Free The Grave Gourmet by Alexander Campion

allow him to be prodded toward the subject of the dinner. But once the sluice gates were opened an unstoppable flow of disdain rippled down the channel.
    â€œPrésident Delage’s taste in wine was insipid, hardly in keeping with a man of his position. That night he ordered a Forts de Latour, a second growth of the most noble of the Pauillacs for sure, but still a complete banality. The big name makes the wine safe. A man who orders a second growth is like a man who settles for the ugly sister because he is afraid to risk the reproach of the beautiful sibling, and once he is married he basks in the glory of his sister-in-law,” he said with a sneer.
    â€œI had no idea you were so demanding of your patrons,” Capucine said.
    â€œOf course I am. That’s why I’m at Diapason: it meets my standards. In order to work properly I need a certain level of cuisine and a certain level of clientele.” Rolland smirked. “Diapason has both.” He winked at Capucine. “You wouldn’t think so, but finding the necessary culinary level is the hard part. Anyone can charge high prices, but Diapason is one of the few places where the cuisine is up to my cellar.” Capucine arched her eyebrows in distaste at his arrogance, a gesture he mistook for disbelief. “Think about it. Let’s say someone orders a bottle of 1945 Château Haut-Brion—of which I have an entire case still in the original box, by the way—I have to be confident the meal will live up to the greatness of the wine before I serve it.”
    â€œThere are actually people who order wine that’s that expensive?”
    â€œOh, dear yes. In fact, my problem is to restrain them. Some of these Americans would happily get plastered on ten-thousand-euro wines. Obviously I’d never serve it to them, of course.”
    â€œI’m sure you’ve already heard of the mysterious 2:30 A.M . delivery. What do you make of it?”
    â€œDoesn’t surprise me at all. Chef Labrousse is famous for being devoted to any number of tiny regional producers. They deliver at any hour of the day or night.”
    â€œBut doesn’t 2:30 in the morning seem excessive even for a regional farmer?”
    Rolland smiled an offensively oily smile. “Lieutenant, you don’t mean to tell me that with that husband of yours you haven’t figured it out already? You’re making sport of me.”
    â€œRolland, it’s never a good idea to be coy with the police. What are you talking about?”
    â€œYou know, of course, that in the past few decades many of our most traditional delicacies have been declared illegal. Absinthe, beque-figues, ortolans are all gone. Apparently, foie gras will be next on the list. Can you imagine? Naturally, a number of people consider these so-called illegalities an absurdity. Like Prohibition was in the United States.” He put his finger to his lips dramatically and said, “I’m sworn to secrecy, naturally. I mustn’t lead you to believe that anything illegal could ever transpire at Diapason’s. Never!” He raised his hands palms outward in mock horror. “But such meals are available in many a three-star restaurant. If you were interested in, say, a meal of ortolans, I could make the suggestion of a most excellent place and even advise you of the proper wines to go with it. But, I’m sure you understand, that is absolutely as far as I can go. My lips are sealed.”
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    By seven Capucine was home impatiently snapping through the pages of Vogue and Marie Claire , ears straining for Alexandre’s footfall. He eventually turned up a little before eight.
    â€œFinally!” she said, jumping up to greet him.
    â€œAhh, yearning for me, I see. How lovely. I’m moved to the very core of my being. But is it really me, or are your days in that beastly place becoming too long? Give it up! Stay with me all day. Then our joy will be