I WAS GLAD THIS meal was a legitimate business expense after I had looked through the menu. It was going to run close to a thousand francs, I calculated. Well, if it was going to cost that much, it seemed that an aperitif wouldn’t add a lot to the bill so I ordered a vodka martini. While waiting for it to arrive, I returned to the vexing question of the silver-haired man to whom Monika had given the box. I knew the face … but from where? A politician perhaps. Nothing connected. A fashion designer maybe? A theatrical impresario? Still nothing.
The incident was more suspicious for another reason … why had the maître d’ told me that the man was a wholesale butcher from Castellane? Did butchers travel incognito? Of course, many celebrities choose not to have adulating crowds identify them—but a butcher!
The martini arrived. I scanned the menu again, setting aside mere monetary considerations and concentrating on the food. A waiter came with a ramekin of tapenade, that appetite-sharpening mixture of anchovies, black olives, and olive oil, mashed into a thick black paste. With it was a basket of crunchy bread, hot from the oven. Some like to add capers to tapenade and others get even more innovative, but this was a good basic example of back to the original.
For the first course, the choices included a mussel salad, a lobster gazpacho, quail eggs with pureed asparagus and a puff pastry topping, but I decided on the tagliatelles with a coulis of truffles. It was an excellent choice; the truffles were extraordinarily tasty and I had never had a better example of how they can influence the flavor of a dish without having a dominating flavor of their own. Even the pasta scintillated under the influence of the truffles.
The headwaiter came, suggesting the day’s specialty—baked sturgeon served on a bed of sorrel. The popular Mediterranean fish known as Saint Pierre sounded enticing, being served with leeks and truffles. I decided on the sole Colbert, the simplest of sole dishes in which the fish is dipped in egg white, rolled in bread crumbs, then lightly fried. It would be a test of the quality of the fish, with nothing to obstruct its taste.
I had not had a beef dish since I had been in Provence, but I decided that it was time I did. Doctor Salisbury, the famous dietician of an earlier era and originator of the Salisbury steak, maintained that a person needed at least three pounds of beef a day, but modern thinking slashes that to one beef meal a week. So this would be mine. The Pieces de Boeuf à la Royale with truffles caught my eye—this place certainly went in heavily for truffles, but I discarded that in favor of the next item on the menu.
The rib steak Beaujolais came from Charolais beef, the best in France, and in preparing it this way a large quantity of Beaujolais wine is used and simmered down to less than a quarter of its volume along with shallots, garlic, thyme, bay leaf, and brandy. It was expertly done and served with tiny pureed potatoes, the minuscule French peas known as Petits Pois, and a ragout of morels, a mushroom cultivated in Provence. There was no escape from the truffle, for the morel ragout had slivers of truffle to accentuate the woody flavor.
Congratulations to the chef were fully deserved. After some discussion with the sommelier, it was a bottle of Volnay that had accompanied the meal. The Clos Ducs was tempting but I restrained myself and chose the Pommard-Epenots at one-fifth the price. It was smooth, full-bodied, firmly tannic, and exotic with wild berry aromas.
Back in the car, I studied the map. The journey out here had been a tense drive with the sole objective of keeping Monika’s red Maserati in sight and I wasn’t sure exactly what part of the Var I was in. The menu gave the address of Le Petit Manoir as the village of Palliac and I finally located it. As I did so … another name, very close on the map, leapt out at me—Pontveran. Why did that name strike a chord? I remembered a card… the one Professor Rahmani had handed me on Masterson’s yacht. The Institute for the Study of Planetary Influences the card had said, and the address was in the Var—in Pontveran. I checked the road numbers and direction and headed that way.
A few palatial homes studded the hillsides, perched on narrow ledges of land that gave them magnificent views. I passed a clinic for respiratory diseases, the pure, clean air at this altitude no doubt accounting for its location. The bicyclists were gone, having continued straining muscles and sinews all the time I had been indulging myself with food and drink. I felt no remorse.
A signpost to the institute appeared before I reached the village of Pontveran. I followed it along a paved road and came to a pair of large metal gates. There was a speaker and a button on one of the brick posts. I gave my name and said I wanted to see the professor. He came on the line himself, asking me to repeat who I was. I reminded him that we had met on Masterson’s yacht and said I was accepting his invitation to see his facilities. I was prepared for him to be testy and speak of appointments but he sounded affable and invited me to come in. The gates swung open.
It was a long stone block building that looked like a museum. It had two stories and plenty of windows. Several wooden outbuildings were scattered off one side and the grounds were so extensive, I couldn’t see where they ended. The entrance had double glass doors, and a young Arab girl stood there, smiling. She led me through the. building and up a flight of stairs. The corridors were wide and offices and laboratories seemed to alternate. I had little chance to see anything, for at the top of the stairs the girl tapped at a door, opened it, and motioned me to enter.
French decorators are fond of Oriental carpets and a large, expensive-looking one almost filled the room. Professor Rahmani came walking across it, his hand outstretched. The craggy face was more suited to a construction worker than a scientist. His unruly hair still stood up from his scalp and he had an ungainly way of moving his body, but his reception was friendly.
“Ah, my friend! How kind of you to favor us with a visit! Please come in and sit down.”
His antique desk was surprisingly small but magnificently carved. The walls were white plaster in the Provencal style with photographs and copies of letters all over them. A table was piled with books, many of them appearing to be very old. A long wooden cabinet was against one wall, its carving matching the professor’s desk. The one unusual feature of the room was a large freestanding model of the solar system with the sun as a bright golden orb and the planets around it, each painted to represent its main characteristics, Earth blue, Mars red, Neptune black, Jupiter brown, and so on.
“When we met on Grant Masterson’s yacht, your views sounded fascinating,” I told him, “and as I’m writing about vineyards, naturally I’m interested in any influences on grapes. You said you can grow grapes that are larger and juicier by making use of your theories?”
“I have done so. Without any loss in quality, either. In fact, the taste was fuller and richer.”
“You did this in collaboration with a vineyard, I suppose?”
“No, it was done here.”
“There must be many of the local vineyards that would like to take advantage of your ideas,” I suggested.
He growled a negative. “None of them are receptive to new ideas. They want to keep on making wine the same way it’s been made for the last five thousand years.”
“They’ve all turned you down?”
“Yes, all of them.”
“Did you make any wine from the bigger, juicier, tastier grapes that you grew?”
“We don’t have wine making facilities here.” He went on to contrast the wine industry unfavorably with the Citrus Guild. “Now, with oranges and lemons, we get considerable support…” He went on at length on that topic and I had to steer him back onto the grape track.
“Let me take you on a tour of the premises,” he offered.
Much intriguing work was being done. Some of it seemed worthwhile research but I wondered if the rest had any real hope of success. Many projects were focused on yeasts and molds.
“These are the plants that contain no chlorophyll,” Professor Rahmani explained. “They are unable to photosynthesize sugars and have to live on the decaying remains of other organisms.”
“What’s the purpose of such research?” I asked. “Or is it just research with no immediate likelihood of any application?”
“Oh, it has a strong likelihood of bringing tangible rewards. One of the plant groups includes the tubers.”
“You mean potatoes?”
“Yes, potatoes, and also yams and water chestnuts. All are valuable foodstuffs and ways of growing them larger and more quickly have very real attractions, especially in poor areas. You will have heard of the terrible potato famine in Ireland in 1845 when a million people died of starvation due to their dependence on the crop and another million and a half emigrated?”
“A national disaster that has never been forgotten.”
“Precisely. We are hoping that our work will make the potato immune to the blight that caused that famine.”
“Presumably you have no difficulty in raising money for this research?”
Rahmani smiled, making his irregular features yet more uneven.
“Raising money is always difficult, but for these projects it is easier than most.”
“Your… can I say, unorthodox, views on the influence of planetary movements must limit your sponsorship,” I said, being as delicate as I could.
“Oh, not all of our work involves the planets,” the professor said, not at all perturbed. “We have excellent facilities and staff so we accept contracts for more, as you say, orthodox research. Come, I’ll show you some of these.”
Outside, fields and small plantations were growing various crops. Boards and charts at each one recorded figures in great detail. It all seemed extremely efficient and I told the professor so.
“We are aware of the importance of keeping careful and extensive information on every aspect,” he said. “Sometimes, unexpected sources yield data that contribute in ways we hadn’t anticipated.”
I left, thinking that I had a few more pieces of the puzzle in my hands. The problem was—I wasn’t sure where they fitted.