 There were six of us to dinner that night at Mike Schofield's house in London. Mike and his wife and daughter, my wife and I, and a man called Richard Pratt. Richard Pratt was a famous gourmet. He was president of a small society known as the Epicures, and each month he circulated privately to its members a pamphlet on food and wines. He organised dinners where sumptuous dishes and rare wines were served. He refused to smoke, for fear of harming his palate, and when discussing a wine he had a curious rather droll habit of referring to it as though it were a living being. A prudent wine, he would say, rather diffident and evasive, but quite prudent, or a good-humoured wine, benevolent and cheerful, slightly obscene perhaps, but nonetheless good-humoured. I'd been to dinner at Mike's twice before when Richard Pratt was there, and on each occasion Mike and his wife had gone out of their way to produce a special meal for the famous gourmet, and this one clearly was to be no exception. The moment we entered the dining-room I could see that the table was laid for a feast. The tall candles, the yellow roses, the quantity of shining silver, the three wine-glasses to each person, and above all the faint scent of roasting meat from the kitchen brought the first warm oozing of saliva to my mouth. As we sat down I remember that on both Richard Pratt's previous visits Mike had played a little betting-game with him over the claret, challenging him to name its breed and its vintage. Pratt had replied that that should not be too difficult to provide it it was one of the great years. Mike had then bet him a case of the wine in question that he could not do it. Pratt had accepted, and had won both times. Tonight I felt sure that the little game would be played over again, for Mike was quite willing to lose the bet in order to prove that his wine was good enough to be recognised, and Pratt for his part seemed to take a grave restrained pleasure in displaying his knowledge. The meal began with a plate of whitebait, fried very crisp in butter, and to go with it there was a moselle. Mike got up and pulled the wine himself, and when he sat down again I could see that he was watching Richard Pratt. He had set the bottle in front of me so that I could read the label. It said, Gaius Lay Olex Berg, 1945. He leaned over and whispered to me that Gaius Lay was a tiny village in the moselle almost unknown outside Germany. He said that this wine we were drinking was something unusual, that the output of the vineyard was so small that it was almost impo- Sample complete. Ready to continue?