The Vintage Caper

finger, the picture of a man who knows that he is about to receive a compliment.
    “Very, very impressive,” said Sophie. “Even in Bordeaux, one would never find a cellar this large, not in a private house. It’s magnificent, Sam, don’t you think?”
    “Perfect,” said Sam. “Just great for the book.” He grinned at Vial. “The only problem is you need a map to find your way around.”
    Vial almost burst with self-satisfaction. “But of course I have such a map! Mais oui! We must go down to my office, and I will show you how to get as you say from A to B.”
    They set off down the flagstone pathway, with Vial settling into his role as tour guide. “Here everything is streets, you know, like in a town. We are actually on the main street.” He pointed out a small blue and white enamel sign, placed at eye level on the first column they came to, marked Boulevard du Palais. “And off to each side,” Vial continued, “are other streets, some big, some small.” He stopped and raised a finger. “But the name of each street tells us who lives there.” A wag of the finger. “I speak of bottles, of course.” He beckoned them off to the side and into one of the passages. Another blue and white sign announced this as the Rue de Champagne.
    And there it was, champagne in glorious abundance, filling racks on either side of a narrow gravel pathway: Krug, Roederer, Bollinger, Perrier-Jouët, Clicquot, Dom Pérignon, Taittinger, Ruinart—in bottles, magnums, Jeroboams, Rehoboams, Methuselahs, and even Nebuchadnezzars. Vial gazed at the display with the fondness of a doting parent before leading them out and down to the next street, the Rue de Meursault, followed in quick succession by the Rue de Montrachet, the Rue de Corton-Charlemagne, the Avenue de Chablis, the Allée de Pouilly-Fuissé, and the Impasse d’Yquem. This side of the main boulevard, Vial explained, was devoted to white wine; the opposite side to reds.
    It took them almost an hour to travel the length of the cellar, stopping as they did to pay their respects here and there—to the great red Burgundies, for instance, in the Rue du Côte d’Or, and the legendary trio of Latour, Lafite, and Margaux in the Rue des Merveilles. By the time they had reached Vial’s office they felt curiously light-headed, as if they had been tasting rather than just looking.
    “Let me ask you a question,” said Sam. “I didn’t see a Rue de Chianti. Do you have any Italian wines?”
    Vial looked at Sam as though he had insulted his mother. When he’d finished shaking his head and clicking his tongue, he allowed himself to speak. “No, no, no, absolutely not. Every bottle here is French, as Monsieur Reboul has insisted. Only the best. Although …” Vial seemed of two minds about what he was going to say. “Entre nous , and not for the book, over there you will see a few cases from your California. Monsieur Reboul has a winery, as you say, in the Valley of Napa. He amuses himself. It’s a hobby.” And, judging from Vial’s expression, not a hobby that he viewed with great enthusiasm.
    At the very end of the cellar, a patriotic golf cart, painted in the blue, white, and red of the French tricolore , was parked in a corner, next to a giant pair of doors. At the touch of a button, these swung open to reveal the long driveway that led down to Eugénie’s wistful statue and the gates to the property.
    “You see?” said Vial. “The cellar is underneath la grande pelouse , the lawn in front of the house.” He nodded at the cobblestoned area outside the doors. “This is for deliveries. The truck unloads here, into my chariot de golf , and I drive the bottles to their addresses.”
    Sophie looked at the golf cart with a frown on her face. “But Monsieur Vial, when you’re ready to drink the wine, how does it get into the house? Not up those stairs, surely? Or do you drive your cart around …”
    “Aha!” Vial tapped his nose. “Trust a woman to be practical. I will show you before we leave. Now we go to my office, and you will see my crazy furnishings.”
    It was becoming apparent that Vial saw a major supporting role for himself in the book, and he was at pains to point out the many objects of interest in his cluttered office. A colossal corkscrew, easily a meter long, with a handle made from a twisted, highly polished billet of olive wood, leaned against the wall by the side of his desk; a connoisseur’s desk, Vial called it. Apart from the glass