The finer wine

The Finest Wine (monologue script by Cheryl Lam)

There were six of us that night for dinner at Mike Rycroft’s house in London: Mike and his wife and daughter, my sister and I, and a man named Halford Platt.  Halford Platt was a famous gourmet. He was head of a small society known as the Epicureans, and every two months he circulated among its members a pamphlet on food and wines. He organized dinners where grandiose dishes and rare wines were served. He refused to smoke for fear of disturbing his taste and when discussing wine, he had a rather droll habit of talking about it as if it was a living being. “A prudent wine,” he would say, “, rather demure and evasive, but quite prudent.” Or “A good humoured wine, generous and cheerful – slightly crude, perhaps, but none the less good humoured.”

I had been to dinner at Mike’s twice before when Halford Platt was there, and on each occasion Mike and his wife had gone out of their way to make a special meal for the famous gourmet. This night clearly was no exception.  (Crackling of cellophane)

The moment we entered the dining room, I could see that the table was laid for a feast. The tall, white candles, the yellow roses, the large amount of shining silver, three wine glasses to each person, and above all, the faint scent of roasting meat from the kitchen  that brought the first warm oozings of saliva to my mouth.
As we sat down, I remembered that on each occasion of Halford Platt’s visits Mike had played a betting game with him over the claret, challenging him to name its breed and vintage. Mike bet him a case of wine to the question that he could not do it. On the previous two occasions Platt had accepted and won both times, I was sure that tonight the game would resume, as Mike was quite willing to lose just to show that his wine was good enough to identify.
When we were all seated proudly bore an imposing wine bottle cradled in the crook of his arms, he briskly filled the glass for each of his guests, the wine was surely Moselle. (Clashing of cutlery against plates)  The meal began with a plate of whitebait, fried to a crisp and drizzled in butter and to go with it was the Moselle. (Set down a glass bottle)
With the duties done, Mike sat down with the bottle’s label facing me so I could read it. It said Gierslay, Ohiligsberg 1945.He leaned over to my ear and whispered to me to me that Gierslay was an almost unknown village in Germany, the wine we were drinking was almost impossible to get; he had purchased it personally last summer.
(Scraping of a chair)

He stood up in pretence of conversing with me but he glanced over to Halford Platt. “I doubt anyone in the country has any of it at the moment,” he raised his voice for Platt, “, and it’s a perfect wine to have before claret. Some serve Rhine wine instead, they don’t know anything, Rhine wine would kill delicate claret, and you know that? “
Mike Rycroft was a stockbroker who wanted to be a man of culture, to collect music, paintings, books and all the rest of it. His little sermon on Moselle was part of it. “A charming wine don’t you think?” he said. He was still watching Halford Platt. I could see him making furtive glances down the table each time he dropped his head to eat. I could almost feel him waiting for the moment Platt took the first sip and look up with a smile then there would be a discussion, and Mike would tell him all about Gierslay.
But Halford Platt did not taste the wine. (Background chatter) He seemed to be completely engrossed in a conversation with Mike’s 18 year old daughter Denise, so far as I could gather some story about a Paris restaurant. As he spoke he leaned in closer and closer to her, and the poor girl leaned as far as she could away from him, nodding desperately.
(Sound of cutlery being set down)

We finished our fish, and the maid came around removing plates. When she came to Platt she hesitated as he had not touched his food. Platt noticing her awkwardness broke of his conversation and quickly began to wolf down the crisp, brown fish with rapid jabbing movements. Then to Mike’s dismay, Platt reached for his glass and tipped the glass of Moselle in two short swallows, then immediately resumed his conversation with Denise Rycroft.

“Now,” Mike said, as if speaking to all of us but looking directly at Halford. “, Now for the claret. I must go and fetch the claret, if you’ll excuse me.”
“You go fetch it Mike, where is it?” I said
“In the study, on top of the green filing cabinet Halford helped me choose it.”
“Why the study?”
“It’s the best place in the house for wine to acquire room temperature. Excuse me now I must go fetch it.” (Footsteps fading away then back)

Mike arrived back with a dark green bottle with the label facing downwards...
“This one is rather difficult, I wont’ force you to bet on this one.” Mike said.
“I’m perfectly willing to bet,” Halford Platt said.
“Right then, the usual case of wine.” Said Mike
“Would you like to increase the bet?”
“What like fifty cases? That would be silly.” Mike laughed cautiously.
There was a pause; Halford Platt lolled back in his chair.
“So you don’t want to increase the bet?”
“As far as I’m concerned, I don’t give a damn,” said Mike well naturedly “I’ll bet you anything you like.”
Another pause, all the women in the room were silently watching them, the young maid was lingering in the background with a plate of vegetables unsure whether to come forward or not.
“Alright, I’ll tell you what I want.” Platt said
‘Come on then,” said Mike rather recklessly “I don’t mind what it is you’re on.”
Platt nodded, a slow smile spread on his face “If you’re sure,” nodded Platt sagely, “, then I want you to bet me the hand of your daughter in marriage.”

Denise Rycroft gave a jump. “Hey that’s not funny! Look here Daddy I’m sure he’s joking!”
Mrs Rycroft was completely white. “Oh no I’m serious.” drawled Platt
“That’s ridiculous!” cried Mike “Besides there’s nothing that can match that so it’s a no-bet anyway.”
“Fine then what if I bet my house, the country one and my own.” Said Platt
Mike took this in slowly and lifted the bottle opener ever so slightly, his daughter caught him. “Stop it Daddy, this is absurd I refuse to be betted on like this.”

Mike looked over at her with a protective smile, but in his eyes was a faint glimmer of triumph.
“Now Denise let’s talk it over, Mr Platt wants to make this bet not me.”
“No this is absolutely crazy I refuse this type of treatment!”
Mike lowered his voce so only Denise and me sitting next to her could hear. “Listen to me Denise there’s a lot at stake he’s betting quite a lot, he surely cannot win!
“But he seems s like he thinks he can,” Denise gave up.
“Ok then Platt, it’s a bet!”

The bottle was opened and the glass filled halfway. Halford Platt gently lifted the glass to his nose his face contorted to a quivering mass of senses which was frightening to see. He sniffed deeply to catch the scent, he hesitated, and swirled the wine slowly, his concentration intense. For at least a minute, the smelling process continued. Then without much movement of his eyes or head, Platt tipped half the contents into his mouth, his mouth full of wine, he let some of it trickle down his throat but most was retained in his mouth. He held his breath and finally rolled the wine around the tongue, and chewed it, actually chewed it with his teeth as though it were bread.

It was a solemn, impassive performance and I must say that he did it quite well. “Yes,” he said putting down the glass; he ran his pink tongue around his lips “Yes, an interesting little wine, with a feminine after taste, Yes quite interesting.”
“Now the process of elimination,” said Platt “Hmm, It cannot be a Margaux no, possibly a Paulliac? It is too demure and wistful for Paulliac, a Paulliac has more character, no this is a very gentle wine, bashful at first taste, emerging shyly in the second with a taste of tannin perhaps, ah yes, this can no other than a St Julien, and it must be unmistakably a St Julien.”

He leaned back in his chair with a proud and pompous look about him, out of her nervousness, Denise was lighting a cigarette.(match or toothpick striking the table) Platt heard the match strike in the tense silence of the room, he turned to her with real anger ”Please!” he said. “Please don’t do that it’s a disgusting habit!”
Denise was in shock with her mouth open and the match, blown out by the force of Platt’s voice.
“Now let’s see where we were?” Platt’s voice calmed done to focus at the task at hand. “This wine is from Bordeaux, from the commune of St Julien. I must now establish the vineyard itself, for there are many vineyards in that commune.
He paused, closing his eyes “Now let me see. This wine is neither a first growth nor a second, it is not a great wine, it lacks the- the- what do you call it? Radiance. But a third growth, we know it is in a good year, I must be careful here.”
He picked up the glass and took a small sip, “I was right, I am sure it is a fourth growth from a very great year, now we are closing in.”  Again he picked up the glass and poked his tongue in. “Aha it can’t be a Beychevelle, wait there it is again, that tannin taste, yes it is not a Talbot or a Beychevelle, I think I’ve got it!”
We all waited in utter silence, I heard the maid quietly set down the dish of vegetables on the sideboard behind so as not to disturb the silence.

“Ah I think I’ve got it!” Platt sipped the wine one more time, and then still holding the glass near his mouth, he turned to Mike and smiled. “You know what it is? This is the little Chateau Brainare Ducru.”
Mike sat tight not moving
“And the year 1934.”
“Is that your final answer?”Mike said
“Yes I think so.”
“Come on Daddy, turn it round!” the girl said
“Just a minute.” Said Mike sitting very quiet, his face turning puffy and pale. Halford Platt was looking at Mike, his eyes shining, Mike wasn’t looking at anyone.
“Daddy, you don’t mean to say he guessed right?” The daughter cried agonized.
“What are you waiting for?” Platt said to Mike “turn the label round!”

Then this happened: the maid was standing beside Halford Platt, with something in her hand. “I believe these are yours sir.”
Platt glanced around, saw the pair of silver rimmed spectacles she held out to him, and hesitated. “Are they, I don’t know.” Without thanking her he took them out and slipped them into a white handkerchief. But the maid didn’t go away. “You left them in Mr Rycroft’s study,” she said. Her voice was unnaturally, deliberately polite. “On top of the green filing cabinet in the study sir, when you happened to go in there by yourself before dinner.”

It took a few moments for the true meaning of her words to penetrate, and in the silence that came; I became aware of Mike slowly rising in his chair advancing towards Halford Platt with steam literally coming out of his ears. “Now Michael,” said his wife “now Michael dear, please calm down!”