Bruno 02 - The Dark Vineyard

awonderful dessert wine. It’s very concentrated, so we sell it in small bottles. Hubert knows it, but not much gets exported except to the States.”
    “I tasted an Inniskillin, thought it was marvelous and was able to get some cases. But I never tried the Duplessis—that’s Jacqueline’s family’s wine—until she brought me a bottle. So as you can tell, I have employed someone with wine in her veins. Now you must tell us about this New Zealand wine you chose for the omelette. I was surprised when you asked me to find some for you.”
    “It’s a long story,” said Bruno. “I first tasted it in Bosnia, thanks to the quartermasters of the French army, who have my deep admiration since they always managed to track down something that might be called wine for us, whether in the jungles of Côte d’Ivoire and Madagascar or in the deserts of Tchad. But it was difficult in Sarajevo until they reached an arrangement with the NATO base in Italy, and then a strange assortment of Californian zinfandels and Australian shirazes and Chilean wines found its way to our commissary. And on one memorable evening I drank a white wine of such remarkable freshness and style that I vowed to track it down again someday. It was named after the English general Milord Marlborough. And I’m delighted that you all approve.”
    Bruno stood and bowed, earning him a brief round of applause, picked up the empty serving plate and went out to his barbecue.
    Back in the kitchen with the birds, Bruno put more duck fat into the frying pan, along with thick slices of garlic, and tossed in the sliced waxy
rat
potatoes that he had parboiled and dried earlier. He added parsley and another squeeze from the garlic press, and was pushing the potatoes around with the spatula when Pamela came in carrying two glasses of wine and handed one to him.
    “It’s a magnificent dinner, Bruno. Just what we all needed. So kind of you.”
    Six shining plates, still warm from the omelette, greeted Bruno as he returned with another great platter, the six grilled
bécasses
neatly arrayed. Their heads and long beaks were still attached, but each bird had been split down the middle, and six slices of freshly grilled baguette were lined up beside them.
    “This is for Jacqueline and Pamela, who have never tasted this delicacy,” Bruno said, standing at the head of the table. “Hubert, please start by pouring the Saint-Estèphe, and thanks for bringing it. You should all know that the
bécasse
has a peculiar characteristic. When it is startled and flies from the ground, it evacuates its bowel. This is easy since it has a very simple digestive system, just a single stomach in the shape of a fat tube, which is completely emptied when it takes flight. That tube is a delicacy. When cooked, it softens into a most delicious and creamy consistency, which we spread on the grilled bread.”
    He took a long spoon and scraped from the inside of each grilled bird a white tube, perhaps half an inch wide and less than two inches long. He placed each one on a slice of bread, spread it with the back of the spoon, handed one to each of his guests and then served the bird itself.
    Hubert stood and raised his glass of wine. “A toast to our chef, my dear friend, but also to the memory of our young friend Max, whom we all miss. Let us hope they serve wine as good as this in heaven.”
    “And let’s not forget Cresseil, a Resistance fighter who then joined the army to chase the invader back into Germany,” added the baron. “We honor a brave son of France, and this is a fitting wine to drink to him.”
    They each raised a glass in salute, and then savored the Saint-Estèphe. Even Jacqueline joined in the murmurs of appreciation as they all addressed themselves to the food.
    “But I want to hear more of your vineyard plans, Hubert,” the baron went on. “I have never been much impressed with Julien’s wine. You think you can do better?”
    “I know he can,” said Nathalie. “The land is good, the drainage excellent, and some of Julien’s most recent wines have a lot of promise. Obviously we are not suggesting that we can make a new Saint-Estèphe, but I think we can match the best of Bergerac. Anyway, we’re going to try. But first, I’m going to eat my favorite part of the
bécasse.”
    She neatly severed the charred head of the bird from the remains of its body, and then picked it up by the beak. She put the head of the bird into her mouth and cracked the thin skull,