having a hair of the dog that bit you, the cure is more of the same.”
“Ah. Worth a try, then.” Guy breathed in the wine, swirled it, breathed again and then took a small mouthful to wash around his gums. “Oh,” he said, a look of ecstasy washing over his face. “Try it, tell me what you think.”
Enzo sucked oxygen into his mouth along with the wine. He felt the flavours fill his head. “Sensational,” he said. “Wonderful harmony.”
“Yes, first reports suggested it might be overly tannic, but it’s ageing nicely. I’ll not tell you what it cost.” Guy filled both their glasses and sipped pensively at his own. “Yes… Graulet.” And he laughed again. “A pompous ass of a man. Freelance critic. Writes for several of the Paris papers, and has a couple of online blogs of his own. Self- appointed judge of good cuisine on behalf of us poor, ignorant plebs. He sneaks around the top restaurants in various disguises, taking clandestine photographs, and sometimes video, for his blog. He believes that Michelin stands for everything that is dull and old-fashioned in French cuisine and just loves to target their three-star darlings with his most virulent criticism.”
“I thought he was renowned for ‘discovering’ his own restaurants of distinction.”
“Oh he is. He adores finding the undiscovered genius working in the kitchen of some obscure bistro tucked away in a hidden corner of Paris and revealing him to the world.” Guy chortled. “I’ve tried a few of them myself, and can’t say I have ever been particularly impressed.”
“So how did he and Marc come to cross swords?” Enzo let more wine slip back over his tongue, and felt the soothing warmth of the alcohol ease the ache in his head.
Guy perched himself on the edge of his desk. “Not long after Marc got his third star, Graulet came to sample the style Fraysse for himself. Made no secret of his presence, and despite everyone bending over backwards to please him, he was really quite objectionable. Marc had never been a target of his criticism before, and so was quite prepared to give him the benefit of the doubt. Until, that is, his column appeared the following week, panning Marc for his over-priced, over-rated, under-cooked, unimaginative cuisine.”
“How did Marc react?”
“At first he was furious. And then hurt. And then depressed. It sent him into a black funk for nearly a month. Nothing that anyone could say could snap him out of it. But as luck would have it, the following month he had to go to Paris to kneel at the feet of the Michelin gods.”
Enzo frowned. “What do you mean?”
Guy sipped some more of his nectar. “Every year, a procession of three-star chefs present themselves before the headmaster for a kind of end-of-term report. All trooping one by one into the eight-story edifice at No. 46 avenue de Breteuil. No one is above making the pilgrimage. Not even the great Paul Bocuse himself.
“It was the first time Marc had been asked to go and genuflect before the Director himself. But it wasn’t the same Director who had awarded him his third star. Naegellen had been replaced that year by one Derek Brown. An Englishman, for God’s sake! Can you imagine? Some damned rosbif telling us frogs what constitutes good French cuisine!” He laughed. “Actually, he was a good man, Brown. But don’t let on I told you that.”
Enzo grinned.
“Anyway, while in Paris, Marc met up with a few of his three-star compatriots. A couple in particular who had also been on the receiving end of Graulet’s vitriol. They let Marc into a little plot they were hatching, and he was only too happy to participate.
“A young chef who had worked as a second to one of them had just opened a little bistro in Clichy, right on the outskirts of Paris. Graulet was being set up. A strategically placed tip-off had alerted him to the fact that this particular bistro might be an excellent ‘find’ for his blog. And so he had booked a table, and in one of his ridiculous disguises turned up incognito with a group of friends. What he didn’t know was that the food he had ordered was being prepared for him in the kitchen by the very three-star chefs whose talents he had so recently derided.” Guy topped up their glasses and laughed again at the memory.
“Of course, his meal was ‘sublime’. And he wrote as much in his blog, praising this talented young chef that he had ‘discovered’ to the rafters. The following day, the three musketeers as they came to be known, announced to the media that they had in fact cooked Graulet’s meal that night.”
Enzo laughed. “Which must have made Graulet feel like a bit of an idiot.”
“Complete and utter humiliation.” Guy’s face positively glowed with delight at the recollection of the moment. “It took Graulet a long time to get over it. For some reason he got it into his head that Marc had been the ringleader. But he didn’t dare criticise him again. In fact, as far as I’m aware, he never ever mentioned Marc again in his columns or his blogs.” His face darkened. “Until, of course, he became the first to print the rumor that Marc Fraysse was on the verge of being downgraded to two stars.” He gazed thoughtfully into the dark red liquid in his glass. “Which I have no doubt gave him the greatest of pleasure.”
Chapter Twenty-four
Dominique’s apartment was on the third floor of a six-story block built into the hillside below the mediaeval center of Thiers. French windows opened on to small balconies with commanding views of the rest of the town spread out below, and the great curvature of the valley beyond.
It had been dark when Enzo arrived, the twinkling lights of human habitation down in the valley creating an inverse firmament. Tasha had leapt on him on his arrival, excited and breathless, and desperate to make friends. She was a beautiful, sleek-coated, golden labrador retriever, and it hadn’t taken long for Enzo to wrestle her to the floor, engaging in mock battle, and trying to avoid the flapping pink tongue that Tasha seemed determined to lick all over his face.
Dominique stood helpless with laughter. “I think she likes you.”
“I think she does,” Enzo said, gasping to catch his breath. “I have this fatal attraction for women. They can’t resist me.” He managed to turn the dog over on to her back and rub her belly. Almost immediately, Tasha relaxed, paws in the air, folded over at the joints. “See what I mean?”
“As long as you don’t try that with me!”
Enzo grinned. “Spoilsport!” Tasha’s muzzle showed slight signs of greying around the whiskers. “She’s not young. You must have had her for a long time.”
“She’s ten, but I’ve only had her for a year. She was a police sniffer dog for most of her life. They always try to find good homes for the dogs when they retire them. I was in the right place at the right time and needed a friend.”
“She’s a beauty.” Enzo stretched himself out beside the dog, leaning on one elbow and gently stroking her chest and belly.”
Dominique smiled at him fondly. “I wouldn’t have put you down for a pet lover.”
“I’ve always loved dogs. But living in the town like I do, and being away a lot, I never felt it was right to have one.”
Dominique recovered a disarranged bouquet of flowers from the floor where they had fallen at Tasha’s first assault. “I take it these were meant for me?”
“No, they’re for Tasha. There’s a bottle of wine for you on the coat stand.”
Dominique laughed unrestrainedly. “You’re a funny man, Monsieur Macleod.”
“Enzo.” He got to his feet and Tasha immediately got to hers, ready to continue the game. But Dominique raised a finger and gave a sharp warning blast of air through her front teeth. A real pack leader. Tasha stopped and looked up at her with lugubrious eyes which grew wide and excited when her mistress held up a black rubber ball about the size of a tennis ball.
“Bed!” Dominique said. And Tasha immediately trotted across the living room to where a large dog basket made soft with blankets was pushed against the wall. Dominique followed her and gave her the ball, which Tasha was delighted to grab between her front paws and chew at with an almost frenzied relish. “She loves her ball. I can get her to do almost anything by giving her the ball as a reward.”
Enzo brushed himself down and straightened his ponytail. “That’s her training.”
Dominique gave him a quizzical look. “How do you mean?”
“It’s how they train sniffer dogs. On the principle of reward. And it’s very rarely food. Almost always a
