“I never really thought about it. Maybe that’s why a lot of people eat big breakfasts,” Rosalyn said.
“That’s because they go do real work,” Emma teased. “Not like you effete Frenchies with your tiny espressos and crusts of bread.”
“You look at us vintners and tell me we don’t work hard,” Gaspard said, pounding on his chest, then splaying out his hands. “Look at these calluses. We areChampenois, true, and so we laugh and joke; we celebrate life with champagne. But we also work hard to coax the vines from this difficult soil.”
“My father eats only a piece of chocolate and coffee in the morning,” said Blondine, gesturing with a knife in hand. “I cannot live without my croissant, but I don’t think I could eat an American breakfast. Sausage and beans for breakfast?”
“You’re thinking ofEnglishbreakfasts,” said Emma, nabbing a slice of glistening salami. “As I’ve mentioned before, Rosalyn’s American, and I’m Aussie—thank you very much—and we’renothing like the English. Though honestly it couldn’t make the slightest bit of difference.”
“Then why did you bring it up?” asked Gaspard.
“Habit,” she said with a smile. “Don’t like being mistaken for something I’m not.”
“We will eat in an hour or so,” said Blondine as she put thegigotof lamb on to simmer. “We are expecting more guests.”
Soon Dominique arrived with a rumpled younger man named Dani. They set a large pink bakery box atop the counter, shook the water from their hair, and hung up their raincoats. Dani appeared young enough to be Dominique’s son, but there was something about the intimacy of their interactions that made Rosalyn wonder if theirs was a romantic relationship.None of your business,she chided herself. Staying in a small town seemed to have brought out her inner gossip.
It was nearly ten o’clock in the evening by the time they sat down to dinner.
Rosalyn’s mouth watered. The leg of lamb had been simmered to perfection in a silky wine-and-onion sauce. Accompanying the lamb wasbouchée à la reine, or “Queen’s morsel,” a puff pastry shell filled with mushrooms in a delectable gravy, and alongside this were simple steamed potatoes—au vapeur—doused in butter and sprinkled with parsley. Hunks of fresh, chewy baguette sat directly on the tablecloth, the crumbs ignored.
After so much time eating simple meals and snacks, Rosalyn had to admit that the formal dinner was wonderfully satisfying. She relished every bite.
The conversation was lively, with Dominique talking about visiting family in Provence over the holidays and Gaspard telling stories of partying in Tarragona. To Rosalyn’s ears, Gaspard’s exploits sounded like those of a frat boy on spring break, not a farmer in hissixties. But Gaspard laughed easily and was charming and playful. André, as was his wont, smiled pleasantly and remained almost entirely silent, a quiet but welcome presence.
When Rosalyn expressed interest in the history of using corks for bottling wine, Raúl spoke passionately about the sacrilege of introducing plastic corks to the market.
“Corks used to be made of whole hunks of the tree, but now we mash together bits of cork with glue and silicone. But in essence, they have been made the same way for hundreds of years, just like glass bottles,” said Raúl. “Plastic corks have no place near fine wine, just as plastic bottles have no place. Just imagine!”
“In case you haven’t noticed yet,” said Emma to Rosalyn in a low voice, “the Europeans tend to be rather traditional.”
“Of course we are traditional,” said Gaspard. “When you make a perfect product, it is a sacrilege to change.”
“Champagne corks are different from other wine corks, of course,” said Augustín. “King Louis XV issued an edict regarding champagne bottling back in the eighteenth century. Back then, corks were wedged in by hand, with three pieces of twine holding them in place.”
“Even so, the corks could explode without warning,” said Raúl. “Sometimes taking out an eye of a cellar worker. It earned champagne the nickname ‘devil’s wine.’”
“Many’s the winemaker who has gone down to thecaveto find entire rows popped, a lake of wasted champagne at his feet,” said Gaspard.
“Orherfeet,” Blondine grumbled under her breath.
Gaspard rolled his eyes. “You start making your own champagne, young lady, and we’ll talk.”
“Now we use metal caps, like I showed you in the cellars,” Blondine explained to Rosalyn, “until it is time to put in the seconddosage, which is when the cork is put in and tied down with the wire hood called amuselet.”
After the dinner dishes were cleared, a simple green salad was passed around. Rosalyn was more than full by then, and because thegalette des Roiswas still on its way, she helped herself to only a couple of leaves. It seemed to her the salad was an excuse to rest and pause before the final course.
“I’m sorry we don’t have a cheese course,” announced Blondine as they finished their salads. “Thefromagerieclosed early today. Unless anyone would like some local Chaource or Langres? I have both here.”
They demurred and then everyone—with the exception of Rosalyn and Blondine—brought out their cigarettes and lit up.
After an interlude, Blondine went to the kitchen and returned with the cake.
“Do you have these in America?” asked Dominique. “The round shape symbolizes the sun or, some say, the crowns of the kings.”
“It’s beautiful,” said Rosalyn as she helped Blondine pass out dessert plates.
“If only we had some children here,” Gaspard said, glaring at Blondine.
