only speculate on the
reasons: the unseasonally hot weather last summer, hence the earlier harvest,
perhaps even cellar activity, new tanks, new yeasts, even...
Max
interrupted sharply:
-
New yeasts, what new yeasts ?
-
New fermentation yeasts. Tom used new yeasts this year.
Max
raised his eyebrows and made another note
-
Damon, tell me do you see any difference between these wines?
-
Nothing measurable, was the reply
-
Ok, said Max, let's turn this around. Do you have the correspondence charts
between tanks and vineyard parcels?
-
Sure. The younger man shuffled through the stack of papers in front of him
-
Good man. Give me the parcels for these numbers: 9, 11, 17, 25 and 29
Damon
ran through the list of parcels, dotted around the valley. Two of these were
owned by Stone, the other three by a company Damon referred to as Madison Roux.
-
Who are they?
-
Don't know but Croft will, he replied.
Max bristled but said nothing. Instead, he
slid off his stool, stretched and walked slowly around the lab. He looked out
at the immaculate lawn running down to a stream 30 yards away but he did not
see it.
-
That's enough for now. Lock up those 5 samples please in the lab. I want to
taste them again.
-
Do we continue tomorrow? Damon asked.
-
Maybe, Max replied, I'll see. Give me a contact number.
_________________________________________________
Max
picked up a car and drove over to Yountville for dinner. Despite all the years,
or maybe because of them, he still had trouble with most Californian
eating-places. So, his discovery some years ago of a French bistro tucked away
in the heart of
Tonight
he found himself on the table d’hôte sitting opposite a distinguished,
silver-haired man who promptly picked up the bottle in front of him
-
Good evening sir. Glass of wine?
-
Good evening. Yes with pleasure.
-
Nothing special I'm afraid but I tend to come here for what's in the plate,
don't you?
Max
agreed and they introduced themselves. Christopher Harvey, "call me
Kit", lived in
-
Up north, Calistoga way, but I need to come down here to find a decent table.
Without ruining myself, he added. You?
-
I'm visiting, said Max, I live in
-
You're a Brit right?
-
Right. Emigrant worker.
-
You a wine man? Most Brits who come here seem to be wine people.
-
Yes, I am. Wine-making
-
Really? Well, good luck. I hate wineries.
Max
laughed. What have we done?
-
It's what you don't do, more like, Kit Harvey replied scornfully. Your security
is lousy, you have an asset, a liquid asset that lies around in warehouses for
year after year in wooden and glass containers increasing in value. There's
practically no merchandise in the world more vulnerable than wine. For an
insurer like me, that spells trouble.
-
Diamonds, uranium, platinum.
-
I said vulnerable, not valuable. Those things they lock up, employ guards,
computer security systems etc. You wine guys have no time for that, he added.
-
It's not that easy to steal barrels of wine, said Max
-
Who's talking about theft? said the other impatiently. Think fraud.
Destruction, fire, contamination, substitution whatever. If someone filters off
your precious chardonnay this weekend and replaces it with standard hooch, what
do you do? Who would know apart from you?
Max
sat back in his chair and looked carefully into
-
What is it? Have I said something I shouldn't?
-
Do you mind if we choose another wine? replied Max. I'd like to tell you a story.