Deadly Tasting Read Online Free PDF Page A

style.
    Lennie Tristano continued his melodic forays, and Lee Konitz and Warne Marsh responded with their own. It was all brotherly jousting, where the point wasn’t winning or losing, but savoring the camaraderie.
    “I have an idea, and I’m surprised you didn’t tell me about it,” Franck said right away.
    “That is?” Benjamin said slyly.
    “It’s a Pétrus, and you knew it. You couldn’t possibly have missed it.”
    “That’s exactly right. But admit that it was tempting not to let on ahead of time. It’s part of the game.”
    “I don’t blame you. I would have done the same thing. That said, this is not an exceptional year. It is, indeed, a very old vintage, but it’s the nose that lets you perceive the characteristics of Pétrus. The body is a bit weakened, and I suspect we are dealing with an average harvest.”
    “If you are being so careful, you must have a clue.”
    “It does remind me of certain very distinctive years in the Bordeaux region.”
    On the stereo, the blending of ivory, ebony, and brass with just the right amount of genius, reverie, tension, and sweat culminated in a moment of grace. The music went silent. Dubourdieu put the CD back in its case and slipped it into a cabinet drawer under the letter T , between Cecil Taylor and McCoy Tyner.
    “I have the feeling that this wine could be well more than a half century old,” Dubourdieu continued as he started looking through another drawer of CDs.
    “Okay, so what?”
    “It could be from the nineteen forties. You must have thought of that too.”
    “Yes, the oldest Pétrus I have ever tasted was from 1945. We all know that was a remarkable year. We call it the vintage of the century, mostly because it’s closely linked to the end of World War Two in Europe. I admit it’s one of my most spectacular wine tasting memories.”
    “I’ve also tasted it, and I agree with you.”
    “I have had many chances to taste post-war Pétrus, and even though those specimens were superb, they couldn’t quite match the 1945.”
    “You’ve never tasted the ones produced during the war?” Dubourdieu asked. He took out a CD of the Gerry Mulligan Quartet recorded in 1952 on the Pacific Jazz label.
    “No, I haven’t.”
    “Those wines have the same iconic bouquet. But the mouthfeel is light. Maybe that’s a clue. I would opt for a 1943, but you’d have to check by opening one from the same vintage.”
    “Why 1943?”
    “Because it’s a good year but not a spectacular one. Mind you, Pétrus is a remarkable wine, regardless of the year. Nevertheless, winemakers throughout the Bordeaux region faced terrible obstacles during the war. The men were off fighting, and the women and children had to tend the vineyards and make the wine, on top of what they were already doing. Most of them weren’t as experienced as the men. In addition, all equipment and trucks had been requisitioned for the war effort, and that slowed harvests and production. Those who were left on the estates managed pretty well and were even quite valiant, but the quality of the wine was affected.”
    “You really believe this is a vintage from that period?” Benjamin asked.
    “It’s entirely possible, but to get a more precise idea, we would have to find bottles from that vintage, assuming they are still well-preserved and drinkable.”
    Gerry Mulligan’s baritone sax was rising above the trumpet sounds of Chet Baker. The ringtone of Benjamin’s cell phone was a shrill interruption. He stepped into the hallway to take the call and returned to the living room a few minutes later.
    “Is something wrong, Benjamin?”
    “That was Inspector Barbaroux. There’s more trouble.”

 
     
     
     
     
    4
    A harpsichord piece by Scarlatti, a Jamaican calypso, a soft-drink commercial, an old Celine Dion hit, an urgent news flash, a Muslim sermon, some nineteen sixties rubbish, a futile discussion of euthanasia… Benjamin impatiently scanned the radio stations on his car radio. He