Free Night Watch by Linda Fairstein Page A

bottles of their best wine each year. They’re farming close to three hundred acres.”
    “Versus three acres for Jeuget,” Jim said. “It’s graceful, isn’t it? Smell all those violets that make up the aroma, and the minerals, too.”
    He tilted his glass toward me and I took a whiff. It just smelled like red wine.
    “I get the picture, Jim,” Luc said, explaining to me. “The major importers won’t deal with this, Alex. There isn’t enough product. They can’t buy enough of it to ship to all their clients. They can’t get a bulk price.”
    “Let me order five hundred cases for New York. You can charge anything you want for it, anywhere from one to two hundred bucks a bottle.”
    “What’s the typical restaurant markup on wine?” I asked.
    “Four, maybe five times what we pay for it,” Luc said.
    “Starting up a first-rate place in Manhattan these days, with labels you can’t get anywhere else?” Jim said. “The sky’s the limit. What do you say?”
    “I think you’ve got a point.” Luc was leaning back in his chair, swirling the glass. “Let me talk to my partners.”
    “But fast. This stuff is going to go like lightning. There isn’t much of it, and it’s got soul, Luc.”
    I laughed at Jim’s enthusiasm.
    “This will round out your cellar. It’s what you’re missing—a really profound Bordeaux.”
    “But five hundred cases? I haven’t even opened my doors yet.”
    “What you can’t use, I promise you Ken Aretsky will take off your hands. He’s got the best wine list in the city.”
    Ken was a longtime friend of mine—one of Manhattan’s legendary restaurateurs. He owned an upscale midtown eatery called Patroon and had become Luc’s unofficial adviser in navigating the difficult waters of the modern-day business of fine dining.
    “It’s easier for him. I’m doing classic French cuisine, so all my wines have to be from over here. Ken’s got superb American fare—steaks, pork, fish, lobster—so he can draw from the California vineyards just as well. You understand, Alex?”
    “I do now.”
    “So where are we storing all this wine, Jim? Have you figured that out yet?”
    “Solved.”
    “Not some warehouse in the city, is it? Nobody’s got the right conditions.”
    “Try this. It’s subterranean and it’s secure, for starters. Everything a good bottle of wine loves. Dark, no vibrations, and a steady temperature of fifty-five degrees.”
    “How pricey?”
    “If you’ve got more than a hundred cases, it’s only a dollar twenty-five a month per case.”
    Luc looked intrigued. “Hard to believe, Jim. What is it?”
    He reached for his glass. “A 1962 bomb shelter, in the boonies of Connecticut. Vintage Cold War paranoia built by a rich man on his estate. No more boxes of food rations, just lots of great wine. I’ll take you up to see it when you’re over next.”
    Talk of the new business venture had made Luc more vibrant than he’d been since the party last night. He was eager to get started when the headwaiter returned to take our order.
    “You know what you want, darling?”
    “I was thinking about veal.”
    “Forget the menu,” Luc said to me, before addressing the waiter. “Tell the chef Alexandra would like veal, however he wants to prepare it. Something very special, no?”
    “Make it two,” Jim said.
    “And I’ll have a carpaccio of tuna. Salad for all of us,” he said.
    “Monsieur Rouget,” the waiter said, instead of turning away to place the order. “What would you like me to do about table three?”
    “Nobody has arrived yet?”
    “No, sir.”
    “A seven o’clock reservation for four,” Luc said to Jim, “at one of the best tables in the house. A no-show, and not courteous enough to call to break it. Looks bad to leave one empty in the front. That’s my prime real estate.”
    “I’ve got two parties having cocktails on the terrace, neither of whom was able to book inside tonight. Shall I seat one of them?”
    “By all means.