“I’ll take either,” Aksel grins, brushing his lips against hers.
“Can we go up now?” Anika jumps off her chair. Her brother follows.
“Yes, you can,” their mother says.
The kids run upstairs, where Racquel is waiting to put them in front of the television with some tried-and-true, vintage Charlie Brown.
Mama claps her hands. “Jean, what’s our game?”
Papa beams. “Blind tasting! We’ll pair up in teams. Taste, guess the grape, the region, the vintage. Ember, I have made sure none of the reds have sulfites.”
“Thanks,Papa.”
Then, he lifts a bottle with both hands, almost ceremonious.
“The winners will take home this—1990 Domaine Leflaive Bâtard-Montrachet Grand Cru.”
A hush settles over the room, followed by a collective intake of breath.
This is one of Burgundy’s crown jewels: Leflaive’s Bâtard-Montrachet, from the very heart of the Côte de Beaune. The 1990 vintage is especially revered—rich and expansive, yet finely balanced, with a depth and complexity that have only grown more profound with age. It is absolutely the best Chardonnay in the world.
“That’s serious.” Jonathan lustily eyes the bottle of Montrachet.
“We’ve got this, babe,” Freja assures him.
“That’s what they all say.” Aksel makes a gun cocking motion with his fingers. “I am the master of blind tasting.”
“No, I think that’s me,” Uncle Bob insists.
“That’s bourbon, Bob, not wine,” his wife teases.
“Same difference,” he remarks on a laugh.
Papa looks around. “Well, let’s make this simple. We’ll have everyone partner. Since Ember and Ransom are single, they can team up.”
Subtle as a supernova in a dark-matter simulation, Papa.
“The rules are simple. I will pour a wine. You’ll discuss it as a team and write what it is on the note card in front of you. After, we’ll match the cards tothe bottles and see who wins.” Papa looks enormously pleased with himself. “Now, to make it fair. I don’t even know which bottle is which because Racquel set this up after Chef Pascal picked the wine based on my instruction that they be from France and be top notch. All I know is that we have five whites and five reds.”
He points to the wine bottles, which are in paper bags, only their spouts showing.
As Papa begins the first pour, there’s a hushed clamor of paper rustling and glasses clinking.
All the couples lean into each other, whispering, trying to identify primary, secondary, and tertiary flavors.
Ransom takes in the nose of the first white, and then tastes it. “I’m getting citrus—like grapefruit. Loire Valley?”
I swirl the glass, sniff, and then take a taste. “Agreed on the Loire. Sauvignon Blanc. Maybe 2020?” I taste the wine again. “Definitely 2020. It’s got that bright, racy acidity from the hot summer, but still holds that crisp minerality the Loire does so well.”
“I love your brain, Sweet Em.” He writes down the first wine on the notecard.
I glance at him, amused, even happy. “Don’t flirt. This is war.”
Across the room, Jonathan is blatantly trying to peer at Mama’s card.
“Stop cheating!” Aksel calls out.
Jonathan grins. “I’m not cheating. I’m…collaboratingacross party lines.”
