Chef Maurice and the Wrath of Grapes (Chef Maurice Culinary Mysteries Book 2) (2 page)

“Bah, that is what happens when you let an Englishman do the organisation,” said Chef Maurice, shaking his head. “Now, enough talk, we must concentrate on the wine.”

“Sure thing, chef,” said Patrick, grinning.

Wine Tasting 101 continued apace. Patrick discovered a partiality to the Rieslings of the Mosel region. Alf discovered that Chilean Cabernet Sauvignon did not pair well with tomatoes, sardines, nor chocolate cake.

And far away, down in the dark of the Bourne Hall cellars, far from the clink of glasses in Le Cochon Rouge’s dining room and the sound of Alf gargling with tap water, there was the gentle scrape of glass on glass as a heavy bottle was slowly removed . . .

It was a frosty December evening. A sprinkling of snow danced down through the yellow lamplight in the gravelled backyard of Le Cochon Rouge.

“They say we might get a blizzard tonight,” said Arthur, as he swung the car out into the narrow country lane.

Chef Maurice grunted from behind his thick woolly scarf. He was not a fan of snow, especially when it was heavy enough to keep his customers huddled up at home instead of out eating in his restaurant.

“If this carries on a few more weeks, we might even be in for a white Christmas.”

“Hmph.”

Even after several decades in the country, Chef Maurice had yet to fathom the Englishman’s near fanatical interest in the state of the weather. A gust of wind, a few drops of rain, and every man and woman was a sudden meteorologist, holding forth about isobars, pressure gradient forces, and Arctic wind patterns.

Perhaps, he thought, it was some modern form of weather worship, in case talking incessantly about the level of cloud cover might one day cajole the Weather Gods into bestowing a Mediterranean climate upon the gloomy British Isles.

“So who do you suppose will be at tonight’s soirée?” said Arthur.

Chef Maurice held up a gloved hand and started counting. “There will be Monsieur and Madame Lafoute of Chateau Lafoute. And the Lady Margaret, you remember her, the wife of Sir William’s late brother? And also a Monsieur Paloni, who I am told owns a vineyard in the Napa Valley.”

“Hang on, how do you know all this?”

Chef Maurice tugged down his scarf and looked over at Arthur. “I telephoned to Sir William, of course.”

“Maurice, you can’t just phone up your host and ask for the guest list. It’s not polite!”

“But why not?” Chef Maurice looked puzzled. “One must make sure to be in good company before one accepts an invitation. It is only sensible.”

“I didn’t know ‘sensible’ was
in
your vocabulary,” muttered Arthur, squinting out of the windscreen. “It’s coming down fast now. I hope we’ll make it back home without getting stuck. Did you say Madame Lafoute’s going to be there? I thought she’s almost ninety now, and apparently hates leaving Bordeaux. I wonder how Sir William managed that one.”

“
Non
, it is the granddaughter, Madame Ariane Lafoute, he tells me. And her husband. He is an Englishman.”

“Ah, well, at least she clearly has good taste in men. Anyone else?”

“Only a Monsieur Resnick,” said Chef Maurice, watching his friend carefully.

“Charles Resnick?” yelled Arthur, gripping the steering wheel. “That blathering, cravat-wearing idiot of a wine critic? Do you know what he once said about my restaurant column?” Arthur adopted a sneering nasal tone. “‘Wordington-Smythe’s writing recalls to mind the Australian outback. Flat and extremely dry.’”

Chef Maurice managed to choke off a little chuckle. “There, you see,
mon ami
, if you too had telephoned to Sir William, you could have avoided this—”

“Avoid? Who said anything about avoiding? If Sir William thinks Resnick is fit to grace his table, then I’ll have nothing to say about it.”

“
Bon.
”

There was a moment’s silence.

“And do you know another thing? When that man eats out, he goes and chooses his dishes
after
his wine, to match what he’s drinking. Of all the pompous, pretentious, pontifical—”

“What do you think we will be served tonight to accompany the wines?” asked Chef Maurice, cutting Arthur off before he could run out of Resnick-suitable adjectives beginning with ‘p’.

Arthur stopped mid-character-slur. “Hmm, good question. Nothing too complicated, I fancy, wouldn’t want to overpower the wines. If we’re having whites, perhaps a savoury soufflé? Goat’s cheese always goes down a treat. As for the reds, I’d plump for a roast, a leanish cut. What’s your reckoning?”

Chef Maurice stared up at the roof of the car, as if in deep contemplation. “I think,” he said, “we will start with a dish of poached halibut with spinach purée, served in a light bouillon infused with kaffir lime, followed by a pavé of Longhorn beef with a light Madeira sauce.”

Arthur let out a groan. “Don’t tell me you asked Sir William what he was serving for dinner, too?”

“Of course not.” Chef Maurice looked affronted. “I telephoned to his cook, Madame Bates. It was I, in fact, who made the suggestion of the spinach purée. She was most pleased, I think, with my consultation.”

“Undoubtedly so. Ah, here we are.”

The tall wrought-iron gates of Bourne Hall were covered in a half-inch dusting of snow. A solitary lamp post pooled orange light onto the ground, illuminating a dark-haired man wearing a short coat and an expression of intense concentration as he paced back and forth, yelling into the phone that was clamped, or possibly frozen, to his ear.

Arthur coasted up to the gates. “I say, isn’t that Chuck Paloni? As in,
the
Chuck Paloni?” He turned to Chef Maurice. “Famous actor, won a whole slew of awards, now turned Hollywood director, I hear. Not ringing any bells?”

Chef Maurice shrugged. He maintained a mild disapproval of the film industry in general, on the basis that they almost always failed to depict their characters enjoying a good meal. Or, on the rare occasions when a good meal was in progress, it would invariably be disturbed by gunfire, concealed bombs, irate spouses, or marauding aliens.

He also deplored the number of chase scenes that took place in restaurant and hotel kitchens, with completely innocent chefs being knocked aside, trays of canapés flying, as the hero runs helter-skelter from gun-wielding villains, without a thought for the catering-sized mess left in his wake. And who would be paying for all the ruined ingredients?

“I had no idea he was dabbling in vineyards now,” continued Arthur. “Still, I guess these film types have to have their hobbies. He looks older than he does on screen, don’t you think?”

The actor-director appeared to be in his mid-forties, his dark hair verging on salt-and-pepper, with a tall, athletic frame no doubt honed by a team of personal trainers. He glanced up at the sound of Arthur’s Aston Martin approaching, shouted a hasty goodbye into his phone, and started waving frantically in their direction.

Arthur cranked down his window. “Evening. Can we offer you a lift?”

“That would be swell,” said the man, climbing hastily into the back seat and huffing into his hands. “Call me Chuck, by the way,” he added, in the certain knowledge that Arthur and Chef Maurice would know exactly who he was.

“Arthur Wordington-Smythe,” said Arthur, offering a leather-gloved hand over his shoulder. “And this is my friend, Mr Maurice Manchot.”

“Pleased to meet you,
monsieur
.”

“Damn long driveway,” said Paloni, staring out at the snowy landscape rolling by. “Took me almost half an hour just to get to the gate.”

“And not the best weather for a stroll, either, I’m sure. They say a blizzard might be coming later.”

“It better not. I’ve got meetings back-to-back all tomorrow. That damn big house has no cell reception, plus the main phone line’s down or something, can’t understand half of what that butler says sometimes. So I stepped out to make a call and the next thing I know it’s like I’m trekking through Siberia. And even then there’s barely a signal. Nothing like back in Napa. Back home, I can be knee-deep in my vineyards, not a building in sight, and I’m chatting to my broker in Hong Kong, crystal clear like he’s standing right beside me.”

“Did you fly in today?” asked Arthur.

“What? Hell no, I’ve been in London all week for the premiere of
The Dark Aquarium
.”

“Ah, yes. That’s the one with Miranda Mackenzie, am I right?” said Arthur, to show willing.

“You got it. Dynamite little actress, she is. I was the one who gave her her first big break a few years back. Dynamite, she is, in more ways than one, if you catch my drift.” He aimed a big wink at Chef Maurice in the rear-view mirror, possibly on the assumption that, being a Frenchman, the chef might appreciate the sentiment. Unfortunately, all he got in return was a blank stare; Chef Maurice considered today’s movie starlets to be a grossly underfed and, as such, thoroughly unattractive cohort.

“So how do you know Sir William, then?” said Arthur.

“Wine,” said Paloni promptly. “He was one of the first investors in the Basking Buffalo vineyards. Minority stake now, but having his name on the books sure helped a lot in those early days, I can tell you that. Gives them confidence, you know what I mean?”

“So, actor, director, now winemaker, eh?” said Arthur.

“Nah, not really. I have a guy who does all the technical stuff down at the winery. I just tell him what I like. That’s the joy of having your own vineyard, you know, always having good wine to drink at the end of the day, made just to your taste.”

They parked up in front of Bourne Hall, next to a rather battered Rolls-Royce and a silver Porsche with the number plate R3S NCK.

“The things that man spends his money on,” muttered Arthur.

Paloni had already jumped out and was banging on the front door. A butler, wearing what Chef Maurice liked to think of as standard country-house-butler uniform—that is to say, a black tailcoat, black tie, black trousers, and shiny black shoes so clean you could eat your dinner off them—opened the door and bowed.

“Ah, Mr Paloni, I’m glad to see you’ve returned safely. We were about to send out a search—”

“No need, got a lift back with these fellas here,” said Paloni, pushing past the man into the warmth of the house.

The butler turned his smooth gaze onto Chef Maurice and Arthur.

“Mr Manchot. Mr Wordington-Smythe. So good to see you back at the Hall. I trust the snow didn’t give you too much trouble over the short distance?”

“No, though I’m not liking the thought of trying to get back afterwards,” said Arthur, stepping inside. “And how are you, Mr Gilles?”

“Very good, sir. And it’s just Gilles, sir.”

“Ah, like Madonna, eh?”

Gilles gave them a brief, humourless smile, and led them through the marble-floored hallway into the handsome wood-panelled drawing room.

A young couple, presumably the Lafoutes, were seated at either end of the long divan. Lady Margaret, who they had encountered on a few previous occasions, was sat by the fire, wearing a severe grey dress that matched her hair, and pointedly ignoring all of Paloni’s attempts at conversation. Paloni himself was still rubbing his hands and rotating himself slowly in front of the roaring flames, like a particularly nattily dressed kebab.

“I will inform Sir William of your arrival,” said Gilles, exiting the room with another small bow.

“Arthur, how good to see you again,” said an oily voice from behind them.

It was Charles Resnick, sporting a burgundy bow tie, slicked-down black hair and, thought Chef Maurice, a rather sorry excuse for a pencil moustache.

“Charles,” said Arthur, with a nod. “Have you met Maurice before?”

“I don’t believe so,” replied Resnick, looking the chef up and down.

They shook hands. Resnick’s were cold yet slightly clammy.

“So Sir William tells me you’re all practically neighbours. How quaint,” said Resnick. “I suppose that explains your being here. Not really your type of thing, is it, Arthur?”

Arthur coughed. “Yes, the Bourne Hall estate borders on Beakley village. Just up by Maurice’s restaurant, in fact.”

“Oh, your village has a restaurant?” He turned to Chef Maurice. “It must be such a drag, cooking in such a—how should we say—
pedestrian
neighbourhood.”

“
Mais non
,” said Chef Maurice staunchly. “My customers, they come by car from all around. In fact, we have had to make bigger the car parking, just last year.”

There was a little silence.

“So, Charles, how did you come to know Sir William?” said Arthur.

“In the wine world, how does one not?” replied Resnick with a thin smile. “In fact, I now count Sir William as one of my most valued clients.”

“Oh yes, I did read something about your little wine brokerage venture—”

“Coming up to twenty million turnover this year. And that’s not including the auction side of the business, of course. I’ve been working extensively with Sir William on building up his collection in recent years. I don’t know about you, but I found being
just
a critic got ever so boring.”

Arthur pointedly ignored the jibe. “Surely there’s a bit of a conflict of interest, no? Between your reviews and wine business?”