Flambé in Armagnac Read Online Free PDF

Take it. The Cantarels live in a half-timber house. You can’t miss it.”
    Benjamin retired to his room, where he called Elisabeth to tell her that he would probably be staying longer than he had expected.
    § § §
    The sound of a tractor maneuvering in the courtyard woke Benjamin, who had never been a heavy sleeper. He peered out the window at a dawn sky that was purple and rooftops that were painted with frost. Benjamin’s room was frigid, and even though he was wide awake, he wasn’t looking forward to the prospect of crawling out from under the covers. Fortunately, the aroma of coffee was beginning to creep under the door, and his excitement over the event unfolding outside soon overpowered his desire for comfort. His shower could wait. He wouldn’t miss this for anything.
    Philippe, gesturing dramatically and yelling “whoa,” was guiding the still into the wine cellar. It was a strange-looking contraption, all copper and bedecked with pipes, coils, and odd gauges.
    When Benjamin joined them, Philippe introduced the distiller, a cross-eyed bearded man named René Dardolive. He would be the master of ceremonies. Benjamin couldn’t guess his age, but he looked prematurely bald, something he was trying to hide under a shapeless black felt hat. René was speechless when Philippe announced the celebrated winemaker’s presence.
    In the half-light of the wine cellar, Beatrice and Philippe bustled about, carrying blocks of oak for the boiler. Soon, esoteric permutations would be under way, supervised by the alchemist in a khaki hunting jacket. René had learned his craft from his father. The Dardolive men had been distillers for many generations, and aygue vive , or living water, was no mystery to this quiet man. He had been weaned on the vapors of a zealously polished still.
    Dardolive was set to begin his rite of offering the wine from the Bouglons’ harvest to distillation. But first Beatrice called everyone to the table: ham, duck cracklings, rabbit and boar pâté, scrambled eggs, red wine, and hot coffee. Virgile showed up, looking groggy at this unlikely hour, when night hadn’t yet buried its last demons. Evelyne Cantarel had prepared a copious breakfast for him, but Benjamin knew his assistant wouldn’t be able to resist Beatrice’s terrines.
    Benjamin could see the anticipation in Virgile’s eyes. Distillation was something Virgile had studied but never seen. Now he was about to witness this miracle for himself. A pure and crystalline eau-de-vie would soon be flowing through the murmuring copper still.
    Despite his rough manners and silences, René managed to exchange a few words with Virgile.
    “Did you ever distill for the Château Blanzac?” Virgile asked.
    René took a gulp of coffee and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Nope. They got their own still. Francisco did good work.”
    “Yes, what a terrible accident.”
    “It ain’t no accident, I’m telling you. That family’s as twisted as an alembic.”
    Without any further explanation, René rose from the table to get to work. He filled the boiler with water, just enough to start the process. Then he connected the loader vat to a pot topped with a still-head fitted with a long swan’s-neck pipe. He lit the fire, feeding it vine shoots first and then old stumps. When the blaze was finally roaring, he threw in large pieces of dry oak. The distillation could begin. Philippe leaned toward Virgile and began a running commentary.
    “This is a continuous still. It’s made of pure copper and distills only once,” he said.
    “Cognac gets distilled twice, that I know,” Virgile said. “Is it copper because of its superior heat conduction?”
    “That’s right. This continuous distillation is actually quite simple,” Philippe continued. “René here feeds the wine from the loader vat into the still, where it goes through the bottom of the cooling apparatus. It fills the preheater, then descends through the heating column, flowing over a number