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A tall, well-dressed man with a full mustache approached the table with a smile and a bottle of wine.
“Your Excellency, I was just now informed you are honoring us with your presence,” he said, in Spanish.
“I’ve told you, Jorge,” Silvio replied, “that if I want you to call me that, I will wear my ermine robes and carry my scepter.” He shook the man’s hand and then said, “Jorge, may I present Ambassador Michael McGrory, who came here from Uruguay to get a good meal? Mike, this is Señor Jorge Basto, our host.”
“My little restaurant is then doubly honored,” Basto said. “It is an honor to meet you, Your Excellency.”
“I’m happy to be here and to make your acquaintance,” McGrory replied with a smile.
“And look what just came in this morning,” Basto said, holding out the bottle.
“You’re in luck, Mike,” Silvio said. “This is Tempus Cabernet Sauvignon. Hard to come by.”
“From a small bodega in Mendoza,” Basto said. “May I open it, Mr. Ambassador?”
“Oh, please,” Silvio said.
Goddamn it, McGrory thought, wine! Not that I should be drinking at all. I am—we both are—on duty. But these Latins—and that certainly includes Silvio—don’t consider drinking wine at lunch drinking, even though they know full well that there is as much alcohol in a glass of wine as there is in a bottle of beer or a shot of whiskey.
I would really like a John Jamison with a little water, but if I ordered one I would be insulting the restaurant guy and Silvio would think I was some kind of alcoholic, drinking whiskey at lunch.
A waiter appeared
with glasses and a bottle opener. The cork was pulled and the waiter poured a little in one of the glasses and set it before Silvio, who picked it up and set it before McGrory.
“Tell me what you think, Mike,” he said with a smile.
McGrory knew the routine, and went through it. He swirled the wine around the glass, stuck his nose in the wide brim and sniffed, then took a sip, which he swirled around his mouth.
“Very nice indeed,” he decreed.
McGrory had no idea what he was supposed to be sniffing for when he sniffed or what he was supposed to be tasting when he tasted. So far as he was concerned, there were two kinds of wine, red and white, further divided into sweet and sour, and once he had determined this was a sour red wine he had exhausted his expertise.
The waiter then filled Silvio’s glass half full and then poured more into McGrory’s glass. Silvio picked up his glass and held it out expectantly until McGrory realized what he was up to and raised his own glass and touched it to Silvio’s.
“Always a pleasure to see you, Mike,” Silvio said.
“Thank you,” McGrory replied. “Likewise.”
Silvio took a large swallow of his wine and smiled happily.
“The wines here are marvelous,” Silvio said.
“Yes, they are,” McGrory agreed.
“Don’t quote me, Mike, but I like them a lot better than I like ours, and not only because ours are outrageously overpriced.”
“I’m not much of a wine drinker,” McGrory confessed.
“‘Use a little wine for thy stomach’s sake,’” Silvio quoted, “‘and thine other infirmities.’ That’s from the Bible. Saint Timothy, I think, quoting Christ.”
“How interesting,” McGrory said.
The waiter handed them menus.
McGrory ordered a lomo con papas frit as—you rarely got in trouble ordering a filet mignon and French fries—and Silvio ordered something McGrory had never heard of.
When the food was served, McGrory saw that Silvio got a filet mignon, too.
