“It was theveuveClicquot who figured out how to get rid of the deposits.” Blondine pointed to a demonstration bottle that was mounted in front of a light. When she whirled it, sediment floated around within it. “Once the sediment has collected in the neck of the bottle—which takes a long time—it isdégorgées.”
“Dégorgéesmeans ‘disgorged,’ right?” Rosalyn asked, unsure of the translation.
Blondine nodded. “We freeze just this last part of the neck. Then the bottle is pointed nose down, and the cork or cap is removed very rapidly. The frozen liquid containing the sediment is forced out by the pressure, and then the bottle is corked again before too much fizz or champagne is lost.”
“That sounds... tricky,” Rosalyn said, remembering how replacing the watercooler bottle in Hugh’s office involved the combined efforts of the entire office and sales staff, and they still managed to spill half the contents on the carpet.
“It takes a lot of skill. Now most of it is done by machine, but it was done by hand for centuries, and sometimes still is. A professionalriddler can jiggle fifty thousand bottles a day, and a good disgorger is worth his weight in gold.”
“I’ll bet.” Rosalyn tried to imagine a business card printed withProfessional RiddlerorExperienced Disgorger.“And then the missing wine is replaced by thedosage?”
“Oui. Thedosageis a fortified wine with a little sugar and sometimes a special ingredient. This is the winemaker’s secret. See the markings set on the piles of bottles over there?” She gestured to a small A-frame sign atop a stack of champagne. “That is a secret code known only to the winemaker. In the larger cellars such as Pommery and Mumm, the winemakers ride through the caves on bicycles. It is the only way they can get around to check on the inventory. It is very prestigious to be a cellar master in Champagne.”
As Blondine spoke, Rosalyn recalled the lectures from her oenology classes. Champagne was made of only three grape varietals: Chardonnay, Pinot Meunier, and Pinot Noir; and when made exclusively from Chardonnay grapes, it was calledblanc de blanc.There were different levels of quality: Grand cru was the best, then premier cru, and finallyappellation Champagne.
“Some of the smaller producers sell most of their crops to the big champagne houses but make their own champagne as well,” said Blondine. “It is more distinctive, since they are much smaller operations.”
“Have you tasted the champagne from Comtois Père et Fils? Do you think I should try to represent it back home?”
Blondine paused for a moment. “I haven’t tried it, no. But his family’s wine-making collection is impressive. Comtois has the biggest collection of corks in France, or so they claim.”
“That’s a lot of corks.”
“It is,” said Blondine with a nod, perfectly serious.
“Why doesn’t Jérôme want to open his collection to the public?”
Blondine shrugged. “Who knows? Everyone says he’s been in a bad mood ever since his wife ran off, but I think he must be overwhelmed. Jérôme is doing everything himself, with a very small staff. If he cannot produce enough grapes or wine, he cannot save the winery. The historic collection must be the last thing on his mind.”
“Well, that makes sense.”
“Also, he has never been fond of tourists, and naturally the collection brings tourists to him. His father spent most of his time and his fortune on the collection, buying ancient winepresses and transporting them to the Comtois cellars. I think Jérôme resented this, and I don’t really blame him. It must be hard to be expected to give up your career in Paris to come back to this small village to save the business your father has nearly bankrupted.”
“It sounds like you know Jérôme well.”
“Not really, but Cochet is a small village. We were raised here, went to the primary school and played together as children. But then he went off to university in Paris, and after that, we rarely saw him anymore. No one expects him to stay long.” She checked the readout on her phone. “Now I must go to work in the office. My father will arrive soon, and we will have a special dinner in celebration of the Epiphany. So you cannot eat potato chips for dinner tonight.”
“Thank you for the invitation,” said Rosalyn. “I am looking forward to it.”
And truth to tell, she was.
Chapter Twenty-one
Lucie
Living in the caves is a kind of death. But no, that is not apt.
Death, the priest assures us, is a land of milk and honey, a wondrous promise of rewards for a life well lived. Living underground is a slow torture of the spirit, a thousand cuts to the soul, countless jarring shocks to the natural order of things.
This war has turned the world upside down. Poison gases waft on the gentlest summer breeze; warm blood seeps into the earth to nourish the roots of the ancient grapevines. Soldiers in trenches gnaw on hardtack as unyielding as stone while their feet turn doughy with rot. Women and children tend the grapevines under the cover of night, but remain shrouded in cool darkness during the brightest hours of day.
The dead lie unburied and unconsecrated aboveground, while the living cower deep beneath the surface of the earth.
The world, upside down.
Ours is a constant search for light. The caves are dim, lit only byprecious oil lamps or candle stubs. In the largest pits there are pyramid-shaped skylights at the very top; there is always a competition to stand beneath these, to be able to look out to the sky and search for the bright blue of day, the fluffy white of clouds, an occasional passing bird.
Of course, in the case of a direct hit, the poor soul underneath will be pierced by glass shards. Such is our lot.
