Free The Vintage Caper by Peter Mayle

and waited for a few reflective seconds before swallowing. He looked at Sophie and tapped the rim of his glass.
    “Poetry in a bottle,” he said, his voice low with mock reverence. “Robust but elegant. Hints of pencil shavings—and what’s this? Do I detect just a soupçon of tobacco? Beautifully constructed, long finish.” His voice returned to normal. “How am I doing so far?”
    “Pas mal,” said Sophie. “Much better than you were with oysters.”
    They ate and drank slowly, and Sophie told Sam one of her favorite wine stories, which happened to take place in a restaurant in America. The customers had ordered a bottle of ’82 Pétrus, priced at six thousand dollars. This was drunk with due respect and enjoyment. A second bottle was ordered, for another six thousand dollars. But this one tasted different, noticeably different, and it was sent back. The restaurant owner, suitably apologetic, provided a third bottle of ’82 Pétrus. Happily, it was reckoned to be just as good as the first.
    After the diners had left, the puzzled restaurant owner took the three bottles to have them examined by an expert, who identified the problem with the second bottle. Unlike the other two, it was genuine.
    “I know why you like that story,” said Sam. “Because it shows how dumb Americans can be about wine.” He wagged a finger at Sophie. “I have two words for you: Robert Parker.”
    She was shaking her head before he had finished. “No, no, not at all. This could happen in France. You must know about the blind tasting here when the tasters mistook a room temperature white for a red. No, it’s a good story because it makes a point.” She picked up her glass and cupped it between both hands. “There’s no such thing as a perfect palate.”
    Sam wasn’t convinced, but he let it pass. He saw that there were a couple of glasses still left in the bottle, and he felt the need to do them justice. “Well, professor, what would you say to a little cheese?”
    Sophie was smiling as she leaned forward. “I have one word for you,” she said, wagging a finger at him. “Camembert.”
    And Camembert it was, delicate and salty, which they agreed was the only possible way to end the meal.
    When they parted company after dinner, Sam found himself watching her walk away. A fine-looking woman, he thought. That night he dreamed of teaching Elena to eat oysters à la française .
    Sophie had pleasant memories of her first meeting with Sam. He was good company, he seemed to know his wine, and his slightly battered appearance was not unattractive. And there were those wonderful American teeth. Perhaps this assignment wouldn’t be so dull after all.

Nine

    For Sam, the next two days were pleasant, instructive, and increasingly frustrating. Thanks to Sophie’s contacts, they had access to all the châteaus, including those where visitors were not normally welcome. It was thanks to Sophie, too, that the estate managers and cellar masters went out of their way to be helpful. At château after château—from the magnificent Lafite Rothschild to the diminutive Pétrus—the two investigators had been courteously received. Their story was listened to with patient attention. Their questions were answered. They were even given the occasional glass of nectar. But Sam had to admit that the visits, while they had added to his wine education, had failed to produce any progress. It was a discouraging list: two days, six châteaus, six dead ends.
    On the evening of the second day, feeling tired and flat, Sam and Sophie looked for consolation in the hotel bar. Champagne, that unfailing restorative, was ordered and served.
    “Well, I guess that’s it,” said Sam, raising his glass. “I’m sorry to have wasted your time. Thanks for all your help. You were terrific.”
    Sophie shrugged. “At least you can tell them back in Los Angeles that you saw some of the great châteaus.” She smiled at him. “Our little version of the Napa