“In Germany, then?”
Finally Marcel got in a word. “That point is most arguable, isn’t it?”
“Strasbourg is a German city,” Lupa asserted.
“Strasbourg is French! It will always be French, regardless of who its rulers might be.”
“Gentlemen, please!” I felt I had to step in or tempers, specifically Marcel’s, would flare.
For an instant Lupa seemed inclined to glare and continue the debate, but as I watched him, he swiftly conquered his rising emotions. He spoke contritely. “You’re right, of course, Monsieur Routier. I apologize. Strasbourg must once again fly the tricolor. I only meant to comment favorably upon Fritz’s cuisine, and I’m afraid my youth carried me into irrelevancies. He is a fine, fine chef—and you, Monsieur Giraud, are a lucky man to have him.”
There was an awkward moment as Marcel brought himself back under control, but I could see that Lupa’s obvious sincerity had made its mark.
“Well,” I said, clapping my hands, “should we begin the tour?”
We all rose from the table and I led the two down to my cellar, the left half of which was reserved for wines and the other for the beer apparatus. There were five stone crocks lined against the right wall, and the smell of yeast and ripening beer lent an aroma that I found pleasant to the room, but I knew it might prove too strong to a novice, even a beer-loving novice.
“As long as the wine isn’t opened down here,” I said, explaining, “it is ideal.”
As we walked along, I went over some of the steps in the brewing, and seeing the two of them smile patiently, I suggested we proceed to the tasting.
Off to the side of the house, I was blessed with a small arbor of trees, through which ran a clear stream where Fritz stored butter and beer. It was perfectly chilled, and I’d built a table of thick oak, where my friends and I came to sit and relax, out of the glare. We walked out to that table now and silently sat while Fritz brought the beer, left the bottles with us, and departed.
Lupa drank his whole glass at one swill, just as he had the day before at La Couronne, and yet conveyed the impression that he was savoring every drop. Marcel and I drank more slowly but with no less enjoyment. Lupa put down his glass and looked at me.
“Remarkable.”
“It pleases you?”
“There are certain advantages to being raised a rich man, eh?” said Marcel. “Certain opportunities to develop talents which otherwise would be buried under the mundane cares of survival.” He looked at Lupa, smiling. “He constantly makes me envious. Such beer, such a house, such a chef . . .”
