Vintage: A Novel, by David Baker
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Vintage: A Novel, by David Baker
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The “spellbinding debut” (Library Journal, starred review) about a food journalist’s desperate attempt to save his career—and possibly, his marriage—through an epic quest that leads him from Burgundy through Russia, tracking an infamous bottle of wine.Good ingredients, an open heart, a dash of tenacity, and a pinch of courage... Food journalist, wine connoisseur, and onetime bestselling writer Bruno Tannenbaum has long believed these are the elements of a full life. The rest will take care of itself. But lately, nothing’s going right for Bruno. His career is floundering, he’s separated from his wife drinking his way through a dwindling bank account, certain all that’s left of life is a downward slope into obscurity. Then Bruno stumbles upon a clue leading to a “lost” wine vintage, one of the many bottles stolen and smuggled out of France during WWII, now worth a small fortune and sought after by wine collectors throughout the world. Finding this bottle could be the key to restoring Bruno’s career—maybe even writing his comeback novel. But his discovery is not a secret for long; word spreads, nefarious characters interested in the bottle start appearing at every turn, so Bruno scrapes together his final resources, calls in favors he may ultimately regret and sets off. From a raucous wedding in Moldova to the rolling hills of Burgundy and the graying walls of a Russian prison, Vintage is a “delicious” (Chicago Tribune) food-filled debut about making one last effort to follow your dreams.
Vintage: A Novel, by David Baker - Amazon Sales Rank: #355412 in eBooks
- Published on: 2015-09-22
- Released on: 2015-09-22
- Format: Kindle eBook
Vintage: A Novel, by David Baker Review "Baker gets his spellbinding debut off to a rousing start with a great setup and an endearing protagonist, a bon vivant who rambles from Chicago to France, Germany, eastern Europe, and Moscow, enjoying fantastic meals and drinks along the way, as he searches for the lost wine—and, just maybe, for himself. A feast for all readers, with a warning only to those on a diet!" (Library Journal (Starred review))“For the vinous mystery buff…VINTAGE is a true page turner, unraveling the search for a bottle of 1943 French wine absconded by the Nazis.” (Minneapolis Star Tribune (Best Wine Book of the Year))"Vintage is at once a mouthwatering culinary tale, an evocative look at the strength it takes to create the life we want, and a delicious adventure. Baker’s lyrical descriptions of the power of food and the right wine to heal and connect those we love weaves a tender and often hilarious tale of navigating life’s choices. In Vintage, the thread of a storied wine and its missing vintages transcends geography and explores what it means to create your own second chance." —Nina Mukerjee Furstenau, MFK Fisher Award-Winning author of Biting Through the Skin: An Indian Kitchen in America’s Heartland“Baker’s thriller offers entertainment and no little suspense for wine lovers.” (Booklist)“The descriptions of food and wine in the novel are impeccable.” (Kirkus Reviews)"Required Reading" (New York Post)"A delicious adventure." (Daily Southtown)"David Baker takes readers on a culinary expedition." (Jae-Ha Kim Chicago Tribune)"A compelling and delicious story." (Great Northwest Wine)"An unsnobby wine thriller [and] an excellent pairing with just about any book club, whether its members have refined or unrefined tastes. The entertaining and comic novel has a boozy, bearded (at least I pictured him so) hero at its center who knows that life is meant to be enjoyed from both high and low angles." (Portland Tribune)"[Author David Baker] delivers a walloping good time in Vintage. While the book is clever and funny, it’s also a tender meditation on the power of food and wine to heal even the sorest of hearts. Bruno is a character for the ages, a passionate foodie who finds his own winding road to redemption." (Bookpage)“What fun: a sort of Sam Spade voice, tough as a film noir character, runs delightfully amok in the wine and gourmet worlds in this hilarious and evocative debut.” —Richard C. Morais, author of The Hundred-Foot Journey"An improbable hero, a decades-old mystery, a globe-trotting pursuit, and starring roles for fine food and great wine. What’s not to love?" —Katherine Cole, author of Voodoo Vintners, Complete Wine Selector, and How to Fake Your Way through a Wine List"Earthy, soulful, suspenseful, and comic all at once, David Baker's beautiful and quietly audacious debut is not to be missed." —Carole Maso, author of The Art Lover, Defiance, and Ghost Dance"A modern odyssey in the classic sense of the term. It’s an intriguing, evocative and seductive narrative – an entirely sensual experience." —Warwick Ross, producer/director of Red Obsession"Positively delightful" (SeattleTimes.com)"Feel confident giving this book to anyone who loves a global mystery, but it is a great read for anyone into wine or cooking." (Examiner.com)“Baker excels through his mouth watering depictions of food…satisfying the longing for far-flung corners of European villages and noir film intrigue—or simply your next good meal.” (Gapers Block)
About the Author David Baker attributes his fascination with wine to a chance train stop in Beaune, which led to time spent working in commercial vineyards, a film, a novel, and a dozen years making passable pinot noir in his garage. He holds an MFA from Columbia College, Chicago and is the director of American Wine Story. He currently lives in Oregon’s Willamette Valley with his wife and daughter. Visit him online at 301Media.com.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Vintage
ONE
Bouillabaisse
This classic peasant stew was originally designed to stretch bonier and cheaper fish into a meal, but the addition of crushed garlic, herbs and fresh vegetables in balanced proportion have rendered it the poor fisherman’s gift to humanity. Bouillabaisse has sent many a Marseilles sailor to sea with a strong back and a full belly, but it can also work wonders on a broken heart. It is a comeback meal, and with a dash of cayenne and saffron, even the most battered hearts can be restored with enough vigor to again brave the turbulent and storm-ridden waters of love. —BRUNO TANNENBAUM, TWENTY RECIPES FOR LOVE Not bad, not bad at all, Bruno thought as he wiggled his fingers above the keys. He cracked his knuckles. He was glad. It was starting to feel like a book. “Now, that’s a hell of a beginning!” He actually said this out loud, drawing attention from the other diners at the bistro. He didn’t care, though. He resumed typing: Wine is life. It is essence. It is the inky-dark heartsblood pulsing out the rhythm of our species’ slow crawl from the muck. Wine is the mystery behind every religion. It is the warmth of every sunrise. It is the chime of every bell that ever rang for a wedding or tolled for a funeral . . . Bruno stopped his typing, rousing himself long enough to reach for his glass and sip the peppery velvet of his wine. He swished, coating his gums, and swallowed. Then returned to the keys: Wine is civilization. It is what raised us up from feasting around carcasses and seated us at tables lit with conversation and laughter. Wine is desire. It is poetry. Philosophy. Science, nature, art. It is . . . humanity. Bruno surfaced satisfied from his writerly fog. He reached for his wine once more to celebrate the words that now poured directly from his heart. But the glass was empty. Damn! He tipped the bottle. A single drop rolled off the rim. He looked around in a mild state of panic, realizing that he’d likely overstayed his welcome. But he wasn’t about to leave the restaurant. Not now that he was finally making progress. He blinked, staring across the room at a youngish blonde in a low-cut black cocktail dress. She glanced at him with what may have been intrigue or annoyance. Maybe it wasn’t him at all that caught her attention, but the oiled Smith Corona typewriter propped on the table before him, next to the half-eaten plate of mixed brochettes and the empty bottle of the house red, an affordable Vacqueyras from the southern Rhône. He didn’t care what she thought. He was about to submerge into the writing again. It had been too long. He’d worked too hard. He typed. The table shook. The bell on the carriage chimed in celebration of a new line. The typebars, gleaming with olive oil, clacked and hammered home. It was the music of composition. His blood ran with the fire of creation . . . and the Vacqueyras. An El train whooshed past outside, blotting the evening sun. There was a dull murmur of conversation around him. Waiters slalomed between the small tables. In his periphery, Bruno could see the crowd in the vestibule, waiting for tables in the tight little restaurant. La Marseillaise was more popular now than ever. The Green Guide gave it a perfect score and couples made dinner reservations six months in advance. This dismayed Bruno even though he’d had a hand in the establishment’s success. He’d written the restaurant’s very first review in the Sun-Times a decade ago. He’d described the meal as a “subtle spectacle,” and declared Chef Joel Berteau, a humble cook from the French Merchant Marine with no prior experience in the restaurant racket, without even a green card, a “culinary magician of the highest order.” The upshot was that Bruno’s adjectives had transformed La Marseillaise from a hidden gem into the crown jewel of Chicago’s River North neighborhood. He couldn’t afford to eat here anymore, especially not in his current predicament. But Joel Berteau had become a friend. Now that Bruno was back living with his mother, the chef offered him a sort of office . . . a corner table during the hours between the lunch and dinner rushes. Most days, a complimentary bowl of Joel’s triumphant bouillabaisse would appear next to his notebook as inspiration to coax Bruno’s chin out of his hands, to nudge his dormant fingers toward the pen or the typewriter keys. Occasionally Bruno would ask for a bottle of wine. Occasionally he’d get one. Today, he’d already had two. He was celebrating the end of his writer’s block. The keys sang their clattering, literary song. Discovering his father’s old typewriter in the closet beneath the spare pillows had been a stroke of good fortune buried within the larger humiliation of moving back in with his mom. The mechanical clatter gave a new sense of urgency and permanence to his words. Never mind that it annoyed the restaurant staff and other guests, who were now arriving for the evening rush: smart couples in relaxed cotton, first dates trying to impress, a salesman wooing an out-of-town client. All of them wore the self-assured air of folks who know where they belong. Bruno felt, and ignored, the occasional toe-to-head glance. The raised eyebrow. He was gruff. Stout. His unruly beard flecked with gray. His royal blue Chicago Cubs cap covering a thinning crown of bristly hair. His rumpled tweed jacket was neither new nor old enough to be fashionable. And add to all of this the fact that he was typing. Noisily. CLING! The carriage chimed another small victory. Finally, his new book was under way. After all this time . . . “Bruno? Mr. Tannenbaum?” The voice was at his ear. Whispered. Urgent. Bruno turned his head and scowled, but his eyes never left the bond paper. “Mr. Tannenbaum!” The whisper morphed into a low, urgent order. Bruno glanced up. A waiter with a beak nose supporting Versace glasses was bending down at his elbow. How the hell can a waiter afford Versace? “Mr. Tannenbaum, you have to stop writing.” “What?” “The table . . . we need the table now.” Bruno looked around. People crowded the entry. They spilled onto the street. They eyed him and his corner table. Prized real estate. When he’d arrived, the last diners were abandoning their lunches. He blinked. He looked at his page . . . a full page, finally a single full page. How many hours had it taken? “Give me some more time. I’m working here.” Wine didn’t usually make Bruno surly. But he didn’t like this waiter, who was wearing glasses worth more than a check from Condé Nast for a freelance article on squid salads. Whoever this guy was, Bruno was a peg higher. After all, he was pals with Berteau. After a number of favorable reviews, Berteau had invited him into the kitchen. They’d spent many a late night at the table in back, uncorking Rhônes, experimenting on the stove and discussing the merits and failings of Twain, Proust, Fitzgerald and Flaubert: Berteau had done a fair amount of reading in the Merchant Marine, and one such evening had led him to make the offer: a clean, well-lighted place to work. It was an offer that Bruno now abused. But an offer nonetheless. And Bruno wasn’t about to let this waiter challenge precedent. The door to the kitchen flopped open. A waitress shouldered a tray. Bruno smelled the Mediterranean Sea. Inspiration struck and he resumed typing. “Mr. Tannenbaum . . .” Versace said, as if speaking to a child. “Can’t you see I’m working?” Bruno must have shouted, because heads turned. The blonde in the low-cut glanced his way again. “Mr. Tannenbaum, the chef would love to offer you his table in the kitchen. It would be an honor . . .” Bruno wasn’t listening. He knew he was imposing. But he also knew he’d been working for hours, days, years to carve out the first few words of a new book. He was writing again. Writing something real. It was the first step in climbing out of the hole he’d been living in. He was making his comeback. And Versace wasn’t going to derail him. “Bring me more Vin de la Maison,” Bruno ordered, swiping at the empty bottle and knocking it over. Another waiter arrived. A pair of hands reached for his typewriter. They lifted it from the table. His hard-won sentences were being snatched away. He spun. He swung. He felt flesh and bone mash beneath his palm. The Versace glasses smacked the cobbled floor. There was a collective gasp. Rough hands were on his shoulders. He was on his feet. Standing up so quickly carried the wine from his stomach to his head. He felt someone grabbing his jacket, muscling him toward the door. Then he lost handle on his consciousness. * * * Bruno came to with his cheek pressed to the concrete. A taxi roared past. A train rattled overhead. He sucked in a mouthful of oily exhaust, blinked and saw his father’s typewriter lying upside down before him, the handle on the return broken. Tears burned hot behind his nose, but he sniffed them back. He heard the door swing open. Big hands were on him again, but gentler this time, coaxing him to his feet. Joel was there. Bruno smelled the garlic, sweat and olive oil. The chef’s apron was smeared, his toque askew. “Bruno, Bruno, look at you.” Joel shook his head. The large sailor steadied Bruno on his feet, then took a step back and scratched his sandpapery jaw. Bruno was a big man, but Joel was bigger. “I don’t want you back. Not till you straighten yourself out.” “I am straight. I’m back at the top of my game.” Joel reached down and pulled the single page out of the typewriter. He began reading. Bruno watched, eager, expectant, as Joel studied it. When Joel finally looked up, Bruno’s heart sank. The chef folded the page and tucked it into Bruno’s inside jacket pocket. “I don’t get it. Where’s it going?” he asked. Bruno didn’t answer. He couldn’t. There was a pause. Joel shook his head. “Try again, Bruno. Come back when you’re in a better place.” Bruno felt like a child as Joel squeezed his shoulder. He could feel his friend’s disappointment, like a cold, heavy weight, in the chef’s grasp. Joel hailed a cab. It eased to the side of the street and he helped Bruno in, setting the typewriter gently in his lap. Then he turned and disappeared back into the maelstrom of the restaurant.
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Most helpful customer reviews
5 of 5 people found the following review helpful. Fascinating and inviting read By LS Vintage is novel that takes you on an adventure of culinary fascination, world travel, suspense, and emotion. At one turn you're slapping your hand to your forehead exclaiming, "Not again, Bruno!" and at the next you really feel for a dad who is just trying to live up to the guy his daughters think he is. And let us not forget the wine, the elixir that brings it all together and leads both you and Bruno on a journey to find meaning in the world. A very enjoyable read!
6 of 7 people found the following review helpful. Tender, Funny, and Exciting By Derek I'm thrilled to be the first to write a review here; Vintage is a thoroughly enjoyable and finely crafted tale.Thematically, the book is evenly divided among three dimensions: food and wine, international caper, and self-discovery. Bruno Tannenbaum, the protagonist, is a charming-yet-flawed journalist and author who seeks meaning, redemption, and human connection as he works to locate a lost wartime bottling from a famous French wine producer.Along the way, he makes and loses friends, doles out folksy relationship advice couched in the language of food and wine, and struggles to understand exactly what it is that he and his family need to be fulfilled and happy in the world.Bruno comes across as a kind of slacker non-conformist who doesn't always make wise decisions- despite it all, I found him to be lovable and relatable-- his internal dialogue paints his motivations in a well-intentioned and defensible way. The book itself seems to inherit Bruno's motivations: honest, touching, and relatable.Plenty of twists and turns here -- the story is quick moving and very readable. A gemlike yarn about the beauty an imperfect world!
3 of 3 people found the following review helpful. Vintage By J. Hamby Is Vintage flawed? Yes. It has a few, very few, small, very small moments that were a little too contrived and a little too implausible.And yet this is such a fun book. That loves food and wine and plays to various well trodden paths that little, for good and for ill, various romantic comedies in the theaters and tons more books hoping to make the leap to the big screen. I can so see this being a delightful drool inducing romp at a cinema near you. And me. Usually I find the ease of a book to screen as something that is contrived and often is done at the expense of the book. Here I mean it as a compliment. Particularly to Baker's writing.The lead is someone you probably will find unsavory and a bit frustrating. But that is the charm. The sad sack is not someone to admire at the start, but in baker's hands he still manages to reveal glimpses of the charm that got him his wife's love and keeps his daughters' love. It is a nice balancing act and keeps Bruno interesting if not always likable. He is never despicable. But he is not someone you root for unconditionally. He can make you cringe and question his actions and motivations. But that keeps the story moving. Especially when coupled with Baker's culinary insight that brings the food alive as do the various locales that Baker brings alive with an almost gentle and tender look.This is not some meaningful, brilliant book. And yet for an entertaining enjoyable novel that delivers what it promises plus plenty more unexpected insight into food, love and simply the journey of a man who is pushed and pulled and a bit self-propelled in a way that is believable and in the end endearing without being cloying. Some surprises along the way make for an intriguing read. Best part is that Baker gets how to incorporate food into a piece of fiction. Not since The Hundred-Foot Journey, have I so enjoyed a book that has food at its center and yet never gets bogged down by the detail. Instead it gives just the right amount -- I wanted just a bit more despite being full!
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