Vintage Attraction Read Free Page B

birthday. Seven or eight years ago, I think?” I gave my name, which he seemed to dimly receive, as though he’d already known who I was. “My mother says your food is better than anything in New York.”
    â€œWell, certainly,” the chef said. “We have won many, many awards.”
    â€œIt really is quite a thrill to meet you.” I gestured across. “And her.”
    â€œYes, yes,” he replied. “Sommelier is really quite something, isn’t she?”
    More VIPs clambered over to her. It was an opportunity for me to watch Izzy, study her in wide-angle. It appeared she knew some of them, restaurant regulars. I listened to her instantly recall precise details of the wines she’d poured and they’d drunk at dinners in the distant past. How the hell did she do that? She periodically met my gaze as the growing crowd put more space between us. Somehow, her focus obliquely, yet squarely, was me. I didn’t mind being banished.
    Upon a waiter’s approach, Chef Dominique reached up a glass of Champagne in each hand. One he gave me. We toasted. I’d lost count of how many glasses I’d already had. I never recalled enjoying effervescent wine this much before. I usually found it impenetrably tart. Tonight it tasted sweeter somehow.
    â€œI think that dinner was the last time I had Champagne,” I said. I stared at my glass, turning it in my hand by the stem.
    â€œIt’s cava,” the chef said.
    â€œExcuse me?”
    â€œSpanish.”
    A gong clang signaled the cocktail reception was coming to an end. The chef excused himself, leaving me to drink more cava and watch Izzy and survey the proceedings. The servers pulled apart the curtains of a partition, which revealed a new quadrant. At the front of the expanded room, situated upon a dais, two chairs sat on either side of a small, low coffee table. Behind was a warm-colored backdrop. Facing the cozy and gently lit (spotlights notwithstanding) living room set, long tables with place settings had been arranged on the floor. On each plate were little canapés that reminded me of hors d’oeuvres my mother and father served at cocktail parties in our apartment on Riverside Drive when I was growing up. Around the plates stood six glasses of different wines: three whites on the left, three reds off to the right, each filled a couple of inches up from the bottom. Beside the place settings was an empty plastic cup, and between each pair were a black plastic bucket, a carafe of water, and a basket containing crackers. There didn’t seem to be assigned seats, so I chose a setup in a middle row, to the right of the aisle, on what would turn out to be Izzy’s side of the stage.
    Izzy hadn’t taken the chair that was obviously set aside for her across from Chef Dominique’s, and instead stood in front of the darkened podium adjacent. She smiled and thanked the applauding crowd into stillness. “Okay, so I’m going to introduce you to the six basic styles of wines and some foods you can pair with them. We’ll start with the whites: light whites, sweet whites, and heavy whites.”
    A few in the group stared ahead. Others nodded tentatively but agreeably.
    â€œWhat are we supposed to eat this with?” a geriatric shouted, much more powerfully than one might have expected on the basis of his frangible physiognomy.
    Izzy said into the microphone, “Could we please have some forks? Thank you.”
    Without delay, several servers began to orbit the room with baskets of cutlery. They distributed a handful to the guests seated on the aisles, with the implicit instruction to take a fork and pass the rest down.
    â€œI’d like for you to pick up the glass of wine all the way on your left and tell me what you smell.” The noses went in and out. Some shrugged. Others mumbled uncertain descriptors to those seated closest—“cat piss,” I was pretty sure I heard one