You Will Be My Son (Tu seras mon fils)

Sir? Please...

The coffin's made of oak?

French oak. Trongais forest.

So there's oak in with the...

Definitely, sir.

At this stage, it's tricky to separate wood ash from the deceased.

He didn't like wood. Woody aromas.

I'm not sure he'd like the mix.

It's all carbon, sir.

It all breaks down.

Now that's a Clos de I'Abbé, a St. Emilion premier grand cru.

Wonderful, isn't it?

Superb nose.

Berries, of course. Peony, perhaps?

Wild rose.

A wine's aroma tells a story. Like a woman's perfume.

And yours is earthy.

Vanilla.

Floral, talcum... So it must be a Guerlain.

Specifically, Heure Bleue.

Please, enjoy.

That would be a sin.

Your Abbé is so long in the mouth.

Would you care to taste my mass wine?

The notorious Chardonnay.

Only to be drunk, as we all know, on your knees and hats off.

- Chardonnay in St. Emilion? Ballsy. - White soil, white grapes.

In a Burgundy bottle? Criminal.

A table wine?

At 60 euros a bottle.

Goodness!

I like chin-up, chest-out whites with a long, dry finish.

Oyster juice, fresh butter, hazelnut.

Pouilly de Marseul, planted by my dad in 1978 in tribute to my mother.

She was from Burgundy.

It's table wine, but close to a Bétard-Montrachet.

Yes, it was astonishingly good.

You're joining us for lunch?

I'm supporting cast, not on the poster.

With jugged hare, anything but Clos de I'Abbé would be a sin.

My salesman's case!

Could we get a photo outside the chateau?

A portrait of father and son with a bottle.

Striking a pose? No, thanks.

After you.

Good bye.

There, that's enough.

Not bad, your journalist-.

She's not my journalist.

I call her up and he puts on his show.

Lunch at Le Cheval Noir with the perfect Pouilly,

brandy at the chef's table.

Take me to Le Cheval Noir.

Chicken with morels!

- Picture his face. - I dare you.

He doesn't share your sense of humor.

I don't like to see you around here.

It's lucky I'm leaving.

How's my François?

Not good. I'll let him explain.

I doubt this is the right time.

A glass of wine a day keeps the doctor away.

You've got jaundice.

Don't need 10 years at med school.

I brought you our 2009 wonders.

He can't drink!

They're just samples.

We need to take them out of the wood.

Back in the tank or bottle them.

Not one drop!

He still has a nose, though!

- Want a taste? - Yes.

It's just, with the medication...

I feel all...

I want you to go up to Les Etourneaux.

There's a bit of mildew that worries me.

On those young vines, it's to be expected.

We need to wander up there, get you some air.

He's on sick leave.

Sick leave? What about our harvest?

Can I have a word?

Patient privacy? What are you saying? She told me.

The pancreas is the worst, isn't it?

Thanks, I appreciate it.

You okay?

No, I'm not okay.

François has cancer.

In 6 months, he's no more. It won't be easy.

I knew. She told me.

You can count on me.

Thanks, sunshine, but I need some air.

- What's the reading? - 11.4.

What's the point?

Of what?

Scuttling along like a hare, for hours on end.

It's to keep fit.

Fitness falls into two categories.

Athletic and esthetic.

Two different approaches.

Which side are you on?

What do you mean?

I'm trying to understand you better.

What about François?

I mean...

- What do we do? - Any ideas?

No. I mean, I'm here.

I'm available.

Start by taking a shower.

Enter!

Hello, Paul.

You've changed your perfume.

I have.

Miss Dior, isn't it?

A little sweet perhaps?

I preferred the other. Drier, more genuine.

What brings you here, my dear Alice?

It's about the room...

Hold on, while you're here...

I was thinking of getting a new couch.

I'd like a female opinion on the matter.

We'd replace both. Facing each other.

Nubuck, naturally. What do you think?

Looks good to me.

About the room adjoining ours...

What room?

You agreed 6 months ago. You just have to empty your closet.

Really?

I don't remember that.

It's very tricky because...

it means moving my shoes.

- Tell me why again. - To open out our kitchen.

That's nice.

You know, kiddo, if you want something from someone,

it's wiser to ask nicely.

Come on, let's go.

If it was for a baby room, of course...

I promise you'll be the first to know.

It's important, you know.

The Marseul name goes back eleven generations without a break.

I just hope Martin can give me a grandson.

Why shouldn't he?

He took 20 years to say a sentence without stuttering.

It's still hit-or-miss.

You never pass up a chance.

Unlike you, wine is without mercy.

It doesn't tolerate hesitancy.

I prepare for the future. I anticipate.

But I'm a mere conduit.

What'll you do if he's not up to it?

We'll adopt.

To choose the perfect grandson.

The ideal Marseul.

So I'd have to block off this entrance?

It would be "wiser," yes.

I'll think it over. But you shouldn't have bothered...

Martin could have asked me. I saw him this morning.

You're preparing him for a marathon'?

Like you, I'm whipping him into shape.

I enjoy our chats.

You're spiky.

All in all, my son's best asset is his wife.

What are you going to do?

We're thinking it through.

You handle your exports?

I speak 4 languages.

My father's English scares people.

So it keeps you busy?

My father and I have a proposal for you.

A pushier, marketing-oriented approach.

- Cushier? - Pushier.

In 20 years, you've never had cause for complaint.

I'm not complaining.

What do we shift, 900 cases a year? Mostly advance sales.

We want to change up a gear.

I could commit to 50,000 bottles,

times 40 euros, pre-arrival. I'll let you tot up the zeros.

- 2,000,000 euros. - Better than a kick in the ass!

- And in return? - I get exclusivity overseas.

No less! I have solid relationships with certain buyers.

Small territories are negotiable.

So half our wine one year. And the next?

5-year contract. Renewable.

And for less attractive vintages?

No exceptions.

What you see's what you get. No small print.

- You're in wine to make it. - Selling it is our job.

Every year, you get a world tour. Star treatment.

Tokyo, Shanghai, New York..

Becker's over from Australia. You know him?

I'll need a few gems from your dad's cellar.

- You want to dazzle him. - We'll pay if needs be.

Want some Ruinart?

For your good lady.

And this for your dad.

I know he loves Clos Fourtet, just hates paying for it.

The Virgin Mary in a silk baby doll.

What's your doctor called?

Professor Vermont.

That's the son. I knew his father, Andre, the dentist.

Is it time for me to call him?