Flambé in Armagnac Read Free

exist.”
    “Well, this young man must be Gascon. Are you?”
    “Actually, I am, on my maternal grandmother’s side. She was from Lectoure.”
    “I knew it,” Bouglon said.
    By the time they were ready to eat, Benjamin was no longer chilled. The Blanche d’Armagnac had produced the desired effect, warming the mind and the body.
    They dined in the kitchen, which was warmer than the dining room. Old grapevine stocks fueled the kitchen fireplace, and the thick glowing embers promised a perfectly cooked stew. The room was filled with wonderful aromas. Enchanting frost crystals had formed around the leaded windows overlooking the estate’s pollarded plane trees. The water pipes had frozen, and the faucet was no longer working, but who cared? At Prada, one was hardly inclined to drink water.
    Beatrice brought out one of her vintage jars of duck foie gras, appropriately truffled. A 1989 Suduiraut Cuvée Madame, exquisitely amber in color, accompanied the feast.
    Benjamin was relishing his visit with Philippe. The two happily recalled the old days when they were still bachelors. The sauterne had served to rekindle their ribald memories. Virgile, meanwhile, responded politely to the stream of questions from the mistress of Prada.
    “Beatrice, I’m afraid you’re going to embarrass our friend with your interrogation,” Philippe said, turning to his wife and putting down his fork.
    There was no hint of reproach in his tone. Indeed, Benjamin thought he detected a loving intimacy in his smile.
    “Oh Philippe, Virgile and I have already become friends. I’ve found out a lot of things, beginning with the reason for our dear friend Benjamin’s visit to Labastide. They’re here about the fire at Château Blanzac. It’s all anybody is talking about around here.”
    “Yes, it’s horrible,” Philippe responded. “You wouldn’t wish that on anyone, not even your worst enemy.”
    Benjamin pierced a piece of bread with his fork and dipped it in the enticing sauce on his plate. “Would you count this Jean-Claude de Castayrac among your friends, Philippe?” he asked before bringing the fork to his mouth.
    “He’s neither a friend nor an enemy, Benjamin. We know each other well. I even have a certain respect for him. But to be frank, I prefer his Armagnac to his company.”
    “Can you be more specific?”
    Philippe de Bouglon’s reddish moustache was beginning to glisten with the stew juices. The Château Pavie he had brought to room temperature by the fireplace had put a gleam in his gray eyes. Before Philippe could satisfy Benjamin’s curiosity, Beatrice answered for him.
    “You know, everyone here looks out for himself. The producers respect each other, and sometimes we exchange samples. But basically, we see one another at the Armagnac Promotion Committee meetings and competitions at Eauze and Aire-sur-l’Adour. That’s about it. As far as the fire goes, the one to feel sorry for isn’t Castayrac. He’ll always make out okay. It’s poor Vasquez! Dying like that in the fire. It’s terrible. They say the still exploded. I hope he didn’t suffer.”
    “You mean Francisco, the cellar master? That’s terrible. There was no mention of a death in the letter from the insurance company.” Benjamin was shocked. How had he missed this piece of news?
    Philippe wiped his mouth with his sauce-stained napkin. He picked up the bottle of Saint-Émilion and filled his guests’ empty glasses. “One thing is certain: Francisco was the only one who made the baron’s Armagnacs. His sons had no say in the matter. Castayrac trusted his cellar master, and he did a good job. Francisco’s brandies are among the best in Bas-Armagnac.”
    “Better than yours?” Virgile ventured.
    Philippe was unequivocal. “To you, I can admit the truth. Yes, I am—that is, I was— envious of Château Blanzac’s Armagnacs. They have an elegance, a finesse. You understand, don’t you, Benjamin?”
    Benjamin was distracted. He was still thinking