responded, “Sirs, I now am joining the teetotalers.”
“You know, Virgile, that could get you fired,” Cooker said.
“Wait until tomorrow afternoon before doing the paperwork,” Virgile said with youthful arrogance. “Mr. Welling, could I tag along tomorrow?”
“Why would you like to do that?” the Englishman asked.
“To see those labels.”
“I’m afraid that will not be possible,” Welling answered, looking very sorry. “This kind of event requires the greatest confidentiality, and Mr. Wolvertem, my Belgian broker, would certainly not want you there.”
“Tell me, James, how did you meet this, well, this broker of the finest and rarest wines?” Cooker asked, articulating each word.
“On the Internet, Benjamin. I may be driving a Morgan, but I am a modern man. I take only the best from the past. That is my philosophy.”
“I have no doubt,” Cooker said.
“How many customers like you does your Mr. Wolvertem have in Bordeaux?”
“I’m his only one.”
“You mean he came here just for you?”
“Sort of.”
“Tell me, Mr. Morton,” Virgile said, “sorry, Mr. Welling—I can’t get your name straight. Please excuse my ignorance, but how does a private sale like this work?”
“It’s really very simple,” the Englishman explained. “You go to the host’s hotel suite. You tell him what you would like to order and how much, and so on. He gives you a price. You can sometimes negotiate a little, but not always. There’s a man in the hotel parking garage who will have what you purchased in a vehicle.”
“You get it on the same day?”
“About an hour after you’ve made the purchase.”
“Nothing written.”
“We are among men of honor, Virgile.”
“Certainly, but we don’t know this Mr. Wolvertem, and apparently he plans to keep his identity a secret.”
“You’re right,” Welling said, looking a little embarrassed.
Cooker was relishing this discussion. But only a tremor in his nostrils divulged his delight.
No, he would not have any dessert. “Just a coffee. A double espresso for the young man.”
Welling declined an after-dinner drink proposed by his friend. He was very focused on satisfying Virgile’s somewhat aggressive and unrelenting curiosity.
“What do you intend to buy Mr., uhm, Welling?”
“Ask Benjamin. He knows my weakness for Saint-Émilion. I won’t forbid myself a few Médocs or Pomerols.”
“So you’ll buy out the Angélus.”
“Yes, for sure. If there is any, I wouldn’t hesitate. Generally speaking, the prices are a good deal, compared with what I’ve seen recently at the auction houses.”
“Which means?” Virgile asked.
“Fifty to sixty euros a bottle for very good years. More, of course, for historic years,” Welling whispered.
Cooker took a pen from his jacket and jotted a few figures on the paper tablecloth. Then he ripped off the corner and slipped it to Welling.
“I’ll take all the Angélus for the years noted, no matter how much. Then we can split them fifty-fifty if you want.”
Welling rubbed his chin, then sighed and sneaked a self-righteous look in Virgile’s direction before giving Cooker a wink.
“Do you want a check tonight?” Cooker asked.
“I believe Mr. Wolvertem prefers cash. Actually, I’m sure of it.”
“That should be expected, considering his job—if you can call it a job,” the winemaker said, drinking the last of his coffee, which was now cold.
“It’s what I said, nothing written down,” Virgile said, slightly irritated that his boss was condoning this black market.
“Virgile, I’ll see you at the office tomorrow around noon,” Cooker said, turning to address Welling. “That is, unless you change your mind and accept that he come along for the sale. He knows how to be discreet, you know.”
“Benjamin, don’t insist,” Welling said with some authority. “It’s better for our transaction this way.”
“You are the best judge of that,” Cooker said, taking out his
“You know, Virgile, that could get you fired,” Cooker said.
“Wait until tomorrow afternoon before doing the paperwork,” Virgile said with youthful arrogance. “Mr. Welling, could I tag along tomorrow?”
“Why would you like to do that?” the Englishman asked.
“To see those labels.”
“I’m afraid that will not be possible,” Welling answered, looking very sorry. “This kind of event requires the greatest confidentiality, and Mr. Wolvertem, my Belgian broker, would certainly not want you there.”
“Tell me, James, how did you meet this, well, this broker of the finest and rarest wines?” Cooker asked, articulating each word.
“On the Internet, Benjamin. I may be driving a Morgan, but I am a modern man. I take only the best from the past. That is my philosophy.”
“I have no doubt,” Cooker said.
“How many customers like you does your Mr. Wolvertem have in Bordeaux?”
“I’m his only one.”
“You mean he came here just for you?”
“Sort of.”
“Tell me, Mr. Morton,” Virgile said, “sorry, Mr. Welling—I can’t get your name straight. Please excuse my ignorance, but how does a private sale like this work?”
“It’s really very simple,” the Englishman explained. “You go to the host’s hotel suite. You tell him what you would like to order and how much, and so on. He gives you a price. You can sometimes negotiate a little, but not always. There’s a man in the hotel parking garage who will have what you purchased in a vehicle.”
“You get it on the same day?”
“About an hour after you’ve made the purchase.”
“Nothing written.”
“We are among men of honor, Virgile.”
“Certainly, but we don’t know this Mr. Wolvertem, and apparently he plans to keep his identity a secret.”
“You’re right,” Welling said, looking a little embarrassed.
Cooker was relishing this discussion. But only a tremor in his nostrils divulged his delight.
No, he would not have any dessert. “Just a coffee. A double espresso for the young man.”
Welling declined an after-dinner drink proposed by his friend. He was very focused on satisfying Virgile’s somewhat aggressive and unrelenting curiosity.
“What do you intend to buy Mr., uhm, Welling?”
“Ask Benjamin. He knows my weakness for Saint-Émilion. I won’t forbid myself a few Médocs or Pomerols.”
“So you’ll buy out the Angélus.”
“Yes, for sure. If there is any, I wouldn’t hesitate. Generally speaking, the prices are a good deal, compared with what I’ve seen recently at the auction houses.”
“Which means?” Virgile asked.
“Fifty to sixty euros a bottle for very good years. More, of course, for historic years,” Welling whispered.
Cooker took a pen from his jacket and jotted a few figures on the paper tablecloth. Then he ripped off the corner and slipped it to Welling.
“I’ll take all the Angélus for the years noted, no matter how much. Then we can split them fifty-fifty if you want.”
Welling rubbed his chin, then sighed and sneaked a self-righteous look in Virgile’s direction before giving Cooker a wink.
“Do you want a check tonight?” Cooker asked.
“I believe Mr. Wolvertem prefers cash. Actually, I’m sure of it.”
“That should be expected, considering his job—if you can call it a job,” the winemaker said, drinking the last of his coffee, which was now cold.
“It’s what I said, nothing written down,” Virgile said, slightly irritated that his boss was condoning this black market.
“Virgile, I’ll see you at the office tomorrow around noon,” Cooker said, turning to address Welling. “That is, unless you change your mind and accept that he come along for the sale. He knows how to be discreet, you know.”
“Benjamin, don’t insist,” Welling said with some authority. “It’s better for our transaction this way.”
“You are the best judge of that,” Cooker said, taking out his
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