DIARY

THE DIARY OF SEFTON HAMILTON.

AUGUST 20th, DINNER AT KENNEDY`S.

Unbelievable! All of these miserable people are so ludicrous, undeserving of my attention, presence, and precious time, which should not be squandered on trifles like these! They simply assaulted to find out who they were up against. But no one can take me in. No one.

What am I referring to? Let's get down to business.

Henry and Suzanne Kennedy invited me to dinner, perhaps anticipating that I would make their evening interesting and opulent. They would be unable to entertain the guests, so my presence was the best option they had.

Speaking about the reception itself, everyone was so tremendously silent and boring! Politics, art, society—all that came out of my mouth were relevant topics and witty quips. I'm not entirely certain why no one spoke, but I've got a theory: their brain capacity is quite low.

Nonetheless, the cuisine was not as awful as I thought it would be. Furthermore, the wines were actually good (not very unusual or rare, but enough). And here comes the evening's "shallow star" Freddie "I know everything about wines" Barker. Henry Kennedy handed each of us a glass of wine, and Freddie claimed that Australian whites would soon be overtaking the French. Believe it or not, I was surprised and disappointed by that one.

How could a nation of beer swiggers begin to understand the first thing about producing a half decent wine? Let’s face it, they’re only celebrating two hundred years of parole. I’d still pack the rest of our criminals off there, given half a chance.

That joke was fantastic, but all the dismal representatives of that evening society were deafeningly quiet. I suppose they simply lack the knowledge to appreciate a good joke.

Then, Henry supplied a port. “Sandeman 1970,” if I am not mistaking. Unexpectedly, he poured the first drops into Barker’s glass. How could he? And this quack pretended to be something of an expert, as if he were Jean Baptiste Grenouille of wines. "Warmth… but with a real body…" Ridiculous!

They're all a bunch of slackers. They sniff, swirl, taste, and spit, then spout a bunch of nonsense and want me to swallow it. I'm not a moron. He can't possibly know everything, and all he wants to do is play with us. And I swear we will.

Everyone knows that Sefton Hall boasts one of the finest wine cellars in England. It was laid down by my father and his father before him, though I haven’t found the time to continue the tradition. That's why I decided to make Barker a wager and invite him to lunch on Saturday. I want him to guess only four wines, but to be honest, I'm confident he won't be able to.

He will receive 500 pounds, however, if he hasn't guessed, he will have to pay me 50 pounds per bottle. I understand that he was afraid not of the amount of money, but of being taken unawares. So, he tried to refuse, but I played my trump cards, labelling him a coward and a humbug (no falsehood in these remarks), and he finally accepted. I suggested that Henry and Johnny accompany us as witnesses. Their wives were saying something about their participation in this intriguing wager, but I don't want to pay my precious to women's opinions.

That's all. I'm working hard to prepare for this lunch, and I'm confident that everyone will recognise Freddy Barker for what he is: a liar who is not an expert, not an intellectual man, not a sommelier.

He will be crushed.

And now, after finishing my notes and my sixth drink of whisky, I'm going to bed.

See you soon, Freddy. If you don't know how much it hurts to fall, I'd be pleased to show you.

AUGUST 30th, THE DEGUSTATION

It's finally time to spill the beans. I want to write it down in every detail so that I can read it afterwards with more delight each time.

Adams and I spent the majority of the morning evaluating and selecting appropriate wines for this particular challenge. The guests arrived around 12:37 p.m. How punctual of them! They were undoubtedly staring at the magnificence of my own small place of residence, so this wasn`t their fault.

Adams escorted them to the morning room, and I arrived a bit later to give them an extra minute to enjoy my brilliant taste in exquisite things.

I told Adams to bring whisky as an apéritif, and only Barker refused, smiling weirdly, but I knew that he wanted to maintain his taste buds as sensitive as possible. It wasn't going to assist him anyway.

When it was one o'clock sharp, I suggested that we begin the competition. We all took our seats at a seventeenth-century oak table.

Adam had put two Georgian decanters and two unlabelled bottles in the centre of the table. In front of the four wines were four white cards. By each lay a slim bundle of fifty-pound notes. I took my place in the large chair at the top of the table while Barker and Johnny sat opposite each other in the centre, facing the wine, leaving Henry to occupy the final place at the far end of the table.

Adams nodded, and the first course—a fish and prawn terrine, was placed on the table.

I nodded before he took the first bottle and started filling Barker's glass. Before beginning his ritual, Barker waited for the butler to go around the table and fill the other three glasses. He's such a gentleman!

First, he swirled the wine around while carefully inspecting it. Then he sniffed it. He drank a sip. He sniffed it once again just to be sure. Then he looked up and smiled contentedly. I kept my mouth slightly open as I waited for his choice. Barker took another drink and stated, "Montagny Tête de Cuvée 1985, bottled by Louis Latour." I was astonished at first because I believed he was partially correct, but then I realised there was a mistake. I turned to face Adams to validate his statement.

Barker flipped the card over. "Chevalier Montrachet Les Demorselles 1983" it said. He stared at the card, evidently not believing what he was seeing. Oh, it appears that you are not well-prepared, aren't you?

The footmen reappeared and removed the empty plates, which were replaced with lightly cooked grouse. Barker didn't say anything and merely nibbled on the grouse while Adams filled a glass from the first decanter. You didn't see that one coming, huh?

I was so thrilled with his failure that I went seeking for another. Barker began swirling the wine once more. He seemed to take longer this time. His face lit up with an instant recognition smile, and he didn't hesitate. "Chateau de la Louvière, 1978."

He had insulted the wine! Barker immediately turned the card over and read the text: Château Lafite 1978. It was one of the best clarets one might ever hope to taste. Barker lapsed into a deep silence and continued to nibble at his food.

Adams then grabbed up a decanter and began to pour the wine. And, believe it or not, as he filled Barker's glass, this clumsy oaf spilled a little! He apologised and removed the fallen drop with a napkin. What was wrong with him?

Barker went through his routine once more. He was so much slower this time. I felt impatient and drummed the greet table. What was he thinking? He was certainly attempting to deceive me…

"It's a Sauternes," said Barker. However, I was interested in the year and vintage. He was unsure.

"Château Guiraud 1976," he stated confidently. He was wrong! Again! I knew!

Barker flipped the card over. "Château d'Yquem 1980," he said. He stared at me with disbelief, but I didn't want to look at him.

The port was poured around twenty minutes later. I offered him one last chance to keep a straight face. Barker drank the port without thinking of his prior preliminaries.

"Taylors," he started. That was correct, but because there are only three competent port providers in the world, the year can be all that matters. Barker concurred. "Nineteen seventy-five," he answered confidently, flipping the card over fast. But it was "Taylors 1927". Completely crashed. That was my victory!

I was rocking with laughter. Barker paused just briefly before pulling a cheque book from his inside pocket. He filled in my name and the sum of £200. He signed it and silently delivered the cheque to me across the table. That, however, was insufficient. That was only part of the deal.

Barker stood up, paused, and declared, "I am a humbug."

"You are indeed, sir," I confirmed. It was like drinking the best wine in the world to savour these words.

The visitors left at 4 p.m. Disappointed and defeated. I was sitting on my throne as Julius Caesar. The greatest individual in the world. The President of the Wine Society didn't guess a single type of wine! And I told you all these sommeliers are just show-offs!

I'm still quite impressed with the entire story. Victory is possibly the most delectable dish I've ever tasted.