The Vintage Caper

wore. A silk scarf for whipping up omelettes? Pearls for dessert? Did Hermès make kitchen aprons? His thoughts were interrupted by Delphine, bearing glasses of champagne, and the two women held a murmured conference that ended with an exchange of nods and smiles.
    “Bon,” said Sophie. “To start, blinis with caviar. Then the rognons , with an exceptional Pomerol, the 2002 Château L’Evangile. Is that good for you?”
    “I never argue with a pretty woman who knows her kidneys.”
    They touched glasses, and Sophie began to tell Sam what she knew about the Groupe Reboul.
    The British have Branson, she said. The Italians have Berlusconi. The French have Francis Reboul—Sissou to his friends and to the faithful journalists who have been documenting his business exploits during the past forty years. He had become a national institution, she said; or, according to some, a national treasure, a flamboyant personality, a Marseille boy made good and loving every second of his success. He was comfortable with publicity. Indeed, his critics said that he was incapable of getting dressed each morning without issuing a press release about the color of his tie and the general state of his wardrobe. This, of course, endeared him to the media; he was a walking event, always good for a story.
    And he was always doing a deal of some kind, Sophie said. The business empire he had built up over the years included construction, regional newspapers and radio stations, a soccer team, water treatment plants, transportation, electronics—he seemed to have a finger in everything.
    Sophie paused as the blinis arrived.
    “How about wine?” asked Sam. “Does he have a château or two?”
    “I don’t know. Not here, anyway.” She took a mouthful of blini and her eyes closed for a moment. “Mmm, that’s good. I hope you like caviar, Sam?”
    “Love it. Doesn’t everybody?”
    “No. There are some strange people who don’t eat innards of fish.” She smiled sweetly and popped more blini into her mouth.
    Sam held up his hands in surrender. “OK, OK. So I like fish innards. Go on about Reboul.”
    Sophie searched her memory for the odds and ends of information about Reboul that she had picked up from the press and television. He lived in Marseille, in some sort of palace. His passion, frequently and publicly declared, was France and all things French (apart from Paris, which, like every good Marseillais, he distrusted). He even made the supreme sacrifice of paying French taxes, and gave a press conference each April to tell the world what a huge contribution he made every year to the national economy. He liked young ladies, and they made regular appearances at his side in the pages of celebrity magazines, always described by an indulgent press as his nieces. He kept two yachts: one for the summer, in Saint-Tropez, the other for the winter, in the Seychelles. And, of course, he had a private jet.
    “And that’s all I know,” said Sophie. “If you want any more, you’ll have to ask my hairdresser. She’s mad about him. She thinks he should be president.” She glanced over Sam’s shoulder. “Close your eyes, Sam. Here come the kidneys.”
    Sam closed his eyes, but his nose told him that the kidneys had been placed in front of him. He lowered his head and inhaled the thick, gamy scent, more intense than any ordinary meat, warm and rich and infinitely appetizing. Perhaps he’d been wrong about offal. He opened his eyes. In the middle of the plate, a fragrant wisp of steam was rising from a volcano of mashed potatoes, its hollow top holding a pool of gravy. Surrounding the potatoes were four plump, deep-brown kidneys, each one about the size of a golf ball.
    Sophie leaned across the table to put a small dollop of mustard on his plate. “Not too much of this, or it will fight with the wine. Bon appétit.” She sat back and watched him take his first mouthful.
    He chewed. He swallowed. He pondered. He grinned. “You know, I’ve always said that at the end of a tough day, nothing hits the spot like kidneys cooked in port.” He kissed the tips of his fingers. “Wonderful.”
    The kidneys and the excellent Pomerol worked their magic, and by the time he and Sophie had used the last of their bread to mop up the last of the gravy they were both in a mellow and optimistic mood. The connection with Reboul was interesting, possibly nothing more, but at least it was a lead that gave them something to work on.
    “From what you tell