Flambé in Armagnac Read online

  As cupid’s game of love would have it, she married a Castayrac, whose specialty was trading in eau-de-vie. The dowry was much more beautiful than the bride, and the groom was more talented in manners than business. The couple experienced a few years of happiness and had two sons, Alban and Valmont, three or four good vintages, and then a rash of disappointments, serious breaches in the marriage contract, and finally the agonies of illness. Breast cancer claimed the miraculous springs heiress. She died on a Good Friday at the age of forty-four without having embraced her two children one last time. The whole town of Labastide-d’Armagnac accompanied her hearse to the Castayrac family vault on a dismal spring day.

  “Mr. Castayrac, how much eau-de-vie would you say you lost in the fire?” Benjamin ventured, barely looking at the baron.

  “That is difficult to judge, sir. Only Francisco would have been able to tell you to the exact liter,” Castayrac said, rubbing his fingers along the moth-eaten armrests. “He kept the books.”

  “Nevertheless, you’re the one who takes care of the accounting, taxes, and the administrative details, aren’t you?”

  “Or maybe it’s your sons?” suggested Virgile.

  “Mr. Lanssien, I’d prefer to answer your superior. It’s a matter of principle. In this house, only the elders have the right to speak.”

  “So it’s Alban we’d need to—”

  “That’s enough, Virgile,” Benjamin interrupted.

  The baron smirked, apparently pleased to have established his authority.

  “Francisco was—how can I put it—part of the family,” the baron said, looking only at Benjamin. “My father, Jean-Sébastien de Castayrac, thought the boy had an honest face and hired him. Francisco wasn’t even sixteen when he walked through the gate. He came from the foothills of the Pyrenees, from Jurançon, where he had been a farm boy. His parents had fled Franco’s Spain.”

  Benjamin nodded. “Do you know anything else about his background?”

  “Francisco Vasquez was a private man. He rarely confided in anyone. He had a saying: ‘All I know, I put in a bottle!’ Even now I can hear him speaking those words with his Aragonese accent.”

  “He became your cellar master, and no offense intended, I believe he crafted your best eau-de-vie.”

  “I am indebted to him for many things,” Jean-Charles de Castayrac said and sighed. “And one of them is the quality of my Armagnacs.”

  “Did he live in the château?”

  “A few months after he arrived in Blanzac, my father gave him a shack near the old stables that the day workers had used for their breaks during haymaking season and the grape harvest. He never paid any rent. That’s how it was. Francisco was family. He often ate lunch with us. That is, when my wife was still alive, because after… After, we made other arrangements.”

  “He never married?” Benjamin asked, reading his silenced assistant’s mind.

  “No,” the baron said. “But he was never short on girls. They all flocked around him. He was good-looking. Well, that’s history now.”

  “I heard he sowed his seed all over Labastide,” Benjamin said with a touch of mischief.

  “That’s what they say, all right. But people exaggerate. If you believe everything that’s said in town… I’m sure some people are whispering that I started the fire in my own wine cellar to collect the insurance.”

  Virgile spoke up again. “And what were you doing on December 24th?”

  The baron crossed his legs, revealing mismatched socks and hairy white calves. He stared at Benjamin without blinking.

  Benjamin broke the silence. “As far as the insurance is concerned, the fire was an accident. I’m here to get things moving, Mr. Castayrac. I am counting on your cooperation.”

  “You’ll have it, Mr. Cooker.”

  “I don’t doubt it. I suggest that we meet tomorrow morning to draw up an initial assessment of the reserves that were burned.”

  “Don’t come at the crack of dawn. I like to stay under the covers when it’s this cold outside.”

  “I understand. How about ten o’clock? Will that do?”

  “I’d prefer eleven,” the baron responded. He then sprang nimbly from his chair and headed toward the vestibule.

  The winemaker wondered what use the cane could possibly served, other than that of pompous accessory. Evidently, the proprietor of Blanzac was a better actor than vintner. Was it possible that the fire was not an accident?

  The parting was cool and barely polite.

  4

  Benjamin needed no persuasion to accept Philippe de Bouglon’s offer to stay a few nights at Prada, just enough time to assess the loss sustained by the Castayrac estate. With his friend’s Gascon gift of gab, the quality of their Armagnacs, Beatrice’s undeniable culinary talents, and the magnificence of his old friend’s humidor, how could he resist? Naturally, Benjamin didn’t intend to hurry his assessment. He’d take his time to dig just a little deeper. But there was still the matter of Virgile.

  “Young man, you are welcome to stay in the tower. We have a small room there,” Philippe said.

  “Honey, that won’t work, the pipes have frozen. He wouldn’t have any water,” Beatrice said.

  “Besides, isn’t that bedroom the one that’s haunted?” Benjamin added with a wink.

  “I’m fine staying somewhere in town, boss.”

  “There’s a family in Labastide-d’Armagnac, the Cantarels, who have guest rooms,” Philippe said. “You’ll be happy as a clam there. The rooms are very simple but comfortable. The owner is friendly and, to be honest, a bit chatty. She has a son about your age. He’s the striker for the Cazaubon team, a champion rugby player. He was named the best player in Gascony. But Virgile, maybe you’re not a fan?”

  “As a matter of fact, I played two seasons for the Bergerac club.”

  “What position?” Philippe asked.

  “Wing,” Virgile responded, thrusting out his chest a bit.

  Benjamin was amused. “Philippe, how far away is it?”

  “Less than five minutes from here.”

  With a wink, Beatrice assured Virgile that he could have his meals at Prada. She was already talking to him as though he were a dear member of the clan.

  “And Evelyne Cantarel will tell you more about Blanzac,” she said. “She worked for the Castayracs for many years. Evelyne’s a nice woman who hasn’t had an easy life. She and her son live with her father, who’s still hale and hearty. I think he’s even the local agent for the Protection Insurance, isn’t he, Philippe?”

  Benjamin smiled politely and fiddled with his glass. Why hadn’t the insurance company mentioned the local agent?

  “I’m not sure, Beatrice. I think he quit a short time ago,” Philippe said. “Benjamin, most of us around here are covered by the Social Agricultural Insurance. At any rate, when it comes to insurance, we are always at their mercy.”

  Beatrice called Evelyne Cantarel to make Virgile’s lodging arrangements. Evelyne was delighted to have a new guest, especially in low season. No, he did not drink tea in the morning. He drank coffee. How long would he be staying? Hard to say. Three days, maybe four or five…

  Before Virgile departed, Benjamin and he had dinner with the Bouglons. On the menu: shirred eggs and cheese from the Pyrenees, which went especially well with the Baron de Bachen white they served, a good representative of wines from Tursan.

  “Virgile, my boy, what do you know about this wine?” Benjamin asked.

  “Hmm,” Virgile said, swirling the straw-colored liquid in his glass and bringing it to his nose. “Fruit… Mango, I’d say, with some citrus notes, floral aromas, and a slight hint of honey.” He sipped and swished before adding, “Round, but refreshing. I’d say baroque grapes, sauvignon, and… I’m not sure, another variety, but what?”

  “Very good,” Philippe interjected. “Petit and gros manseng.”

  Benjamin nodded. “The property in the Landes region dates back to the thirteenth century,” he said. “In 1983, the famous
restaurateur Michel Guérard bought the estate. He replanted the vineyards in 1985, for a first harvest in 1988. He’s helped to revive the appellation.”

  “Benjamin, I’m quite impressed by Virgile,” Philippe said. “He must be quite an asset.”

  “I’m not so sure you’d say that if you knew the extent of his ignorance when it comes to Armagnac,” Benjamin said.

  “Boss! What about ‘All for one and one for all’? You’re supposed to be on my side, especially now that we’re in Gascony, the land of The Three Musketeers.”

  “My boy, you may also remember this from the same book: ‘Never fear quarrels, but seek adventure.’ I believe we have an adventure set for us tomorrow. Isn’t that right, Philippe?”

  “Yes, the mobile distiller is coming at the crack of dawn.”

  Virgile glanced from Philippe at Benjamin and then at Beatrice. “The mobile distiller?”

  “That’s right. In Armagnac, many distillers don’t actually have their own stills. Roving distillers take their alembic from farm to farm and distill according to each cellar master’s specifications. Here we always distill in early January,” Beatrice explained.

  The simple feast wound down, and Benjamin, Virgile, and the Bouglons called it a night shortly after dinner.

  Benjamin handed over his keys to the Mercedes convertible, and Philippe gave the directions to the guest house. “When you leave Prada, just go to Place Royale, and take the Rue du Café-Chantant. The first right is the Rue des Taillandiers. Take it. The Cantarels live in a half-timber house. You can’t miss it.”

  Benjamin retired to his room, where he called Elisabeth to tell her that he would probably be staying longer than he had expected.

  § § §

  The sound of a tractor maneuvering in the courtyard woke Benjamin, who had never been a heavy sleeper. He peered out the window at a dawn sky that was purple and rooftops that were painted with frost. Benjamin’s room was frigid, and even though he was wide awake, he wasn’t looking forward to the prospect of crawling out from under the covers. Fortunately, the aroma of coffee was beginning to creep under the door, and his excitement over the event unfolding outside soon overpowered his desire for comfort. His shower could wait. He wouldn’t miss this for anything.

  Philippe, gesturing dramatically and yelling “whoa,” was guiding the still into the wine cellar. It was a strange-looking contraption, all copper and bedecked with pipes, coils, and odd gauges.

  When Benjamin joined them, Philippe introduced the distiller, a cross-eyed bearded man named René Dardolive. He would be the master of ceremonies. Benjamin couldn’t guess his age, but he looked prematurely bald, something he was trying to hide under a shapeless black felt hat. René was speechless when Philippe announced the celebrated winemaker’s presence.

  In the half-light of the wine cellar, Beatrice and Philippe bustled about, carrying blocks of oak for the boiler. Soon, esoteric permutations would be under way, supervised by the alchemist in a khaki hunting jacket. René had learned his craft from his father. The Dardolive men had been distillers for many generations, and aygue vive, or living water, was no mystery to this quiet man. He had been weaned on the vapors of a zealously polished still.

  Dardolive was set to begin his rite of offering the wine from the Bouglons’ harvest to distillation. But first Beatrice called everyone to the table: ham, duck cracklings, rabbit and boar pâté, scrambled eggs, red wine, and hot coffee. Virgile showed up, looking groggy at this unlikely hour, when night hadn’t yet buried its last demons. Evelyne Cantarel had prepared a copious breakfast for him, but Benjamin knew his assistant wouldn’t be able to resist Beatrice’s terrines.

  Benjamin could see the anticipation in Virgile’s eyes. Distillation was something Virgile had studied but never seen. Now he was about to witness this miracle for himself. A pure and crystalline eau-de-vie would soon be flowing through the murmuring copper still.

  Despite his rough manners and silences, René managed to exchange a few words with Virgile.

  “Did you ever distill for the Château Blanzac?” Virgile asked.

  René took a gulp of coffee and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Nope. They got their own still. Francisco did good work.”

  “Yes, what a terrible accident.”

  “It ain’t no accident, I’m telling you. That family’s as twisted as an alembic.”

  Without any further explanation, René rose from the table to get to work. He filled the boiler with water, just enough to start the process. Then he connected the loader vat to a pot topped with a still-head fitted with a long swan’s-neck pipe. He lit the fire, feeding it vine shoots first and then old stumps. When the blaze was finally roaring, he threw in large pieces of dry oak. The distillation could begin. Philippe leaned toward Virgile and began a running commentary.

  “This is a continuous still. It’s made of pure copper and distills only once,” he said.

  “Cognac gets distilled twice, that I know,” Virgile said. “Is it copper because of its superior heat conduction?”

  “That’s right. This continuous distillation is actually quite simple,” Philippe continued. “René here feeds the wine from the loader vat into the still, where it goes through the bottom of the cooling apparatus. It fills the preheater, then descends through the heating column, flowing over a number of plates and ending up in the boiler. This is when René removes the wine residue. The intense heat causes the wine to boil, and the vapor rises up through the incoming wine to the top of the still. In the process it becomes richer in alcohol and picks up the wine’s aromatic substances. Then it flows through the condensing coils, where it’s cooled. The resulting eau-de-vie is deliciously fruit-scented, with some floral notes. It’s fiery with youth and needs some time to develop its complexity and mildness. A bit like us, in the end.”

  Philippe’s cheeks were flushed from the heat. Standing back a bit, Benjamin was listening to the lesson. Just when he was about to say something, Philippe started talking again.

  “Once the alcohol level is stabilized, the still can function continuously. It can change wine into Armagnac day and night without stopping.”

  “So the distiller’s work is pretty much done?” Virgile asked.

  Benjamin could see that his assistant was feigning naiveté to encourage his host to continue talking. Virgile knew more than he was letting on.

  “Not at all,” Philippe responded. “This is precisely where his craftsmanship comes in. He understands everything about the vapors and the heat exchange happening in the coils. He sees nothing but knows everything.”

  Philippe continued in a hushed tone. “He’s a magician, I tell you. Now and then he consults the alcoholmeter, which allows him to verify the alcohol content, but for the most part he uses his intuition and his senses. He listens. He feels the heater to gauge the heat. He uses his nose, too, and he tastes the product from time to time. He is constantly on the alert.”

  Benjamin took over. “His main concern is keeping the flow of wine just right. Despite all the heat, distillation is a gentle process. It must not be disturbed.”

  For an hour, the still murmured and bubbled. Those watching fell silent from time to time. Finally, Philippe led Virgile to a copper faucet, which was emitting a thin, aromatic steam of eau-de-vie.

  “Smell this, young man!”

  Virgile sniffed it. “I pick up plum jam and white flowers,” he said.

  “Those aromas, plus fragrances of grape and pear, are characteristic of the folle-blanche grape,” Philippe said, with pride evident in his blue-gray eyes.

  “What is the alcohol content?” Benjamin asked.

  “Fifty-five percent,” Philippe responded.

  René Dardolive had removed his hunting jacket and was working in his shirtsleeves. He looked like an organist adjusting the pedals and bellows of his instrument. His movements were precise and impressive as he tended the still, controlling all aspects of the gurgling, hissing, and murmuring machine.

  Philippe told Be
njamin that it had been a good year for Prada, and René would need at least two days to get through the estate’s seven casks, each with four hundred liters of wine. The winemaker and his friend decided to step outside for a few minutes to catch a breath of fresh air, leaving Virgile behind, captivated by the scene.

  § § §

  Virgile turned to say something to Benjamin and realized that his boss was nowhere to be found. He left the wine cellar to search for him, heading first to the Prada kitchen, where Beatrice was busy preparing the noon meal. He had no idea what was simmering over low heat in the Dutch oven, but the aroma was tantalizing.

  “I think they’re in Philippe’s office. They’re setting the world right. But first, run to the Cantarels. Evelyne called. You need your key to the house in case nobody’s around to let you in.”

  Virgile opened the kitchen door. “Shit. It’s cold!” Virgile cursed, pulling his wool hat over his ears and buttoning up his sheepskin coat. He’d heard the news on Beatrice’s kitchen radio. It confirmed what he had already suspected. The thermometer had dipped to a bone-chilling minus ten degrees the previous night, and school busing had been suspended. He rushed to the car and drove through the village, which seemed deserted. Everyone in their right mind was inside.

  When Virgile arrived at Evelyne Cantarel’s house, he found her in a floral apron, polishing the cherrywood buffet in the dining room with beeswax.

  “When you don’t have a head, you have to have…”

  “Legs, I know,” Virgile replied with a smile.

  The woman put down her rag, which smelled slightly of rancid honey, and offered her guest a cup of coffee.