The
Winemaker Detective:
About the Book:
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.
Book Excerpt:
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.”
About the Authors
Jean-Pierre Alaux and Noël Balen, wine lover and music lover respectively, came up with the idea for the Winemaker Detective series while sharing a meal, with a bottle of Château Gaudou 1996, a red wine from Cahors with smooth tannins and a balanced nose. The series has 24 titles to date and is a hit TV series in France. So far 10 have been translated. Jean-Pierre Alaux currently lives in southwestern France and Noël in Paris. They both are full-time writers and participate in the TV adaptation of their series.
Translator Sally Pane studied French at State University of New York Oswego and the Sorbonne before receiving her Masters Degree in French Literature from the University of Colorado. She has translated several titles in this series.
And Anne Trager has a passion for crime fiction that equals her love of France. After years working in translation, publishing and communications, she founded the mystery and thriller publishing house Le French Book, dedicated to picking top mysteries and thrillers from France and translating them into English.
Their latest book is the cozy mystery, The Winemaker Detective: An Omnibus.
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