Sample from Club Cognac

Each cluster had its own topic of conversation, which resulted in an overall decibel level that required everyone to shout, which was why Annie’s call to order took so long to sink in.

Before rapping the table with her house keys she had carried out a head count. Thirteen present; a full complement, give or take. She thought it was a propitious omen. Contrary to popular views thirteen had always been a lucky number for her.

Annie’s interruption was met by a variety of expressions, reflecting different perspectives. Curiosity, askance, indulgence, polite indifference, and mild irritation at having their own conversation, or worse, storytelling interrupted. But they were all startled when she bent down and extracted a bottle of Cognac from the carrier bag at her feet. They might have expected holiday snaps but not BYOB in their local, particularly by Annie. None could have known that the young barman had been bought off with a tenner. He would have thought twice before taking Annie on anyway and at that moment, was advancing with a tray of clean cognac glasses.

To begin with, there was a rapt silence as they watched her uncork the bottle and pour measures out, but when the drinks were passed down the table Barry Parsley, AKA Parsleymonious when out of ear shot, called out, “Are we paying for this?”

Annie had lifted her glass and was gazing through the dark amber fluid, “Perhaps, sort of, but in the meantime, just tell me what you think of it.”

All sniffed and swirled the contents of their glass before taking a sip, except Harding, who knocked his back in one; it was after all, only a small measure. The rest of the group held it in their mouths for a few moments, allowing their taste buds the opportunity of employment and for the most part, they relished the experience. One of the group said that since it was December, a mince pie would have been nice but most simply sought another sample.

Annie waited until the chatter settled back before complying, though before addressing the first proffered glass she realised that the most important view had yet to be heard. She looked halfway along the left hand side of the group to George Dyson; their in-house wine snob and expert. Everyone had expected him to lead with a critique, but instead he remained silent, until finally, she was forced to ask, “Well George?”

He was still staring at his glass, but the look of rapture and reverence of his tone when he did speak was eloquent enough, “This is bloody good. Where did you get it?”

The expert’s endorsement prompted further murmurs of appreciation and a few thanked Annie but eventually, Barry Parsley asked the question, “Well Annie, where did this come from?”

She beamed, “France of course. I’ve just been there, with my sister.”

George needed to know more, “Yes, but exactly where in France? Here, give me the bottle.”

She favoured him with an enigmatic smile and held the bottle to her chest, even though he had no hope of reaching it anyway, “Well, after three days in La Rochelle, we spent the rest of the time in a gite near Saintes. Well, actually, it was close to Cognac, too.”

He waved his hand impatiently, “No,no, you know what I meant. Where did you find this stuff?”

Annie feigned surprise, “Oh, the Cognac. Well it comes from a small distillery in a village called Aurigny-les-Bois. It’s rather nice isn’t it?”

Someone else attempted to speak but George held up a hand to silence them. He chuckled, “You’re playing with me Annie Stockley. Nice is an understatement and you know it. This is stuff for the gods and I’ve a pretty good idea of how much it would have cost.” He raised his glass, “So I’m very grateful to you.”

Barry Parsley asked, “Any chance of letting us in on that secret?”

She smiled, “First, let’s find out what everybody thinks.”

Fortified by the liquor and George’s endorsement, they all called out tributes of their own, though Adam limited his response to a polite appreciation. He knew that most regarded him as something of a blunt instrument when it came down to spirits. Then, George silenced them by raising his glass and gazing at the amber residue. He closed his eyes and placed the glass to his nose before addressing Annie, “This is a thirty or forty year old Cognac which probably cost you on the heavy side of a hundred and forty Euros.”

Someone murmured, “Bloody hell!”

Alan Maitlin, one of the newer members called out, “How many bottles have you got Annie?”

“Just this one,” she replied before adding, after casting a glance towards her sister, “Though I think Sue has a few.”

Things were going to plan nicely. Annie began to recharge the glasses and addressed the group as a whole, “George is absolutely correct on one count, it is a forty year old Cognac, but he was adrift on the price. I paid sixty Euros.”

George called out, “I’d want a dozen bottles at that price!” He leapt from his chair and moved to her side, reaching for the bottle, “Please, let me see that!”

She held it away from him once more, “Wait, let me serve the others first!”

Chastened, slightly, he looked on as she refilled the line of glasses that had appeared before her. Once satisfied that everyone save George had been served, she poured a measure into his glass and passed him the bottle. His retreat resembled a small predator’s snatch and grab from a lion’s kill. To his credit, he studied the bottle closely without succumbing to the temptation of adding to Annie’s measure. During that time some chatter broke out, but it was intermittent and less voluble than usual. They were all waiting on George, who was savouring his sample and reading the information on the back of the bottle again. Eventually, he looked at Annie and spoke quietly, “Please Annie, I need the exact address and then I shall go.”

She raised her hand to attract everyone’s attention, “I was going to suggest that we all go.”

There was an immediate call of support from most of them, one of whom called out, “A short break you mean, to visit the distillery?”

“No. I mean to invest in the distillery.”