“Babe, at this point, I can’t taste anything but alcohol,” he counters.
He’s not wrong. Ten wines are a lot. But I’ve been diligent about cleansing my palate with water and crackers.
I taste the last wine and set the glass down.
Ransom does the same.
We huddle. “It’s too light to be Bordeaux, but it’s not Pinot Noir, either. Bright red fruit, something herbal…. Thyme? Maybe rosemary?”
“Yes.” I sniff the wine. Think about it. “Also, cherry, crushed raspberries…and something coastal, almost salty.”
“This is not French,” he murmurs.
I gasp. “I know. But Papa said they were all French.”
Ransom’s eyes narrow. “It’s….” He smells the wine, swirls it, and tastes it slowly.
I do the same, and a smile spreads on my lips. “Technically, Corsica is French.”
His gaze flicks to mine. “Technically, it is!”
I grin wide. “I know what it is. It’s his favorite vineyard. Domaine Comte Abbatucci. Rouge Frais Impérial.”
Ransom’s eyes heat. “That’s disturbingly sexy, when you say that in your cute French accent.”
I flush. Giggle.
“What’s so funny down there?” Mama demands.
“We were just thinking how and when we’d drink the Montrachet,” Ransom tells her cockily.
“Oh, please, the bottle is ours.” Aksel picks up the bottle and looks at its label. “It’s gonna taste like a dream.”
After the wines have been put aside, Papa goes through the cards and reveals the bottle, announcing those who got it right, mocking those who didn’t.
Papa lifts Aksel and Latika’s card and sighs deeply. “You confused a Grenache with a Syrah?”
Aksel protests, “They’re both Rhône!”
Papa glares. “That’s like saying a euro and Monopoly money have the same buying power.”
Laughter ripples through the cellar, but tension hums just beneath it. We’re a competitive bunch.
He continues down the line, giving everyone hell for their missteps—like Bob for writing “Red???” with three question marks.
“And how about you mixing up a Pinot Grigio with a Chardonnay?” Aksel gets back at Papa, holding up his tasting card in mock horror. “That’s like confusing a bicycle with a Vespa!”
Papa groans. “They were both pale and citrusy!”
Freja smirks. “One had the elegance of a ballerina,the other the charm of a golden retriever. Come on, Papa.”
My father throws his napkin dramatically. “Philistines, all of you. And I blame your mother. She distracted me.”
Mama rolls her eyes. “You don’t even know what wine you’re drinking unless I whisper it to you first.”
Arguments break out and finally fall silent when Papa raises his hand. “Shh. We’re down to the final card.”
It’s between us, and Aksel and Latika. We’ve both gotten two wines wrong,farless than everyone else. This last one will be the decider.
