afford to waste it on amateurs and thirsty journalists.”
The buyers smiled and nodded again, flattered to be included in such elite company. One of them raised a hand. “What is current Gallo production? Do you have a figure?”
The Frenchman consulted his clipping. “About six million cases a year.”
“Ah so.”
The Frenchman continued. “We have two problems. The first is that, as I have explained, we don’t possess a chateau, and so our wine cannot claim an illustrious name. We call it Le Coin Perdu, the godforsaken spot, because that is the old local name for the vineyard my family took over and rescued from neglect more than a generation ago. Their faith in the land, those years of work nursing the vines, have now been justified. The wine is exceptional. But that brings us to the second problem.”
He spread his hands wide and raised his tweed-clad shoulders in a slow-motion shrug. “There is not enough of it. In a good year, six hundred cases. And when you have quality combined with scarcity, it is a sad fact that prices rise. Fortunately, we have not yet reached the six figures—in dollars, mind you—that were paid some years ago for a single bottle of 1787 Chateau Margaux, but the price of this year’s wine will be—how can I put it?—
impressionnant:
around forty thousand dollars a case.” He shrugged again, the picture of a man overtaken by sad but uncontrollable events. “However, as we say in France, only the first bottle is expensive.”
There was an audible intake of breath. His attempt at humor was lost on the buyers, who, to a man, produced pocket calculators.
“While you do your sums, my friends, think of Petrus. Think of Latour, of Lafite Rothschild. These wines can outperform the stock market, particularly today. They are not mere bottles of liquid, however glorious. They are
investments.
”
At the mention of that thrilling word, the mood of the room lightened, and the buyers watched as the Frenchman went to the table, adjusted the set of his cuffs once again, and picked up one of the bottles. He poured no more than a mouthful into a glass and inspected its color against the flame of a candle. He gave a slow nod of satisfaction, then lowered his head, swirled the glass, and brought it to his nose, closing his eyes as he inhaled.
“Quel bouquet,”
he murmured, just loud enough to be heard. The buyers maintained an appropriately reverent silence; they might have been observing a man lost in prayer.
“Bon.”
The spell was broken as the Frenchman began to pour the wine, mouthful by mouthful, into the other glasses as he resumed his sermon.
“This is our first series of tastings for this vintage, and you, our friends from Asia, are the first to taste. Next week, our friends from America will be here, and then our friends from Germany.” He gave a sigh. “Let us hope there will be enough for everyone. I hate to disappoint true connoisseurs.”
Unnoticed by the group, another figure had slipped quietly into the tasting room: a svelte, young blond woman dressed in a tailored gray suit that was saved from severity by a breathtakingly short skirt.
“Ah,” said the Frenchman, looking up from his pouring, “allow me to present my assistant, Mademoiselle de Salis.” Heads turned briefly, then returned for a second look at the legs. “Perhaps, my dear, you would help me distribute the glasses.”
Each of the buyers clustered around the table took his glass, careful to adopt the taster’s grip, with the thumb and the first two fingers holding the base. Like a synchronized team, well rehearsed in the movements of the ritual, they swirled their wine, raised their glasses to the candlelight, and peered respectfully at the color.
“A darker robe than usual Bordeaux,” pronounced one of the buyers.
The Frenchman smiled. “What an eye you have, Monsieur Chen. It is altogether richer, an oxblood ruby. Velvet rather than wool.”
Monsieur Chen filed the comparison away in his
The buyers smiled and nodded again, flattered to be included in such elite company. One of them raised a hand. “What is current Gallo production? Do you have a figure?”
The Frenchman consulted his clipping. “About six million cases a year.”
“Ah so.”
The Frenchman continued. “We have two problems. The first is that, as I have explained, we don’t possess a chateau, and so our wine cannot claim an illustrious name. We call it Le Coin Perdu, the godforsaken spot, because that is the old local name for the vineyard my family took over and rescued from neglect more than a generation ago. Their faith in the land, those years of work nursing the vines, have now been justified. The wine is exceptional. But that brings us to the second problem.”
He spread his hands wide and raised his tweed-clad shoulders in a slow-motion shrug. “There is not enough of it. In a good year, six hundred cases. And when you have quality combined with scarcity, it is a sad fact that prices rise. Fortunately, we have not yet reached the six figures—in dollars, mind you—that were paid some years ago for a single bottle of 1787 Chateau Margaux, but the price of this year’s wine will be—how can I put it?—
impressionnant:
around forty thousand dollars a case.” He shrugged again, the picture of a man overtaken by sad but uncontrollable events. “However, as we say in France, only the first bottle is expensive.”
There was an audible intake of breath. His attempt at humor was lost on the buyers, who, to a man, produced pocket calculators.
“While you do your sums, my friends, think of Petrus. Think of Latour, of Lafite Rothschild. These wines can outperform the stock market, particularly today. They are not mere bottles of liquid, however glorious. They are
investments.
”
At the mention of that thrilling word, the mood of the room lightened, and the buyers watched as the Frenchman went to the table, adjusted the set of his cuffs once again, and picked up one of the bottles. He poured no more than a mouthful into a glass and inspected its color against the flame of a candle. He gave a slow nod of satisfaction, then lowered his head, swirled the glass, and brought it to his nose, closing his eyes as he inhaled.
“Quel bouquet,”
he murmured, just loud enough to be heard. The buyers maintained an appropriately reverent silence; they might have been observing a man lost in prayer.
“Bon.”
The spell was broken as the Frenchman began to pour the wine, mouthful by mouthful, into the other glasses as he resumed his sermon.
“This is our first series of tastings for this vintage, and you, our friends from Asia, are the first to taste. Next week, our friends from America will be here, and then our friends from Germany.” He gave a sigh. “Let us hope there will be enough for everyone. I hate to disappoint true connoisseurs.”
Unnoticed by the group, another figure had slipped quietly into the tasting room: a svelte, young blond woman dressed in a tailored gray suit that was saved from severity by a breathtakingly short skirt.
“Ah,” said the Frenchman, looking up from his pouring, “allow me to present my assistant, Mademoiselle de Salis.” Heads turned briefly, then returned for a second look at the legs. “Perhaps, my dear, you would help me distribute the glasses.”
Each of the buyers clustered around the table took his glass, careful to adopt the taster’s grip, with the thumb and the first two fingers holding the base. Like a synchronized team, well rehearsed in the movements of the ritual, they swirled their wine, raised their glasses to the candlelight, and peered respectfully at the color.
“A darker robe than usual Bordeaux,” pronounced one of the buyers.
The Frenchman smiled. “What an eye you have, Monsieur Chen. It is altogether richer, an oxblood ruby. Velvet rather than wool.”
Monsieur Chen filed the comparison away in his
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