The Baron went around the table. Jack thought it was a Montravel, at the western end of the Bergerac region. Gilles thought it came from further south, a Saussignac or a Duras. The Mayor was still thinking and Bruno admitted he was guessing but he thought it was a vin de pays from the Périgord, somewhere nearby but he was sure it wasn’t from the town vineyard. He suggested it could be a wine from Domme. Finally the Mayor put down his glass and said he thought it was a Buzet.
‘You’re all wrong but Bruno came closest,’ the Baron said. ‘It’s from the Domaine de la Voie Blanche, just this side of St Cyprien, so it is indeed a vin de pays of our own Périgord, stored in terracotta amphorae just as they did in Roman times. I bought a couple of cases and brought one along tonight, so I’ll leave the other eleven bottles here for future festivities in the hope that you all enjoy it as much as I do. Now drink up and let’s attack the other bottles.’
Miranda brought in the shoulder and leg of lamb on a giant platter, surrounded by whole heads of garlic, followed by Pamela bringing a large bowl of roast potatoes. The scent of the rosemary, on a bed of which the lamb had been roasted, filled the room. Jack excused himself, left the room briefly and returned with a gravy boat which he announced with pride contained his traditional English mint sauce. When the Baron asked how it was made, Jack replied that he crushed finely chopped mint leaves into a spoonful of sugar and a little oil until it had turned into a rough paste then thinned it out with vinegar. The Baron’s eyes widened. Gilles and the Mayor exchanged glances. Mon Dieu, thought Bruno, the things I do for international understanding.
Meanwhile, Jack had wrapped a napkin around his hand, used it to seize the bone at the end of the leg, and began to carve the thick end of the shoulder that was still attached. He was using one of Pamela’s Japanese knives and the slices of lamb fell away like butter. Miranda began serving the more cooked slices to her father and Pamela and to her own and her children’s plates, evidently understanding that the French preferred their meat somewhat pinker.
Bruno’s own portion was perfect, obviously very slowly cooked at a low temperature, and the roasted heads of garlic squeezed out their delicious tender flesh when he pressed them lightly with his knife. He took a sip of the cuvée Ortus he had brought and thought it the perfect accompaniment. Seeing the others enjoying it, despite his fear that it might be too much like mutton for their taste , Bruno raised his glass to Miranda to tell her that her lamb was an Anglo-French triumph. The others raised their own glasses to toast her, the children following suit with their own glasses of mineral water.
‘My friends at school say they are allowed a little taste of wine in their water, Mummy,’ said Miranda’s eldest son, Mark. ‘May we try that?’
She glanced at her father who gave a discreet nod and she agreed. Bruno carefully poured a teaspoon of wine into the boy’s glass, turning it a pale pink and telling him that this was an important moment and the other children would be allowed their own taste of wine when they were older. That seemed to satisfy them, although Bruno was sure that Mark’s younger brother would manage to sneak a sip when the grown-ups weren’t looking.
‘I think this may be the moment to introduce you all to my secret sauce,’ said Jack, raising the gravy boat of his mint concoction. Bruno gamely accepted it and used a spoon to put a small helping of a thin green sauce onto the side of his plate. He dipped a morsel of lamb into it and tried it, dreading what the mint and vinegar would do to his enjoyment of the bottle of Tiregand that Gilles had started to pour.
In fact, the mint and the sharpness of the vinegar went quite well with the lamb, but the sugar seemed to Bruno a bizarre and unnecessary addition. Still, in the interest of friendship he tried another portion, and this time he was accustomed to the sweetness of the sugar that had at first surprised him, and began to see that this could work. Perhaps if he tried a little honey instead of the sugar . . . Suddenly he was aware of a conversation down the table, a female voice in full and vehement flow.
‘I think it’s shameful, a deliberate denial of history,’ declared Jacqueline. ‘The British have long had a thirty-year rule before the release of government papers, why not the Americans? France is now a full member of NATO, so what possible reason could they have for withholding the Rosenholz dossier? It’s been more than thirty years.’
‘Secret papers aren’t released in Britain after thirty years, only routine ones, and they have to be cleared by a committee of historians and officials,’ Crimson replied. ‘And you know perfectly well, Jacqueline, that France is even more cautious about releasing state papers than the British or Americans.’
‘I know that, Jack, and you’re right,’ she replied. ‘But I don’t see why serious historians in democratic countries have to work in the dark just to protect the reputations of antiquated politicians for rotten decisions they took in secret when they were in power.’
‘What secret decisions are you talking about?’ asked Gilles,
