Deadly Tasting by Jean-Pierre Alaux, Noël Balen Page A

The inspector had suggested that they meet at the restaurant Noailles. When the winemaker reminded him of his cabbage soup diet and offered to share some with the inspector, Barbaroux said a simple meeting over a cup of tea would be just fine. Barbaroux said good-bye and started walking over to his forensics team. The members, who had collected the evidence and taken samples, were waiting for him on a nearby cemetery drive. Just as he was about to reach them, Barbaroux turned around. He ran back to Benjamin and grabbed his arm.
    “Say, Cooker, about that tea. Could we make it a little Armagnac instead?”

 
     
     
     
     
    9
    Before returning to Bordeaux to complete the final stage of the Languedoc-Roussillon tasting, Benjamin Cooker could not resist the urge to walk the grounds of Pomerol with his assistant, if only for a half hour squeezed out of his tight schedule. He often indulged in this type of escape. He always had an irrepressible desire to smell the vines that bore the fruit of a highly regarded wine.
    They drove aimlessly, letting themselves be guided by signposts that inspired wine lovers to daydream: Bellegrave, Beauregard, Le Bon Pasteur, Bourgneuf-Vayron, Le Castellet, Clos de Salles, La Conseillante, La Croix Saint-Georges, Domaine de l’Église, L’Enclos, Franc-Maillet, Gazin, Gombaude-Guillot, Grand Beauséjour, Grand Moulinet, Latour à Pomerol, Montviel, Petit Village, Pomeaux, Ratouin, Rouget, Tour Maillet, Tour Robert, Trotanoy, Vieux Château Certan, Vieux Maillet, Vray Croix de Gay. The road wound its way slowly between the vineyards. The châteaux blended with the countryside in soft, peaceful harmony to the metronome of the swishing windshield wipers.
    “I’ve never been to the Pétrus château, boss.”
    “You don’t just drop in for a visit, my boy. There are certain sacred places you are rarely allowed to enter. I won’t take you there today, out of consideration for the people who work there. I wouldn’t want to disturb them by arriving without an appointment. But I promise you’ll make a pilgrimage there someday.”
    “Do you know that I have never even tasted Pétrus?” Virgile admitted.
    “That’s a gaping hole in your estimable expertise,” Benjamin joked. “We’ll have to correct it as soon as possible. I’m sure you know that one of the most distinctive characteristics of the Pomerol appellation is its geological composition. The earth is full of fairly fine, lovely gravel, but it’s especially the crasse de fer, or iron dross, that gives it its uniqueness.
    “Yes, I didn’t study oenology at the university for nothing. The crasse de fer is in the subsoil, which is a stony mix of clay and iron. The iron oxide gives the wine its metallic but fatty flavor. Some people claim it tastes a bit like truffles.”
    “Perfect. Young man, you’ve learned your lessons well. But you know, it just so happens that the twenty-eight acres of Pétrus are composed solely of clay and silty sand. And therein lies the whole mystery. There is no crasse de fer in the Pétrus domain, whiles it’s the main element influencing all the Pomerols. If you open a map of that appellation, you’ll see this little yellow spot right in the middle of the terroir. Perfect and unique, as if the finger of God had pointed to this precise place and blessed it. Do you understand what I’m trying to say?”
    “Sort of,” Virgile murmured. Knowing his assistant as he did, Benjamin could sense his skepticism.
    “God marked the spot. Then He lifted his finger, and Pétrus was born, steeped in holy clay! But perhaps I digress. You don’t seem very convinced by my theory.”
    “It’s quite tempting, sir, though I find it a bit too mystical for my taste. I would advise you to keep it to yourself and not let it slip into one of your books. Some people might brand you a theo-oenologist—to coin a term—and that would be unfortunate. You would be forced to drink only consecrated wine to the end of your