Flambé in Armagnac Read Free Page A

about Francisco’s tragic death. He pulled himself together and listened to his friend. He was touched by Philippe’s candor and admiration. In truth, Benjamin had never tasted Blanzac’s brandies, although he had been looking forward to it after his unexpected encounter with Francisco a month earlier. And to think he would have to evaluate the exact worth of the château’s reserves.
    “I’ve heard that his paradise was full to the roof,” Benjamin confided, referring to the warehouse where he stored his vintages. “At least that’s what he told the insurance company.”
    “Old Castayrac definitely had reserves,” Philippe said, offering Benjamin the cheese platter. “These days, everyone has reserves. Unfortunately, Armagnac isn’t selling as well as we’d like. It doesn’t matter whether the Armagnac’s good or bad. We’re all stuck with barrels up to the ceiling and no one to drink what’s in them, except the angels. I just wish the angels could pay my bills.”
    “Yes, but I’ve been under the impression that your Armagnac is doing well. I see it everywhere. I was in London two weeks ago, on Saint James Street, and I shared one of your brandies with an old friend.”
    “Don’t kid yourself, Benjamin. I have enough in my cellar to supply the French Senate for a century. In both Cognac and Armagnac, we’ve all got problems, and our government isn’t helping.”
    Beatrice had left the table and returned with a sumptuous-looking pumpkin cake that was giving off the subtle scent of cinnamon. Benjamin and Virgile clapped in unison.
    “Beatrice, once again you’ve outdone yourself,” Philippe said, giving his wife a wink.
    The master of the house rose to fan the hearth. He threw a worm-eaten black-oak log on the embers, and flames immediately rose from the wood.
    “A good Armagnac can only be appreciated around a hearth,” Philippe said. “How about a 1983 Prada?”
    Virgile nodded in agreement, but Benjamin quickly put his hand on his arm.
    “No offense, Philippe, but I’d like to taste a brandy from Château Blanzac. I’m sure you have that on hand. Just to help me form an opinion.”
    Benjamin detected the hint of a frown on his affable friend’s face. “I’m afraid I’m all out. I would gladly have…”
    Then his wife betrayed him with her typical spontaneity. “Philippe, go look in Grandmother’s display cabinet. I think there’s a bottle that Francisco brought us. Remember it, dear? For your fiftieth birthday.”
    “What would I do without you?” Philippe sighed. His ruse had fooled no one.
    Benjamin was taking two cigars in silky wrappers from his leather case when Philippe disappeared behind the double doors to the office. He knew his friend was a big fan of Havanas. The Cubans guaranteed an hour of sheer pleasure. No doubt Jean-Charles de Castayrac’s Armagnac would make the occasion even more memorable.
    He was about to imagine them raising a glass to the deceased cellar master when an ear-piercing crack pulled him out of his musings. Beatrice, Virgile, and Benjamin ran to the window. A peach tree had snapped under the weight of the ice. The winemaker glanced at Beatrice and saw that she was shivering.
    No sooner had they absorbed the sight of the felled peach tree than the sound of breaking glass rang out behind the door. “Damn it all!”
    “Oh, that doesn’t sound good,” Beatrice said, pushing back the lock of blond hair that seemed to have a mind of its own.
    When Philippe opened the door, the exquisite fragrances of honey, pear, and orange preserves wafted into the kitchen. A long silence ensued.
    In a cloud of smoke, Benjamin finally looked Philippe de Bouglon in the eye. “Now I know why you were envious of Lord de Castayrac’s Armagnacs. And if you weren’t my friend, I’d almost suspect you of having broken the bottle to avoid comparison.”
    “Benjamin, I think my subconscious got the better of me.”
    “That’s exactly what I was thinking, you old