Once Upon A Wine: The Rothschild Incident

One fine evening, as we were celebrating the sun’s magnificent colors silhouetting Catalina Island with a lovely California Cabernet Sauvignon, my husband looked at his glass and was reminded of something that happened years ago, before we were married. Tell me, I urged him, feeling it was a good night for a Wally tale. With a self-deprecating smile, he recounted this story to me:

The year was 1976, I was in my 30’s and my manufactured home business was thriving. My partners and I had built the company from one display lot to three. Our pockets were overflowing and we decided to share the wealth.

A sales contest seemed like a good idea.  It would not only reward our best salespeople with a grand prize but it would also bring in more money. All good, all agreed. We wanted something really special, so the incentive we chose was a trip to England aboard the Queen Elizabeth II, first-class all the way. All good, all agreed.  As you can guess, with that jaunt as the carrot, our sales staff went all out.

With the numbers in and the winners announced, the time came to celebrate. The top three sales agents and their spouses joined my partner, our wives and me on a flight to New York the day before the QEII departed. To start the trip with a bang, I wanted to treat everyone to dinner the night in the big city before our big trip.

I love Italian food, as you know, and I understood that besides Italia itself, New York City was the place for the best. When we got to our hotel, I asked the concierge to make reservations at an excellent authentic Italian restaurant. In the back of my mind, I wanted this to be an experience that would set the stage for our fantastic voyage.

The eatery the concierge picked was in Little Italy, Manhattan. I hate to admit it but when we arrived, I was a little disappointed. The place didn’t look upscale-NYC-high-falootin’ as much  as I was hoping. Granted, there was a doorman and highly polished hardware but the exterior was short on dazzle – plate-glass windows and a green canopy.

We entered. A coat girl politely took our wraps. The host greeted me by name and showed us to an impressive table for 10 in the center of the main dining room.  Tapers glowed. Glassware gleamed. There were more forks, spoons and knives than I use in a year. The atmosphere was terrific. This was spiffy.

“What was the name of the place?” I asked, thinking I might know the restaurant from years of living and working in Manhattan. My husband just smiled and continued.

Each lady was graciously seated. The waiters explained the specials and skillfully answered questions about the various dishes and preparations. I ordered hors d’oeuvres all-around. We all agreed to have wine instead of cocktails with our appetizers (we were now feeling uptown).

The sommelier appeared and presented the wine list to me.  Having grown up in Milwaukee, I knew all about beer – Schlitz, Blatz, Hamm’s. When it came to wine, I didn’t know a Cabernet from a cabinet-maker. To smokescreen my ignorance, I so sophisticatedly said, “Bring two bottles of the best wine in the house.”

“Certainly, sir,” the sommelier responded. Two bottles quickly appeared. He showed me the label side, opened a bottle, offered me the cork and then a just a sip of the wine in a glass. The taste was like nothing like anything I’d ever drank; certainly not like the St. Antonio of my college years. Wine was poured all-around. It didn’t take long before we needed a third bottle. That one appeared quickly, too. Everyone was more than adequately impressed with the sommelier, and I was secretly hoping that the wine selection was enhancing my reputation as a big-city sophisticate, too.

“What wine did you order?” I asked, recalling some of the wonderful Italian wines I’ve imbibed. “Tell me it wasn’t wrapped in raffia; you know, a Chianti in a fiasco,” recalling some of the not so hot ones, too. My husband just smiled and continued.

When the entrées arrived, I realized most of the group had emptied their glasses.

“Do you remember what you had to eat, at least?” I inquired (I couldn’t help asking, even if he wasn’t answering). “At least you could tell me that.”…or not.

Before I had a chance to ask if we wanted another bottle for dinner, one of my partners told the sommelier to bring a fourth. My guests ever-more-happily enjoyed more wine with the meal.

After dessert and after-dinner drinks, it was time to return to our hotel. While my guests retrieved their coats, I asked for the bill. I knew it was going to cost me a chunk o’change. Ten people, appetizers, lots of wine, entrees, more wine, dessert and after-dinner drinks. I expected a tab around $1,500. Remember, this was 1976. That was a lot of money but I was prepared to share the wealth. My people deserved it.

The waiter returned with the bill, profusely thanking me. I felt officially citified.  I pulled out my credit card, opened the leather envelope and looked at the amount. My face turned white, then red with a burst of heat that took all the wind out of my chest. For once in my life, I was at a loss for words. People nearby asked if I was okay. Stricken, I mumbled I’d be fine after a glass of water.

The amount of the check wasn’t $1,500, not even close. It was more than three times that – well over $5,000 without the gratuity. Stunned, my mind went blank, all of my snappy comments gone. It actually hurt my hand to sign the credit card slip.

“My god,” I exclaimed. “Why was it so expensive?” The look from my storyteller said, “Hold all questions;” the crescendo was nigh.

The sommelier really did give us the best wine he had. We drank four bottles of their finest Chateau Lafite Rothschild.

“[Gasp.]”

I told everyone to take the corks and bottles so we could prove we drank Rothschild. Otherwise, no one would believe us (I later thought I should have refilled the bottles when I got home with less expensive wine and served it to friends who knew as little about wine as I did; maybe then I would feel somewhat rectified instead of just wrecked).

After I paid the bill, I couldn’t remember a thing – not the food, not the conversation, not the restaurant, not even the trip back to our hotel.  Reality vanished when I saw the bill. Later, after regaining feeling in my writing hand, I realized I didn’t even remember signing the slip.

But I’ll never forget getting acquainted with a Rothschild.

And the year of the vintage?  I didn’t even ask.  As for stories about the trip to London aboard the OEII, those Wally tales will have to wait… until next time.

Postscript:  In a fine New York City restaurant in 1976, Wally could have spent $500 a bottle for one of the finest vintages of Lafite Rothschild, which might have been a 1945, 1959 or 1961. The world’s most perfect wine, according to grand oenophile Robert Parker, is the 1982 vintage of Lafite, which sells today for $2,800 to $3,000 a bottle.

– Francie Pemper