The Vintage Caper

T-shirts, silk jackets, Louis Vuitton baseball caps—you know, rough country clothes. But no pearls. Real men don’t do pearls.”
    Sophie looked as though this last piece of information confirmed a previous impression. “I think you are not a serious man.”
    “I try not to be,” Sam admitted, “but I can get very serious about dinner. Where are we going? Should I get a cab?”
    “We can walk. It’s just around the corner—a little place, but the food is good and so is the wine list.” Sophie turned to look up at Sam as they went down the street. “You do drink wine, don’t you?”
    “And how. What were you expecting me to drink? Diet Coke? Iced tea?”
    Sophie waved the question away. “One never knows with Americans.”
    Sam liked the restaurant at first sight. It was snug, not much bigger than his living room at the Chateau Marmont, with a tiny bar at one end, mirrors and framed black-and-white portrait photographs along the walls, unfussy furniture, and thick, white tablecloths. A dark-haired, smiling woman came forward to greet them, and was introduced to Sam as Delphine, the chef’s wife. Judging by the exchange of kisses between the two women it seemed that Sophie was a regular client. Delphine showed them to a corner table, suggested a glass of champagne while they studied the menu, and bustled back to the kitchen.
    “This is exactly my kind of place,” said Sam as he looked around. “Great choice.” He nodded toward the wall opposite them. “Tell me, who are those guys in the photographs?”
    “They’re vignerons , friends of Olivier, the chef. You will see their wines on the list. Don’t be disappointed if you don’t find anything from California.”
    Delphine arrived with the champagne and the menus. Sam raised his glass. “Thanks for agreeing to help me out. It’s made the job a whole lot nicer.”
    Sophie inclined her head. “You must tell me about it. But first, we choose.”
    She watched as Sam went immediately to the wine list. “You’re like my grandfather. He always picked the wine first, and then the food.”
    “Smart guy,” said Sam, with his nose deep in the list. “Well, this must be my lucky night. Look what I found—an ’85 Lynch-Bages. How can we not have that? It’s from your hometown.” He grinned at Sophie. “Now, what would your grandfather eat to go with it?”
    Sophie closed her menu. “No question. Breast of duck, cooked pink. Perhaps some oysters to start, with another glass of champagne?”
    Sam looked at her as he closed the wine list, his mind going back to dinners in L.A. with girls who felt gastronomically challenged by anything more substantial than two shrimps and a lettuce leaf. What a pleasure it was to share a meal with a woman who liked her food.
    Delphine took their order and came back almost immediately with the wine and a decanter. She presented the bottle to Sam for his nod of approval, removed the top of the capsule, drew out the cork—the extra-long cork, dark and moist—sniffed it, wiped the neck of the bottle, and decanted the wine.
    “How do they feel about screw-top bottles in Bordeaux?” Despite the practical advantages, Sam hated the idea of wonderful wine suffering such an indignity.
    Sophie allowed herself a small shudder at the thought. “I know. Some people are doing it here. But most of us are very traditional. I think it will be a long time before we put our wine in lemonade bottles.”
    “Glad to hear it. I guess I’m a cork snob.” Sam reached into his pocket and took out a pad on which he’d made some notes. “Shall we do a little business before the oysters? I don’t know how much the people in Paris told you.”
    Sophie listened attentively while Sam took her quickly through the robbery and the fruitless background checks that had led to his decision to come to Bordeaux. He was about to suggest a plan of action when the oysters arrived—two dozen of them, giving off a whiff of the sea, accompanied by thin slices of brown bread and the second round of champagne.
    Sophie took her first oyster from its shell and held it in her mouth for a moment before swallowing. Then she picked up the shell, tilting her head back to expose the slender column of her neck, and sucked out the juice. It was a performance that Sam found extremely distracting.
    Sophie realized that she was being watched. “You’re staring,” she said.
    “I was admiring your technique. I can never do that without getting the juice on my