Bruno 02 - The Dark Vineyard

Hubert joined him, bringing the Saint-Estèphe and the baron’s Beaune to be decanted. Hubert knew the house well. He found a corkscrew in the kitchen drawer and the decanters in the dining room and went to work. The other guests gathered at the wide kitchen window, looking in as Bruno took a pebble-sized truffle from a jar filled with walnut oil and began to slice it very thin with the knife from his belt.
    “Is that all you need?” asked Pamela. “I’ve never made a truffle omelette, so I need to learn.”
    “It would suffice, my dear, and that is more truffle than you would get in any restaurant,” said the baron. “But I know Bruno’s cooking and I can assure you that another truffle evenlarger than that one has been steeping in his bowl of eggs in the refrigerator since last evening.”
    “Almost right,” said Bruno. “I never make an omelette with cold eggs. They have been on the table for the last hour.”
    “Might I smell a piece?” asked Jacqueline. Pleased that the truffle seemed to have distracted her, Bruno handed her a slice on the flat of his knife. Cautiously, she sniffed at the dark brown fungus. “It smells of the woods. May I taste it?” Bruno nodded and she crumbled off half the slice and put it in her mouth, her face screwed up and eyes closed in concentration.
    “Not as gritty as I’d have expected, and very delicate,” she said. There came a pop as the baron opened the Krug and refilled all the glasses. Bruno glanced out at the barbecue, which was starting to glow nicely, and tossed a large lump of duck fat into his huge frying pan. When it was hot enough, he used a small press to add the juice of two cloves of garlic, poured in the eggs and began to twirl the large pan over the flaming gas ring.
    “A master at work,” said Pamela, raising her glass to him through the window. Keeping his eyes on the eggs, Bruno took his own glass from the counter, raised it in return and drank more champagne before he took up his spatula, dark with age and many meals, and began pushing the eggs away from the sides of the pan.
    “When it’s done we let it rest a moment while you take your seats at the table,” said Bruno, darting out to the barbecue to prepare the next course. He was back in less than a minute, and paraded in front of his guests the golden-yellow omelette, rolled into the shape of a fat baguette and sprinkled with flat-leaf parsley. He sliced and served it at the table.
    “My first
omelette aux truffes
,” said Jacqueline, her eyes shining. “Thank you, Bruno.”
    “And the eggs and truffles come from within a few footsteps of this table,” said the baron, who leaned forward to pick up the bottle of white wine. “New Zealand? What’s this?”
    “Try it with the omelette. You’ll be very pleasantly surprised,” said Nathalie. “It’s one of Bruno’s finds. Hubert wants to see if he can make a sauvignon blanc like it in the new vineyard.”
    “New vineyard?” queried the baron. “This is a fine omelette, Bruno, very fine. Your truffles are coming on splendidly. But, Hubert, I want to hear your plans.”
    “Well, since we’re among friends, and this should go no further, I bought old Philibert’s place by the Domaine as an investment, but I’ll plant vines on the land in November. Nathalie’s right: I’m going to experiment with sauvignon blanc. I think the grapes could do well there.”
    “I thought that grape was mainly grown in the Loire Valley for Pouilly-Fumé,” said Jacqueline. “Is that not right,
Monsieur le Baron?
I’m sure you’re an expert.” The baron preened, and Bruno was surprised once again by Jacqueline’s gaiety.
    “So it is, but it is also grown in Bordeaux, and some of the best whites from Grave are sauvignon,” said Hubert. “By the way, I’m with the baron; the omelette is perfect. Now let me try your experiment, Bruno.” He sipped, and the rest of the table followed. They all waited in silence for Hubert’s verdict. “I think it’s a really good combination, as creamy as your eggs and sharp enough to balance the truffles.”
    “Jacqueline, you must tell the rest of the table about your family’s wines,” Hubert went on. “It will come as a surprise to most of them to hear that a country as far north as Canada makes excellent wine.”
    “Well, it may be north, but near Niagara Falls we have a microclimate that lets us produce ice wine, from grapes picked very late when they have shriveled and frozen. They make