Nightmare in Burgundy Read Free Page A

silk paper and displayed on the table between stainless-steel spittoons and wicker baskets full of rolls. Each taster had a notebook for comments. There was barely any talking. Wet swishing, tongue-clicking, and elegant gurgling were the predominant sounds rising in the crisp air of the wine warehouse.
    Cooker was tired from the night before but quickly managed to concentrate. He had no trouble getting into the spirit of the game. He had prepared long and hard for it back in Bordeaux by studying the Tastevin Burgundy wine reference book. Around him, nearly two hundred fifty tasters—all elite handpicked palates—were assuming the posture of expert connoisseurs, displaying the learned gestures of acknowledged specialists. He had spotted some old acquaintances, several renowned wine growers, important wine merchants, brokers, oenologists, some researchers from the university, heads of viticulture unions, popular restaurateurs, brilliant sommeliers, and a handful of knowledgeable amateurs. Among the witnesses were local officials and personalities, as well as a well-informed assembly of specialized journalists, including several leading Parisian experts whose vitriolic writing made Michelin-star chefs tremble.
    The Tastevinage session had been wonderfully well organized, and the hosts from the brotherhood were seeing to its successful unfolding without participating in the tasting. This served to guarantee neutrality. The questions posed by the jury were of devilishly simple precision: “Is this wine worthy of the appellation and vintage that appear on the label? Is it truly representative of them? Is this a wine that I would be happy to own in my cellar and proud to offer to a friend?” There were many fine points that were not to be influenced by preconceptions, moods, natural inclinations, memory lapses, or subjective reactions. Presented anonymously, each of the fifteen bottles swaddled in opaque wrapping was slapped with a concise label indicating only its appellation with no mention of the winemaker or the merchant. Cooker was enjoying the atmosphere of this ritual, which blended the sacred and the profane. All these furrowed brows gave his fellow judges the forbidding—some would say merciless—appearance of courtroom magistrates.
    Cooker knew perfectly well that the stakes were high and that winemakers and the rest of the profession awaited these evaluations with a certain amount of anxiety. Initially, he tasted the small bottles fairly quickly in order to feel them in his mouth. His colleagues seemed surprised to see him proceed this way: a quick movement of the glass to make the wine speak, a swallow, and one or two swirls around the palate. Then he would spit it out immediately. Some, convinced that the famous Benjamin Cooker could do no wrong, revised their strategy and imitated him. When he had finished this preliminary trial, he took up each wine again. But this time he lingered over the visual quality, tipping his glass to better observe the transparency, the brilliance, the tint, and the intensity of the color. Then he would bring the wine to his nose to capture the whole aromatic expression in a tight bundle of details that he quickly jotted in his notebook.
    After detecting the most harmonious bouquets, he swirled each wine in his mouth with exaggerated slowness, breathing in a little air to oxygenate the liquid. He closed his eyes and held himself straight in his chair while leaning his head slightly forward and putting his hands flat on the table. Then he would spit and start over without changing his posture. He analyzed the subtlest flavors, the astringencies, the delicacies of certain tannins, the powerful first impressions, the disappointing finishes, the acidity, and the roundness. From time to time, he would nibble a roll to cleanse his palate.
    Fifteen swallows of red wine carefully swished and re-swished were enough for him. The dice were cast. He put aside his notebook, cracked his knuckles,