The Passionate Foodie: Fiction

The Veil of Flowers

2010-10-26T18:37:00.000-04:00

I am dying yet the darkness and silence are comforting. My world is flat, shaped in a rough oblong shape, and the walls of the sky are hard, with tiny gaps peeking into another realm. My world also floats above an ocean which once was rich with food. I have lived my days well sated and wish my life could extend even longer but I understand the ephemeral aspect of my existence.

The bright, noisy hand of death eventually comes for all of us. Many of my clansmen have already succumbed, as have plenty from the three other clans. In unity, there was strength yet our hold now is very tenuous, each death weakening the entirety. Our colony, which once numbered in the millions, will soon collapse, leaving but a pile of corpses at the bottom of the sea. Little to indicate that we were ever here and that leads to despair.

In the beginning, at the time of my birth, I recall a time of plenty. Abundant food, so intoxicating and compelling. Our clan, the Cheres, thrived, and we were the greatest and most populous of the four clans. The Beti were the second largest yet there was still a significant gap between our numbers. But that can be a temporary matter, as all of the clans desire supremacy.

It is a fragile balance though and we understand that our colony exists only if we all work together. If we engaged in open warfare, a raging and extensive battle, the end result would likely be total annihilation. So, this mutual assured destruction tempers our actions. The battles that exist are more small-scale, border skirmishes where only a few of us die at any one time. This is considered an acceptable loss, considering our prodigious birth rate, and provided that it does not escalate.

The least amount of battling occurs during the Time of Great Heat and the Time of Great Cold. In both seasons, the elements take a heavy own toll on my people, killing off many though fortunately not enough for us to be unable to recover afterwards. The temperature extremes can be so devastating to our constitutions. I know some other colonies are not so lucky, collapsing. It is a culling period, when it takes great strength to survive. Between those times, we must then procreate often and flourish.

One of my brethren theorizes that our eventual demise is our own fault, that we are the enemy. He believes that there are only a finite amount of resources available, only so much food available to eat. Our consumption thus will eventually reach a natural end point. In addition, he theorizes that our consumption also alters the sea, eventually making it lethal to us. He might be correct, as many colonies do seem to die within the same time period.

But there is another theory as well, one held to be true by most of the colony. It is a tale of gods, of omnipotent beings who intervene into our lives, most often leaving destruction in their wake. None doubt their existence as we often hear them and see their handiwork. We pray to these great beings, hoping to appease them with worship, yet they seem immune to our entreaties. We have even offered sacrifices, though in vain.

We savor our peace but at times it is disturbed by the buzzing of the gods, strange vibrations which apparently are their means of communication. We quake in fear every time we hear those strange voices, worried that the bright moon will appear too. Though the bright moon might also appear when it is silent, it most often appears in conjunction with the voices of the gods. The bright moon is a harbinger of death.

Through the bright moon, the Great Spike arrives, thrusting deep into our colony, slaughtering indiscriminately while capturing others. We cannot conceive of a rationale for this horror. Is it punishment for our sins? Do we not give the gods their proper obeisance? There is no regularity to the timing of the Great Spike, no predictability in its appearance. It strikes quickly, often several times within a short span. We are defenseless against its predations.

I even have heard terrible stories of other colonies that have been poisoned by the gods. A lethal toxin is added to the ocean, which murders the entire colony. That is even more difficult to comprehend. Are we but toys for their cruel pleasures? Are we subjects in some bizarre experiment? How can we get the gods to leave us be, to stop slaughtering us?

When we are not eating or procreating, we think, often pondering those questions. We also debate with each other, without the need for a judge. We simply surrender when we know we have been defeated, or declare a draw if warranted. Cosmological and religious questions constitute the majority of our debates.

One of the most intriguing questions is: What is the purpose of life? We eat, we reproduce, we think, we talk, we die. We create nothing, no books, no art, no music. Yet we still possess an ancient belief, that there is a genuine reason to our lives, that somehow we achieve greatness without even knowing so.

It is with religious fervor, a rigid conviction, that we hold this to be evident despite any tangible evidence to support this belief. Denying it accomplishes nothing, and the believers say that our belief is not even required. Our very existence alone leads to a path of greatness, despite our ignorance of the means or goal. Such a belief is very reassuring, and makes death much less fearsome. Or are we but fooling ourselves?

A frequent point is made that if our lives were nothing, if we were meaningless, then the gods would simply ignore us. Yet their intervention in our lives indicates something, that we must have some type of meaning. If we could only communicate with the gods, maybe we would find some answers. But how do you speak to the unknowable? All we hear are the vibrations and all we see is a Great Spike.

Maybe I am one of the most curious of my people but I have spent a very long time concentrating on the voices of the gods, seeking a pattern, trying to understand even the tiniest of words. Finally, as the end of my life nears, I have made significant step forward. I have finally isolated a single word, which is often used and seems to be a word of power, a word of deep meaning. And though I have no evidence, I feel deep in my core that this word is also a clue to our greatness.

“Sherry.”

Addendum: The preceding tale was related by Dr. Alfonso Esteban Ruiz, a noted biochemist in Jerez. Dr. Ruiz alleged that he had discovered a means of communication with the flor yeast in a sherry bota. He claims that a Saccharomyces, a type of yeast, related the above story, which Dr. Ruiz then translated into a more understandable form, though still maintaining its essential accuracy. Despite his esteemed reputation, Dr. Ruiz faced much ridicule over this story, and he eventually was forced into an early retirement. Dr. Ruiz now refuses to speak on the matter.

Feast For A Killer

2010-09-07T03:00:00.000-04:00

Borislav stood, his back against a thick tree trunk, concealed in the shadows, and watched the small residence. He had already confirmed that she was home alone, being very intimate with her schedule. He knew quite a good deal about her and her husband, the usual reconnaissance and surveillance.

It was now time to act, to complete his contract, so Borislav quickly moved toward the front door.

Olivia wiped her hands on her apron and went to answer the knock at the door. Alluring aromas wafted from the kitchen throughout the house and Olivia smiled as she walked down the short hall to the front door.

She opened the door, seeing a handsome, Slavic-looking man there, clad in a leather overcoat. Olivia smiled and said softly, “Hello, can I help you?”

The short, dark-haired man remained silent but withdrew a silenced pistol from his coat, pointed it at Olivia and walked into the house as Olivia slowly backed up. Once inside, he closed the door, the weapon never wavering from Olivia.

With a slight accent, the man spoke in a firm voice. “Olivia, I will kill you unless you obey my every word. I am not here to kill you but will do so if I must. We will sit and wait for your husband to return home.”

Quivering, Olivia simply nodded. She could not fathom why this killer was here or why he wanted Jude, her husband. Jude was an accountant, working for a large corporation, and he was not even one of the top accountants there. He was a mild-mannered person, whose hobbies included bridge and golf. Could it be all a terrible mistake? But the killer obviously knew her name, which made her extremely nervous.

Olivia felt that maybe cooking would help calm her nerves, as it had done in the past. It seemed better than just sitting quietly with this killer, waiting for Jude to arrive.

“Please sir, can I finish my cooking? I am working on several dishes and I don’t want anything to burn.” Said Olivia softly.

The killer pondered it for a moment and replied, “Yes, that is acceptable. We can wait in the kitchen. Lead the way.”

The kitchen doubled as a dining area and the killer sat down at the table, placing his pistol atop it, within easy reach. Olivia went back to the stove, stirring the soup and checking on the items baking in the oven. She willed her hands to stop shaking, trying to immerse herself in the culinary preparations. Why did this man want to kill Jude?

“Mmmmm…whatever you are cooking smells wonderful. Are you making cabbage soup?” asked the killer.

Olivia, her mouth dry, hesitated and then responded, “Yes, it is shchi, a recipe I learned from my Russian grandmother.”

“Shchi da kasha pishcha nasha.” Shchi and porridge are our food.

“Are you Russian?” asked Olivia.

“Yes, though I was born in the U.S. What else are you making?” He did not mention how he grew up with his grandmother’s cooking, very traditional Russian. Since she had passed, it had been very difficult to find anything that delicious but the smell of Olivia’s shchi reminded him of his grandmother’s kitchen.

“Kotlety, kartoshka puree, and medovnik for dessert.”

“It certainly sounds like a fine meal.”

As Olivia immersed herself in her culinary duties, the killer, Borislav, intensely watched her. She was attractive, especially her sultry dark eyes, and Borislav enjoyed the way her body moved as she worked. She exuded femininity in her every movement, the gentle sway of her body, her delicate maneuvers. Over the time he had surveilled her, Borislave had noticed her simmering sensuality as well. She was a woman of passion and intensity.

All of that was being wasted on her husband, a man fully undeserving of such a treasure. Borislav was pleased that he would be eliminating her husband, freeing her. In retrospect, he hoped that she would eventually realize the gift he was presenting her.

Olivia gently stirred the shchi and then took a taste of the broth, pleased with its taste. “The soup is ready if you would like a bowl.”

“Yes, that would be nice. Thank you.” Responded the killer, very eager to taste it.

Olivia retrieved a large bowl from a nearby shelf and then ladled some of the savory shchi into the bowl, ensuring there was plenty of cabbage in the bowl. She topped it with a generous dollop of sour cream and then turned and walked over to the table, slightly hesitating.

There was the temptation to hurl the hot contents into the killer’s face, which might then give her the opportunity to escape. But, if she failed, he might kill her right then and there. Or worse, dependent on his level of sadism.

Rather than risk anything, she placed the bowl before the killer and retrieved him a spoon. She stood by, waiting to see what he thought of the soup.

Borislav had been alert for potential treachery, cognizant of the threat of the steaming broth, and had been prepared to react. He was very pleased that Olivia had restrained her impulse. He looked at the soup, a smile coming to his face as the aromas caressed his nose. His spoon dipped into the broth, scooping up some of the leafy cabbage and sour cream.

Slowly, he carefully moved the spoon into his mouth, wanting to relish the moment. The savory broth and vegetables instantly brought back memories of his childhood and he couldn’t remember the last time something had done that to him. Such a simple dish, yet it had been executed perfectly, the soup bursting with the fresh flavors of the field. She really knew how to cook.

After several spoonfuls, he looked up at Olivia and said, “It is excellent, very much like what my grandmother prepared.

Olivia smiled. “Thank you. My own grandmother was a fine teacher.” Though he frightened her, his compliment still pleased her.

She then turned and went back to the stove, checking on the kotlety, meat patties, which were slowly baking in the oven. She still needed to mash the kartoshka, potatoes, as well.

Borislav eagerly ate the rest of the soup, enjoying every mouthful. He continued to watch Olivia work, curious as to what had attracted her to her husband. There were some gaps in his knowledge of Olivia, but nothing that would interfere with his mission. Under different circumstances, she would have been the type of woman he would pursue.

As Olivia worked, mashing some potatoes, she finally gathered the courage to ask, “Why are you going to kill my husband? He is a good man.”

No answer was expected, but she felt obliged to ask anyways. She certainly could not imagine any reason why her husband was a threat to anyone, or who he might have offended. Desperately, she hoped it was a mistake. And maybe, just maybe, the killer would realize that fact.

“You are better off not knowing. Keep your memories pure.” Said the killer.

This was reassuring to a point, as Olivia thus surmised that the killer might not also shoot her. But she decided to press him anyway, her curiosity high, as well as her hope that it was all in error. “I would rather know the truth, than believe my husband might have been killed due to some terrible mistake. Could you possibly have the wrong man?”

“Let me think on it.” Said the killer.

Olivia nodded, removing the pan of kotlety from the oven and then returning to the potatoes. She tried to lose herself in the cooking, to forget about the assassin behind her. But she was not completely successful.

Borislav watched Olivia, enjoying the curves of her body as she worked. It had been far too long since he had enjoyed the intimate pleasures of a woman, beside the soulless embrace of a prostitute. Should he tell her the reasons for his presence? She would not like what he had to say, not in the least, but maybe she deserved to know the truth.

This time Olivia did not ask, before presenting the killer with a plate of hot kotlety and a puree of kartoshka, with plenty of butter. Borislav grinned, admiring the hearty plate before him, wasting no time to dig in. Once again, the food reminded me of his childhood, of his grandmother’s fine meals. The meat patties were extremely flavorful, spiced appropriately, and perfectly moist. The potatoes were creamy and light, with sweet butter complementing the taste.

“Wonderful. Thank you once again.” Said Borislav after a few bites.

Olivia smiled and went back to the stove and counter to complete the medovnik, honey cake. She still needed to frost a layer of sour cream atop it. She took her time, knowing there was nothing else to do once she finished the honey cake.

Soon, the killer’s plate was empty, each delicious bite having been finished. He smiled contentedly, the food having pleased him in a way he had not known in quite some time. Such an alluring woman, who cooked so well. Yes, she deserved the truth, as hard as it might be.

“Your husband is known as Volk, the wolf. He is a terrible predator and I was hired to make him pay for his crimes.”

Olivia whipped around, denial and shock on her face. “What crimes is he supposed to have committed? My husband is a mild man, a simple accountant.”

“Your husband is a pedophile who has molested dozens of small girls.”

Her jaw dropped and Olivia was struck speechless. She began trembling more, her world crashing down around her. There had to be a mistake, an explanation for everything. It just could not be true.

She finally forced out, her voice quivering, “It cannot be my husband.”

Borislav reached into his pocket and removed a thick envelope. He then removed about a dozen photographs and spread them out on the table so Olivia could see all of them. They were very incriminating photographs, though in half of them, you could not identify the man in them. Just the faces of the young girls. But in the others, the face of the man was quite clear, as well as all of his naked body.

Olivia moaned loudly in horror as she looked at the disturbing and pornographic photographs, recognizing her husband Jude. “No, no, no.” Tears started streaming down her soft cheeks.

“A father of one of the victims hired me. He is a wealthy man and did not want to leave this to the courts. He wants your husband dead for the depraved acts he has committed.”

As she thought about her husband, their life together, and the accusations being made about him, she remembered tiny indicators. Small, subtle signs that alone meant little, but when taken as a whole, seemed to support the accusations. But it was only in retrospect that they took form. It was nothing she could have predicted or known earlier.

She wanted to deny the photos, to claim they were fakes, but she could not. In her gut, she knew it to be true. It sickened her, and it took all her will not to vomit.

“I am sorry for you. It would be a hard truth for anyone.” Said Borislav.

Olivia turned back to her honey cake, wiping her tears away. She couldn’t face the killer at the moment, and tried to think only of frosting the honey cake, of finishing the meal. She couldn’t deal with what she had seen.

Borislav just watched her, understanding her anguish. She would be better off when the monster was dead. Though he wanted to embrace her, to soothe her anguish, he needed to maintain his professional detachment. In time, she would heal.

She finally finished the honey cake, after frosting the same spot for several minutes, and placed it on the table before Borislav. Retrieving a plate, fork and large cake knife, she then sliced a thick piece for the killer.

After serving him, she turned to clean up her mess. She couldn’t look at the killer right now. She didn’t want to see anything at the moment. To do so would mean she would have to confront the truth, that her husband was a sociopath.

Borislav dug into the cake, heartily enjoying its rich sweetness and the creaminess of the sour cream. It was a superb dessert, with intriguing spices that tantalized his senses. He closed his eyes as he savored each bite, letting the flavors flow over his palate. Pure bliss!

There was a very loud bang as a revolver fired, the bullet plowing through Borislav’s temple. Borislav collapsed onto the table, crushing the remnants of his honey cake, his blood and brains decorating the wall behind him. The assassin never saw the person who killed him.

“Are you okay honey?” said Jude, Olivia’s husband, who held a revolver, the same gun that had just killed Borislav.

Olivia had turned as soon as the gun fired, shocked to see her husband as well as the now deceased assassin slumped over the table. Olivia nodded to Jude because she didn’t know what else to do or say.

“When I arrived home, I met our neighbor Larry outside and he returned the shovel he recently borrowed. I took it back to our shed and then peered into the kitchen window, to see what you might be cooking. Instead, I saw that man with the gun, so I snuck into the house. Did he hurt you?” said Jude.

Jude look mild mannered, like what you pictured an accountant to be. But he had obviously little trouble shooting a stranger, killing him. Olivia noticed that he was not shaking, in fact he seemed quite at ease.

Jude slipped his pistol into his waistband and walked over to Olivia, his arms open to embrace her. But she turned away from him, moving toward the kitchen table.

“What is wrong?” asked Jude, very confused.

Olivia then turned back toward her husband, and it took him a few moments to notice she now held a black pistol aimed at his stomach, the weapon which had previously belonged to the assassin.

“What the hell are you doing?” he said as his own hand slowly moved down to the grip of his gun.

Gathering her courage, as well as outrage, Olivia said coldly, “Do not touch your gun or I will shoot. And I am completely serious.”

Jude’s hand stopped, realizing the dark intensity in Olivia’s eyes. He had never seen such hate and anger in her eyes. He started to worry a bit, very confused as he thought he had just saved his wife from some thug.

With much vehemence, she spat out, “You are a damn pedophile! I saw the pictures. How could you harm all of those little girls? You sicken me.”

In full defensive mode, Jude wondered how to answer her accusations. He could try to deny it but didn’t think she would believe him. Somehow she knew the truth. He felt that the best way to handle her would be to try to gain her sympathy. At least long enough until he could disarm her and then of course she would have to die, a “victim” of the assassin.

“I am so sorry Olivia. I am a very sick man and I need treatment, to see a doctor. I just can’t control my impulses. Please help me, I need you so much right now.” His voice was weak and pitiful, intended to appeal to Olivia’s gentle nature, while he calculated how to get the pistol out of her hand.

“Thank you, I needed your confirmation.” Olivia then pulled the trigger several times, unloading bullet after bullet into her husband. She had no sympathy for this monster.

Jude’s bloody body collapsed to the floor, clearly dead.

Olivia dropped the gun, sobbing uncontrollably, and grieving for the assassin who had so loved her cooking.

You Had Me At Foie

2009-09-27T00:05:00.001-04:00

Anne squirmed in her seat, bored with the lecture on ancient Roman cooking. The boredom resulted not from the subject matter but rather from the dreary monotone of the speaker. The rest of the seminars and speakers at the Atlanta Food Journalist Conference had been quite exciting. She had been initially intrigued to learn more about the history of Roman cookery but had not counted on the bland lecturer.

She was about to sneak out, to head for the pool, when she heard “foie gras.” With those two words, she sat back into her seat, her mind drifting into the past, remembering him…

*****
On a snowy December evening, while walking the streets of Seattle, Anne popped into a small French bistro for a bite to eat. It had been a long and busy day and she just wanted a quick dinner before heading back to her hotel to sleep.

Despite the inclement weather, the restaurant was very busy but Anne spied a single spot available at the long, marble bar. She squeezed past the crowd to claim the lone stool. She thought that she might have a sandwich, maybe a croque-monsieur, and a glass of Burgundy.

As she sat, her bulky leather bag swung and struck the man seated to her left. Not a hard hit but enough to jostle his arm as he was taking a drink of dark red wine. Though the glass was fairly full, only a few droplets of wine fell out, barely missing his pristine white shirt.

She apologized profusely, hoping to quell any anger but his quick smile indicated his lack of concern. He made a few jokes, his wit disarming her. Though he was not conventionally handsome, he seemed to possess a certain charm that appealed to her. She felt that maybe her evening might turn out more enjoyable than expected.

Dining alone has its place, but food and wine are usually better when shared with friends, or at least good companions. Though she had not planned on dining with anyone, Anne had no trouble adjusting to the situation. She had little concern with talking to strangers at restaurants and bars. She knew how to take care of herself.

He introduced himself as Sebastian and then made a simple recommendation to her, the same appetizer that he had finished only a short time before. “I highly recommend the foie gras.”

The word ‘foie’ swirled through her mind. Anne loved foie gras, in all its forms, in any multitude of dishes. It was such a seductive and alluring food that just the word ‘foie’ triggered a catalyst of emotions within her. To her, foie was almost as good as sex. Very close but still second place.

His suggestion immediately drew her to him and she was desirous of knowing more. Just the fact he enjoyed foie gras meant much to her. What else about him might peak her curiosity? Did they share other commonalities? Despite her growing interest, Anne also knew that boundaries existed.

She looked down at her left hand, staring at a large diamond. Though she loved her husband, he disliked foie gras. That had always been an issue between them and, over time, Anne realized that this minor difference was a symptom of a larger conflict. Lately there had been a growing rift between them, and Anne had felt lonely at various times.

She could see that Sebastian bore a wedding ring as well. So even if she were single, or interested, he was unavailable.

Anne ordered the foie gras appetizer and a glass of wine, a fine, albeit pricey, Sauternes that Sebastian also recommended. While she waited for her food, they chatted, discussing a diverse selection of topics including food, wine, books, travel, and even philosophy. Their tastes converged in many areas, and the divergences seemed more complementary than divisive.

Sebastian was quite intelligent and a stimulating conversationalist. In many ways, Anne felt like they were old friends who had met once again after many years. It felt so comfortable, so right. She could not deny her growing attraction to Sebastian.

Anne felt that it might be mutual as well, if she was reading him correctly. He was very attentive, often looking directly into her eyes. And he seemed to be ignoring the young, hard-bodies that walked through the restaurant. Anne understood that she was older, had a little muffin-top, but still felt that she was attractive. She might not look like a model, but still received compliments and admiring looks from men.

If this had been a first date, Anne would have considered it a major success. And she probably would have taken him back to her hotel. She was not shy when she truly wanted something or someone.

Then the foie came, a fairly large piece of seared foie, atop thinly sliced apples with a light sprinkling of cinnamon. There was crispy, smoky bacon atop the foie, triangular slices of thick French toast and an intriguing blueberry sauce. It looked amazing and when Anne tasted it, she almost moaned in ecstasy.

The silky texture of the duck liver, pairing so well with the saltiness of the bacon and the sweet of the apple and blueberry. Pure hedonistic joy. The sweet honey and peach flavors of the wine enhanced this decadent dining experience.

As she slowly savored each piece, she noticed that Sebastian was watching her, smiling. He knew exactly how she was feeling, the pure joy of the foie. A strange but compelling bond was forming from their shared love for this delicacy. No words were needed to explain the mutual feeling. It simply existed, almost in tangible form.

When her plate was finally empty, which seemed to happen too quickly, she felt a bit crestfallen. Sebastian then suggested they share another plate. He too desired more but did not want to eat the richness all by himself. Anne was not blind to the intimacy of this suggestion, a type of culinary foreplay.

Logically, Anne knew that she should politely decline, pay her bill and leave the bistro. If she stayed, if she shared foie with this entrancing man, Anne knew she would cross a line. She could envision the rest of the evening, how it would proceed. The intimacy would extend much further than just sharing foie gras.

Anne pondered her decision, head or heart? She intuitively knew that if she declined and left, that he would not try to stop her. He would not try to convince her otherwise. He was leaving the entire decision in her hands. The offer was on the table and she could accept or decline.

She pondered over her husband, the growing rift, her loneliness. He was thousands of miles way. Sebastian was also married though that did not seem to be an impediment to him. Was he in a similar situation as she? It was not an easy decision and Anne sat for several minutes considering all of the potential ramifications.

Finally, Anne turned her face from Sebastian and softly said to the bartender, “We would like to share another dish of the foie gras, please.”

The next few hours passed as expected. They shared the foie, growing more and more intimate. Her hands touched him more often and he made a number of sincere compliments about her. Her smiles were wider and his eyes burned with desire. Each moment that passed led to a deeper connection between them. Boundaries were ignored and they dwelled in the moment, as if their lives might soon end.

They left the bistro together, holding hands, and shared a cab to his hotel where he stated he was staying for a few days on business. She too was staying at a nearby hotel, attending a sustainability conference, though she was supposed to return home tomorrow night. This was her last night in Seattle, her last opportunity to spend any time with Sebastian.

Without a word, she exited the taxi and followed him into the hotel. They strode through the lobby, arm in arm, and rode the elevator to the eighth floor. Anne trembled slightly as she held tightly onto Sebastian. She knew that she still could end it without repercussion but she had made her choice.

When they entered his darkened hotel room, lit only by the moonlight through the glass doors leading to a small balcony, they remained silent as they fell into each other’s arms and passionately kissed. They made love for hours and then lay in each other’s arms, quite sated. The excitement of a new lover, the forbidden allure of their actions, their insatiable hunger.

Anne drifted off to sleep as he lay next to her, stroking her long black hair.

When she awoke the next morning, Anne found herself alone in the king-sized bed. She called out to Sebastian but there was no answer. She rose from the bed and looked around but he was not there. In fact, there was nothing to indicate he had even been staying here. No luggage, no toiletries, nothing. The most disconcerting thing was that the door was locked from the inside!

Anne quickly dressed and then left the room. She went down to the front desk to find out if Sebastian had suddenly checked out or not. Anne saw the clerk who had been at the front desk when she had entered the hotel that evening with Sebastian. She queried the clerk, who was working a double shift, and the answers only heightened the conundrum.

First, the clerk indicated that the room had been empty for three days. Second, the clerk did not remember seeing Anne and Sebastian enter the lobby. Third, the clerk could not recall ever seeing anyone resembling Sebastian. It did not help that Anne was unaware of Sebastian’s last name.

Completely puzzled, Anne left the hotel, trying to understand what had happened. She would swear that it was all real yet what had happened to Sebastian? It made no sense that she had imagined it all. It was far too vivid, too detailed to be a mere dream.

That afternoon, she returned to the French bistro and fortunately the bartender from the evening before was working again. Yet he could not recall Sebastian either. He remembered Anne but could not remember who might have sat next to her. Anne remembered that Sebastian had paid in cash so there would not be any credit card receipts.

It was a mystery that Anne could not resolve. Yet the memory never diminished. It would soothe her when she was sad, and elevate her when things tried to take her down.

When she thought of Sebastian, picturing him in her mind, she would say to him, “You had me at foie.”

***
As the lecturer stated, “Thanks to everyone for coming,” Anne woke from her reverie. She smiled, glad the lecture was over but more pleased at her memories of Sebastian. It had been but a single night, a secret she had revealed to no one, but had meant so much to her. Despite the strangeness that arose, the mystery of whether he had been real or not.

Anne had never stopped seeking for Sebastian, checking out every restaurant and bar she visited that served foie gras. She never lost hope, despite the years that passed. And she would continue to look, never abandoning the possibility that she might meet him once again. But if she never saw him again, he would live on in her memories.

The Passwords: Part 6 (Finale)

2008-01-18T06:12:00.000-05:00

Brian stood outside, trying to appear casual though his eyes darted back and forth seeking anyone showing interest in him. He knew the risk he was taking but hoped his precautions would save him.

He finally noticed one of the thugs approaching, crossing the open lot. Brian casually turned, looking into the hotel lobby and noticed the second thug. A pincer move. Brian stood his ground, waiting for the thugs to close in on him.

Rocky went directly for Brian, his right hand in his coat pocket gripping a pistol. He was very surprised that Brian did not try to flee. Rocky's eyes scanned Brian, checking for any possible weapons. All he saw were the files in Brian's left hand.

As Rocky came within a few feet of Brian, Brian turned and extended his left arm toward Rocky, holding the files out to him.

"Take it all and just leave me alone." said Brian.

Rocky was wary and thought a moment. He finally took the folders and quickly scanned through them. It certainly appeared to be the evidence his employer wanted. The computer discs were there as well. Rocky signaled to his partner who then started walking toward the front doors.

"May I go?" asked Brian.

"Not yet." replied Rocky. Rocky's partner exited the hotel and Rocky handed him the folders and evidence. Rocky then took out his phone and dialed his employer.

"I have recovered the evidence. What should I do with the Secondary? He handed over the evidence and just wants to walk away." said Rocky into the phone.

There was silence on the other end of the phone for a minute. "Let him go. Only the evidence matters."

"Understood." said Rocky as he hung up.

Rocky glared at Brian and then said, "Leave now."

"I need to get my suitcase in my room and then I will go directly to the airport." said Brian.

Rocky nodded and Brian then went back into the hotel. Rocky and his partner then went back to their car.
*****************************************
One month passed...

Silas Forman was shocked when the San Francisco Police showed up at his office to arrest him for the murder of his father. Silas had personally burned all of the evidence when Rocky had delivered it to him. So he felt mostly confident that the police had overextended themselves.

But he soon learned the truth. The police knew exactly what he had done. They knew exactly how he had killed his father. And they had sufficient proof to arrest him, and probably to convict him as well. Where did they get that evidence?

In time, Silas pled out and received a sentence of 25-life, with a chance at parole. This also required him testifying against his employees. In addition, he surrendered his inheritance. Justice had been served.
********************************************

Silas had destroyed the original evidence against him. But he had been unaware that a copy had been made of the evidence. When Brian had recovered the evidence, and before he left the hotel, he had first gone to the Marriot's business center. He had then quickly made copies of everything. He hid the copies and then went outside the hotel, to wait for the thugs who wanted the evidence. Once he handed over the evidence, he returned to the hotel and recovered the copies. He then delivered them to the local police who spent time confirming it all before moving to arrest Silas.

Brian had avenged his friend Roger.

THE END

The Passwords: Part 5

2008-01-10T06:44:00.000-05:00

Rocky and his partner entered the Marriott and headed to the elevator. They already knew which room Brian occupied. Rocky's partner has his hand in his jacket pocket, clutching a pistol. When the elevator arrived, they took it to the third floor.

The two men exited the elevator, walked down the hall and stopped in front of Room 310. They looked down the hall to ensure that no one else was around. As it was clear, Rocky placed his thumb over the peephole in the door and then knocked.

*******************************************

Brian finished filling his ice bucket and walked from the small room into the hall. He immediately noticed the two gruff looking men standing at his hotel room door. It took Brian only a second to realize he was in trouble. They had to be here for the evidence he had recovered in Bolinas.

Reacting, Brian leaped forward and pulled the fire alarm in the hallway. The loud alarm blared and the two thugs turned and quickly scanned the hall. They noticed Brian at the end of the hall, maybe eighty feet away. They began to walk toward Brian.

Some of the guests began to open their door, to see what was happening, and to evacuate. Brian bolted for the door to the stairway and the two thugs then began to run, although they had to maneuever around the others in the hall. Brian was glad for a bit of lead.

Brian ran upstairs hoping that the thugs would not know which direction he took as other people would soon be taking the stairs. He did hope that the thugs chased him rather than try to enter his room. The evidence was still in the room and Brian needed to recover it. Brian went up one flight, to the fourth floor, and then went into the hall. He planned to find another stairway, take it back to the third floor and then go back to his room.

Brian passed by people emptying their rooms and found another stairwell. He went down the stairs, with the flow of traffic and then broke off to enter the hall on the third. Brian carefully walked down the hall, looking ahead as more people walked past him. As he cautiously turned a corner, Brian could now see down the hall to his room.

No one was waiting there. The thugs had to be pursuing him. Maybe one had gone downstairs and the other up. Whatever they had done, Brian knew he had little time. He raced down the hall, unlocked the door into his room and rushed inside.

Brian quickly scooped up the evidence and left the room. He did not waste him time grabbing any of his other possessions. Each second he remained in his room was dangerous. People were still in the halls walking around so Brian tried to blend in with them. But where to go now?
*******************************************************

Rocky met back up with his partner in the hotel lobby. Roger was furious that Brian had eluded them. Rocky spoke to his partner and they both then exited the hotel. They had to cover the outside, to see when Rocky exited the hotel. They could not let him escape and trying to search the hotel would be futile. If Brian somehow escaped, Rocky knew his employer would be quite irate. Deadly irate.

Twenty minutes passed. Rocky then saw Brian leave the hotel, out the front doors. But Brian did not go far. He stopped only a few feet outside the doors and began to scan the parking lot. Rocky was not worried as he was secure in the shadows. Brian would not notice him.

Rocky made a quick phone call to his partner and told him of Brian's location. Rocky's phone had been specially modified so it did not light up when opened. It would not give away his location. He then told his partner to enter the hotel through another entrance and move toward the lobby, to block off Brian's escape route. When his partner was in place, Rocky would move toward the front entrance, toward Brian.

They would take him no matter who was around. Rocky could not permit failure.

To Be Continued....

The Passwords: Part 4

2008-01-05T00:18:00.000-05:00

After a series of ominous clicks, the safe door opened. He had been correct once again! Brian opened the door wider and looked into the safe.

He removed a notebook, two manila folders stuffed with papers, and two CDs in a jewel case. Brian skimmed through the notebook reading occasional passages. He soon realized the importance of what he had found. The evidence of a deadly crime.

Brian closed the safe and then moved the bookcase back into position. He next placed all of the books back into the bookcase. He wanted to set everything into its original place. Once done, he picked up the materials that had been in the safe and left the house.

Once in his car, Brian drove off, headed back to his hotel, oblivious to the car following him.

About an hour later, Brian reached the Marriott. He parked his car and then went to his room. In his room, Brian began to look more closely at the materials he had found.
*****************************************

Rocky called his employer. “The Secondary left the house carrying a few items, what looked like a notebook and some folders. He has now returned to the hotel. Tonight we will move on him unless he tries to leave before then.”

His employer replied, “It sounds like he recovered the evidence from the cache. Very good. Be discreet but make sure you get the materials. Report back once you have him in custody.”

“Understood.” Said Rocky.
*****************************************

The death of Nathaniel Baxter Forman had been the lead item in newspapers all over the world. His apparent heart attack , despite no prior history of heart problems, had been perplexing. Nathaniel had generally been very healthy and had lived an active life. Yet the doctors had found nothing to indicate that foul play had been involved.

Brian was mesmerized by what he read. The death of Nathaniel had been murder. The entire plot was laid out in the materials before him. Along with sufficient information to prove the veracity of the allegations.

Nathaniel had made his fortune investing in oil, banks and vineyards. The vineyards had been his passion. He had been a very well known wine collector as well as a philanthropist to wine-related causes. He had also been well known for his public battles with his only son, Silas.
Silas had originally been an embarrassment, a drunkard involved in a few high-profile arrests. Nathaniel had gotten Silas into several top-notch rehabilitation facilities though it was almost two years before Silas found sobriety. With that sobriety, Silas changed and started to become mildly anti-alcohol. As time passed, he became a more fervent opponent of alcohol.

He actually called for a legal ban on all alcohol. He circulated petitions to outlaw alcohol sales, to close down bars. He became an activist, a fanatic. And turned against even his own father.

Silas demanded that his father destroy his vineyards and stop promoting wine. Silas took matters public, hitting the talk-show circuit and news programs. He publicly blamed his father for many ills related to alcohol. As time went on, Silas became even more vehement.

Nathaniel was a patient and understanding man. Nathaniel had previously given much support to programs fighting alcoholism and drunk driving. Yet it was not enough for Silas. Eventually, Nathaniel’s patience for the antics of Silas began to wear out, as anyone would, and he threatened to disinherit Silas. Within two weeks, Nathaniel was dead.

The information Brian possessed stated that Silas had murdered Nathaniel, before Nathaniel could alter his will. It outlined exactly how Silas accomplished the vile deed and provided the means to prove his involvement.

There was no question in Brian’s mind what he should do. Nathaniel had been in San Francisco when he was murdered. So Brian would turn over everything to the local police. It was nearly dinner time so Brian decided to wait until the next day to go to the station.

Brian called for room service and then switched on the television
****************************************************

The sun had set an hour ago. Rocky said to his partner, “We move now. We take him alive if possible.”

Without a further word, the two men exited their vehicle and walked towards the door to Brian’s hotel room.

To Be Continued...

The Passwords: Part 3

2008-01-02T16:35:00.000-05:00

Originally, Brian had tried to isolate the key words in the letter, seeking some commonality. Any such puzzle had a key, a common link that would reveal what was concealed. Hunter, dog, sisters, something carrying lightning, horns of the bull, devil, sacrificial victim, dark beast. He spent quite some time pondering the possible connections.

The constellations! That seemed to be the closest fit. The hunter could be Orion and his dog companion could be Sirius. The sisters might be the Pleiades. The creature holding the lighting bolts might be Aquila, the eagle. And the bull could be Taurus. Finally, the sacrificial victim could be Andromeda, chained as a sacrifice for the Kraken.

There were a couple pieces that still did not seem to fit. How would you know the age of the Pleiades? Who was the devil? Where was the forest? But even those pieces seemed to fall into place when he took his speculation one step forward. Yes, the constellations were relevant. Those particular constellations had not been chosen at random. United, the six constellations signified a deeper meaning.

Those six constellations happened to be the names of wines, wines made by Sean Thackrey, a maverick wine maker in California. Those wines had been Brian’s favorites for over five years and he had introduced Roger to them. Roger too had greatly savored those wines. It had been something special they had shared. So it made much sense that Roger would create a puzzle around Thackrey’s wines.

Once Brian examined the puzzle using Sean Thackrey’s wines as the key, everything fell into place.

“Seek the home of the one who elevated the hunter to the apex.” Orion was the hunter, and the top wine, the apex, in Thackrey’s portfolio. Thackrey “elevated” the wine and his home was in Bolinas, California. So that meant the cache was in Bolinas.

“Once there, seek the forest where the hunter walks his canine companion.” Sirius was the canine companion of Orion. When Brian examined the street map of Bolinas, he found a “Dogwood Road”, the forest for the dog. That further narrowed the location of the cache.

“What is the current age of the special sisters and how many sisters exist?” The sisters were the Pleiades, and there were seven of them. The current age could be the current vintage of the wine. But the Pleiades wine did not use a year as a vintage. Instead, each bottling received a Roman numeral and the current number was XV, or 15. Together, the number would be 157. And Brian found a house at 157 Dogwood Road.

“Seek what carries lightning to find the entry.” So how could he gain entrance into the house? Aquila, the eagle, carried lightning bolts. In the front yard of the house was a flagpole, topped by an eagle. By digging at the pole’s base, Brian had found the keys to the house.

“Once within, the horns of the bull will point to your goal.” Taurus, the bull. It was the bullfighting poster that helped him. The horns of the bull pointed to the wall where the safe was hidden.

"You must then offer the proper words to appease the devil or you will end up as if you were a sacrificial victim placed as an offering to some dark beast.” Andromeda had been set as a sacrifice to the Kraken, a dark beast. The Andromeda wine came from Devil’s Gulch Ranch which explained the devil reference. Brian had to input the proper passwords into the keypad on the safe or something terrible would happen.

Perseus had saved Andromeda from her fate. So, was “Perseus” the password? The problem was that the clue stated “words” in the plural. So “Perseus” alone could not be right. As Brian spent more time considering possible passwords, only one pairing made sense. Why not “Sean Thackrey” the name of the wine maker?

Brian did pause before trying to input that name. He felt that he only had a single chance. If he were wrong, everything might end for him. Yet he was driven to follow Roger’s wishes, to make his death meaningful. Brian had to recover the cache.

So he bent down and slowly and carefully input “Sean Thackrey” on the keypad.

To Be Continued...

The Passwords: Part 2

2007-12-29T19:55:00.000-05:00

Part 2

Brian did not arrive in San Francisco until late that evening. He rented a car at Avis and then got a room at the nearby Marriott. He wanted to rest up before his drive north in the morning. Again, he was oblivious to the men following him.

The next morning, Brian had some black tea and a plain bagel before heading out for the day. His destination was only about thirty miles north, but felt the traffic would delay him some.

Luckily, the traffic was not too bad and by the time he reached California Highway 1, it was relatively calm.

The closer Brian got to his destination, the more he relied on his printed directions. He knew that reclusive, local residents sometimes tore down the signs. They were certainly a community that valued their privacy.

Brian finally located the small community of Bolinas and then followed the street map to where he believed was indicated by the clues in Roger’s letter. While driving slowly down the street, he found the specific numbered house as well. If he had solved the enigma of the letter correctly, this should be the location of the cache. Brian parked in front of the house, scanning the yard and building.

Rocky and his partner, who had arrived in San Francisco an hour after midnight, had begun following Brian that morning. When they saw Brian park, they drove slowly past him, noting the number of the house. In this well-off residential area, there were few places to park that would not be noticeable. They did not want any attention so they continued on, seeking an inconspicuous place to park.

While his partner sought a parking spot, Rocky called his employer and updated him.

His employer replied, “That coincides with the information recently pulled from his computer. 157 Dogwood Road, Bolinas. We have not yet found any connection to the Primary or any reason why the Secondary would suddenly fly off to that location. But it is likely the location of the cache. The Primary must have taken precautions and provided the Secondary directions sometime prior to his demise.”

“Should we move in?” asked Rocky.

“No, we want to be sure that is the correct place. Continue to follow him for now. This might only be a waypoint on a longer journey. But if he returns to his hotel, take him then. Just do not lose him.”

“Understood.” Rocky knew the consequences for failure. And he would do absolutely anything to avoid that dire fate.
*************************************

Brian’s eyes fixated on the flagpole to the left of the house, the top bearing a small metal eagle, its wings outspread. The American flag blew in the light breeze. Nothing else in the front yard seemed of any interest to Brian.

Brian exited his vehicle and walked over to the flagpole. He scanned it from top to bottom and did not see anything out of place. So he knelt on the ground and began to dig at the base of the pole, pushing aside the dirt. He dug only for a few minutes before hitting a piece of plastic. He dug around the plastic and soon uncovered a small Ziploc bag containing two keys and a small strip of paper with six numbers on it. He had been correct!

Excited, Brian went to the front door of the spacious home, taking the keys and paper out of the plastic bag. He needed both keys to open the three locks on the sturdy door. Upon opening the door, he saw a keypad on the opposite wall. He quickly went to the keypad, input the numbers on the strip of paper, and deactivated the alarm.

The interior of the home was very nice, tastefully decorated though a bit eclectic. Most of the walls were covered by pictures and posters of various sports, such as boxing posters and football photographs. Brian wandered through the house, seeking the next clue in his quest. He passed through the living room, kitchen, and dining room, finding nothing of interest.

It was in the study that he found what he sought. A bullfighting poster showing a famous toreador waving a red cape before an irate bull.

Brian looked at the bull and noted that its horns pointed to the left, toward a wall covered by a tall bookcase. He spent quite some time searching for secret buttons or levers on or around the bookcase but found none. In the end, he chose to remove all of the books, a large collection of encyclopedias and reference works.

Once all of the books were stacked in numerous piles upon the floor, Brian was able to push the empty bookcase aside. Behind it he then saw a small safe with a key panel. He now needed to input the proper passwords to open the safe. If he input the wrong one, something very bad might happen. He went back over the last line of the puzzle.

“You must then offer the proper words to appease the devil or you will end up as if you were a sacrificial victim placed as an offering to some dark beast.”

Would he get only a single chance to input the proper passwords? Or would it be lenient and allow him at least a couple of attempts? If he failed, what would be the consequences? Was the safe wired to explosives?

Brian had to assume that he only had a single chance. He could not count on any leniency. He had to be very careful with inputting the passwords. He could not even afford to misspell any word. But what were those passwords?

Brian began to analyze the clues once again.

To Be Continued...

The Passwords: Part 1

2007-12-27T06:36:00.000-05:00

Roger was securely bound to a chair in the basement of his home. The wire bit sharply into his wrists and ankles. Three men stood around him, one unpacking numerous implements from a black leather bag. Knives of various lengths, a cattle prod, a small torch, pliers, thin needles.

There would not be any cavalry to save Roger. No rescuers. His fate was set and he could do little to prevent the torture that would soon begin. He could provide them the location and passwords but they would torture him anyways, to ensure that he was not lying. And in the end, they would execute him, no matter whether he told them the truth or not.

He did not want to provide these men with anything of value. If they recovered the cache, then only ill would result. Roger had only a single friend, a lone person he could trust. Anyone else had been potentially compromised. Roger had recently mailed his friend a cryptic letter concealing the location and necessary passwords. He knew that the men were closing in on him and he needed someone else to have the information.

He only hoped that Brian could decipher the letter and recover the cache. The conundrum should be solvable as it relied upon a shared passion. If Brian recovered the cache, he would then know what to do with it. For Roger, it was too late.

As the three burly men whispered to each other, Roger bit down very hard on his tongue. Despite the pain, he persevered until he severed it. Blood gushed forth from his mouth as he moaned in agony. The three men whipped around and saw Roger’s bloody mouth. They tried to staunch the blood but Roger resisted, keeping his mouth closed for as long as possible.

Roger died without revealing his secrets.
**************************************************

The police left Brian’s house and he sat in his kitchen, his head in his hands. He could not believe that Roger had been murdered. The police had questioned him for about two hours, seeking any type of motive for why someone might have killed Roger. Brian felt that the police had no suspects and little evidence. Brian’s answers had not been of much help.

Brian though had not been fully honest with the police. He had held back a single fact, but a quite significant one. Four days before Roger’s murder, Brian had received a strange letter from him. The contents of the letter had disturbed Brian and he had immediately called Roger to discuss it. Roger had been quite abrupt, denying that he even knew Brian. Brian had hung up, even more confused.

Five minutes later, Roger had called back, apologizing. But Roger did not explain the letter. He simply told him that if anything happened to him, that Brian would need to decipher the letter and seek out what was hidden. He also warned him not to share the information with anyone, anyone at all. It was safest that way.

Because of their long friendship, the trust they shared, Brian felt it imperative that he keep the fact of Roger’s letter out of what he told the police. Brian also felt safer that way. If someone had murdered Roger, maybe the letter was part of that reason. And if so, the fewer who knew that Brian possessed the letter the better.

Brian rose from the kitchen chair and went to his study. He took Roger’s letter out of his desk and read it once again.

Brian:

If something should happen to me, and I am no longer around, I must rely upon you for an important task. You must acquire my secret cache and then do what is right with it.

Seek the home of the one who elevated the hunter to the apex. Once there, seek the forest where the hunter walks his canine companion. What is the current age of the special sisters and how many sisters exist? Seek what carries lightning to find the entry. Once within, the horns of the bull will point to your goal. You must then offer the proper words to appease the devil or you will end up as if you were a sacrificial victim placed as an offering to some dark beast.

Thank you my dear friend and one day we shall toast each other in another realm.

Roger

The first paragraph was relatively straight forward. It was the second paragraph that was cryptic. When Brian had first read the letter, he had tried to analyze it by assessing what he knew of Roger. He thought that might help him decipher the strange references.

Roger was a salesman, a vendor of rare spices. His job required much travel, all over the world, seeking sources for exotic spices. He enjoyed watching football, especially the New England Patriots. He also enjoyed comedies, especially old episodes of Saturday Night Live. He preferred seafood to beef, and duck to chicken. He read mainly biographies and played poker at the Foxwoods Casino. Yet none of these interests seemed to help Brian resolve the conundrum.

So Brian then considered that maybe Roger had keyed the letter to his interests. Maybe the clues were meant to be significant to Brian predilections. Though it would likely be something that Roger understood as well. When Brian analyzed the letter from thus angle, the pieces seemed to fit together. It centered on something Brian had introduced to Roger, something they had shared and enjoyed together. It made sense. And if so, Brian now needed to fly out to California, to San Francisco.

Brian went online and made reservations for a flight later that day. He also printed out several maps. As he examined one of the maps, he became even more assured that he had correctly figured out much of the puzzle. Some of the puzzle though could not be confidently answered until he reached his destination.

Once Brian finished packing a small bag, he left his home and drove to Logan Airport in Boston. He was unaware that two men were following him in a gray sedan.
*********************************************

The two men from the gray sedan followed Brian to the airport but were unable to get tickets on the same flight. So they booked a later one, calling ahead to associates in San Francisco. Those associates would watch Brian when he landed, and follow him until the two men arrived. One of the two men then called his employer.

“This is Rocky. A few hours after the police visited the Secondary, he drove to the airport. He is on a flight to San Fran. We could not get onto his flight so we are booked on another that leaves in about two hours. There will be men waiting to follow the Secondary when he arrives and before we get there.“ He reported in his gruff voice.

His employer responded, “The house is being searched. They have not found anything yet but are still trying to access his computer. There is some minor security on it which should be bypassed soon enough. Do not take him until he leads you to the cache. Then he can be eliminated.”

“Understood.” Rocky then closed his cell phone and told his partner about what had been said.

To Be Continued....

The Perfect Wine

2007-09-23T22:46:00.000-04:00

Andrew tried to relax in the soft leather chair on a private jet as it descended towards Athens International Airport. He was too anxious though, eager for his upcoming meeting with Nestor, a Greek wine maker who specialized in Xynomavro. This meeting could be the finale of a laborious quest.

For almost thirty years, Andrew had been a wine connoisseur, an obsessed oenophile of discriminating tastes. His quest had long been to seek the most rarefied of wines, those bottles containing liquid bliss, the epitome of exquisiteness. He had traveled the globe, seeking ever rarer bottlings, the most unique of cult wines, always hoping to find the most elusive of Grails. The Perfect Wine.

Andrew’s father, Justin, had unwittingly made some keen investments. So, upon his father’s passing, Andrew inherited a sizeable fortune. He was thus able to exist as a dilettante, working only when it pleased him. He could dabble in whatever leisurely pursuits caught his fancy.

Beside the financial windfall, it was also the responsibility of his father for Andrew’s passion with wine. Justin had introduced him to the mysteries of the grape, beginning with small glasses of wine with dinner when he was ten. At first, Andrew enjoyed the wine more for its forbidden nature as many of his friends were not allowed any alcohol at all. But as his teenage years began to slip by, he started to acquire more of an appreciation for the taste of the grape.

While attending college, Andrew began an immersion into the realm of wine. He quickly surpassed his father in knowledge of viniculture and viticulture. He ravenously devoured books and magazines on wine, quenching his thirst for knowledge as well as his physical thirst. He spoke to sommeliers and other oenophiles, questioning them about every facet of the grape.

His tastings began to expand past the narrow confines of his father’s repertoire. He soon realized that Justin’s tastes were more plebian in nature. Where Justin’s tastes ran to common French and Italian wines, cheap Beaujolais and Chianti, Andrew experimented with more expensive wines, as well as wines from countries all over the world. There was no limit to his horizons.

Over the successive years, he sampled literally thousands of wines, including the world’s finest. First growth Bordeaux, California cult Cabernets, the finest Australia Shiraz, Spain’s famed reds, noted Italian wines, sweet d'Yquem. He hunted down the best and rarest of vintages.

Andrew considered his nose and palate to be highly refined, to be able to carefully analyze the quality of any wine. But, through all of his tastings, he had yet to find any wine that he considered perfect.

Others believed there were perfect wines, those which scored the highest possible rating under their various systems. Yet those ratings were not persuasive to Andrew. He might consider them near perfect but he felt they all possessed minor or even minute imperfections which were sufficient to mar them from being perfect. He even had doubts that a perfect wine could exist.

In addition, perfection might be too subjective of a concept. What one man considers perfect under his system may not be considered so by a different man under a different system, or even the same system. A truly perfect wine should be one that would appeal to all equally, or at least all with a sufficiently developed palate. Andrew did not care about the opinions of the masses, those who quaffed liter after liter of cheap jug or box wine.

Andrew’s quest had come with a price. He had eventually reached a point where most wine bored him. It seemed that his nose and palate craved only the best. Anything less and the experience was miserable. He had become the most demanding of task masters, requiring the strictest of standards from vintners.

He had failed though to find a wine that truly transcended him. The elusive, and maybe illusory, Grail of his wine quest. Though now that Grail might not be so illusory.

In the rarified oenophile circles that Andrew traveled, there was always hushed gossip and whispered rumor revolving around unique cult wines, those unavailable to the general public. Small production, hand-crafted, elite quality wines. Extremely expensive. Yet none balked at the prices as they craved only the best. Andrew had the privilege to taste many such cult wines.

Yet no perfection. But there was still hope.

Gnothi Seaton.

Two Greek words which refer to one of the Delphic maxims: Know Thyself. Ancient words once carved in front of the shrine of the Delphic Oracle so that all supplicants could view them. In addition, it was a key Socratic principle, the path to enlightment, to perfection. Powerful words. Powerful idea.

It was also the whispered name of a mythical wine, an elixir of the gods. An alleged perfect wine.

Five years ago, Andrew heard the first inklings about this mysterious wine. At the time, it was vague gossip, hearsay multiple times removed. Idle boastings. Foolish ramblings which few ever took seriously.

But over the next years, he began to hear more and more about Gnothi Seaton. And began to listen more carefully, to collect and analyze every bit of information he could locate. Was it real or merely an oenophilic myth?

He interviewed anyone who claimed any knowledge of the wine, anyone who might be able to provide the slightest clue to its existence. And during this time, he compiled a profile of the wine, those elements which seemed the most probable. Though he would never know for sure until he actually found the wine.

Some of his fellow wine lovers felt that Andrew was delusional for pursuing the rumors. For all their talk, the vast majority did not believe in its existence. It made for intriguing speculation and discussion, but mainly on a theoretical level. Though Andrew could not rationally explain his reasons even to himself, he knew there had to be some truth amidst the myth of Gnothi Seaton.

And now he believed he had found it.

After arriving at Athens International, Andrew hired a taxi to take him to the Polis Grand Hotel. Once there, and rather than check in, Andrew went to the lobby bar. It was there he was to meet Nestor.

At 11:15 p.m., Nestor finally arrived, almost two hours late. The tall, thin winemaker apologized briefly. Andrew was simply glad that he had showed and did not complain about his tardiness.

Nestor then handed Andrew a map, with a tiny village circled. Beside that village was written the word “Kiron.” Andrew then gave Nestor a suitcase filled with cash, a sizeable amount. Nestor smiled, took the case and departed.

Andrew immediately left the hotel and took a taxi to the nearest car rental facility. He would not waste any time in getting to the tiny village of Telenikos, north of Sparta. It was only about a two hour drive.

It actually took Andrew almost four hours to reach Telenikos as some of the side roads were not marked. Telenikos certainly did not advertise its location. The darkness of the night certainly did not assist Andrew.

Telenikos was a tiny village, a handful of scattered, ramshackle buildings. Andrew parked just outside the village limits and took a short nap, waiting for morning to arrive.

As the sun broached the horizon, Andrew woke and drove into the heart of the remote village. He exited the car and began questioning the residents, seeking a man named Kiron. It was obvious that this was a poor village, inhabited by farmers who had difficulty making an adequate living.

It did not take long for Andrew to be directed to a short, gnarled man, a wizened vintner. Andrew found Kiron sitting on a tree stump by the village well. Kiron was garbed in a thread-bare tunic. It might once have been white, but that was a long time ago.

Andrew stopped and stared when he first saw Kiron. It was he who allegedly crafted Gnothi Seaton. He could be the perfect vintner. It was also rumored that Kiron was almost twenty-five hundred years old. Andrew did not believe that in the least but was praying that the Gnothi Seaton was real and would be what he had long sought.

Andrew slowly approached Kiron who raised his head as Andrew approached. Kiron squinted at Andrew but said nothing.

“Are you Kiron?” said Andrew in his shaky Greek.

“Yes” replied Kiron in accented English. “You do not need to speak Greek.”

“I seek Gnothi Seaton.” Andrew was too impatient to make small talk. He also did not want to waste any time if the Grail was within reach.

“What do you know about it? Tell me all you know.” Replied Kiron.

Andrew complied, describing all he had learned, each rumor and legend. While he spoke, Kiron occasionally interjected a question. Andrew answered the best that he could. He then concluded with an explanation of his quest, of his desire for the perfect wine.

Andrew understood that Kiron would see his desperation. He was setting him up to be deceived, to be conned. Yet Andrew was not concerned about that. He had faith that he had arrived at his destination.

When Andrew had finished, Kiron paused and looked into Andrew’s eyes. Andrew squirmed beneath the old man’s penetrating gaze. Though it probably was less a minute, Andrew felt as if an hour had passed.

Kiron smiled and broke his silence. “I will sell you one bottle. But it will cost you seventeen million dollars.”

Andrew’s eyes widened in shock. Seventeen million for a single bottle? That was nearly all of his net worth. How could any wine be worth that much, even a perfect wine? And how did Kiron know he could afford it? What exactly would this old man do with all those millions? He lived in a dusty old village in dirty clothes. If he had sold the Gnothi Seaton before, then what did he do with all the money he would have received? Was he merely a fraud?

Before Andrew could respond, Kiron continued. “There is a guarantee. Payment only has to be made if you are completely satisfied with the wine. If you are not, you owe me nothing.”

Andrew was taken aback. The guarantee eliminated nearly any chance of deception on behalf of Kiron. Andrew could always lie though. He could drink the wine, enjoy it, and then claim it did not fully satisfy him and owe the little vintner nothing. There was no risk to Andrew.

“Yet I must give you a warning as well.” The voice of the vintner seemed to deepen as he spoke. “I urge you to pay careful attention to this warning. Ignore it only at your own peril.”

Goosebumps spread across Andrew’s arms as he listened to Kiron. Though it might only be hyperbole, Andrew still had some concerns.

“Gnothi Seaton is a blend of rare, indigenous Greek grapes. These varietals have existed for thousands of years but are nearly forgotten now. Do not ask more about the grapes as I will not say more.” Said Kiron, still in his deep, almost threatening tone.

Andrew had not seen any vines visible in the area of the village so the vineyard must be elsewhere, maybe a remote mountain valley somewhere close. He was familiar with the usual Greek varietals, such as Agiorgitiko, Xynomavros, and Kotsifali, but knew there were many more that he did not know.

Kiron continued, his eyes staring off into space as if he was transporting himself back in time. “The wine is derived from an ancient recipe, from a wine that some of Homer’s heroes once drank. That recipe has been passed down through a single family, always on the paternal side, over thousands of years. A single case of the wine is made during any ten year span, and sometimes not even that much. The vines produce very few grapes, and they are very sensitive to the weather.

“Gnothi Seaton is Perfection, the Ideal Wine, the Form upon which all other wines are but pale shades. Yet such perfection comes with a price. It will ruin you for all other wines. You will never again desire to drink any other wine. After such perfection, you will never settle for any less.

Andrew understood. He already felt that way about many wines. He currently could only drink the best of wines. So, this warning did not seem that bad to him. He was about to speak but Kiron continued talking.

“Now, I will only ever sell you a single bottle. Ever. Not matter what you are willing to pay. You will have but a single bottle of perfection. And then never again will wine touch your lips. It would be a once in a lifetime experience. But afterwards, there would be nothing but the memory. And we all know how quickly memory can fade over time.

“And now we get to the warning.”

Andrew was perplexed, wondering what was coming next. Was not being unable to drink any other wine enough of a peril?

The vintner’s tone changed, becoming almost sympathetic. “Every single person who has chosen to purchase a bottle of Gnothi Seaton has committed suicide within one month of drinking the wine, usually the same day they finish the wine. After such perfection, they felt they had nothing left to live for. Their quests had ended. They wanted to die when the memory of the perfect wine was still fresh in their minds. Losing the memory of that perfect wine would be a horrible fate. So, if you buy this wine, you will also soon die.”

Andrew stared at Kiron and believed him. Though he had nothing to verify his words, they rang of truth. His eyes did not lie. They shone with ancient knowledge, with specialized lore. He emanated credibility.

The price of the wine was now a minor consideration. The primary issue now was whether Andrew was willing to drink a wine, knowing he would probably be dead within a month afterwards. Perfection at the cost of oblivion. He would be paying millions to substantially shorten his life. He would essentially be paying Kiron to kill him. In a manner of speaking.

If Andrew did not buy the wine, how could he live knowing the perfect wine existed but that he did not possess it? Would that be a worse fate than death? What if he bought the wine but did not drink it now, rather saving it until he was older, and closer to death? Could he wait that long? What would happen if he died suddenly, not having tasted the wine? Such an agonizing decision.

Andrew chose to stay the night in the village while contemplating his future. He enjoyed some succulent spicy lamb yet refrained from tasting any of their wines. He could not do so when he was so near to perfection. His sleep was restless, the little he was able to get. He had to decide in the morning, one way or another.

In the end, Andrew had no real choice. His obsession controlled his life, his thought processes. From the moment the wine was offered to him, his fate was sealed. He, like those before him, had followed a one-way path to the object of his Quest, a path leading to success and death. The inevitability of it all consumed him. No matter the cost, he had to feed his addiction. Like some low-life junkie hooked on smack.

The next morning, Andrew’s hands shook as he signed a contract concerning payment for the wine. The gnomish Kiron smiled as he handed over the Gnothi Seaton over to Andrew, having already known his response. It was more a knowing smile than a mocking one.

The wine was in a standard Bordeaux style bottle with a very simple, hand-written label. The label said only “Gnothi Seaton.” There was no vintage date, no name of a winery or winemaker.

Andrew took the bottle, getting a wooden box in which to put it for safe-keeping. He could not risk an accident, the chance of breaking the bottle. He returned to his rental car and headed back to Athens. As he drove, he thought of all the decisions he now needed to make.

Where should he drink the wine? What would be the perfect setting? Outside or inside? Where do you drink perfection? With or without food? If with food, then what food should be paired with it?

Should he share the wine with anyone? If so, should he charge them as well? Could he live with the guilt of knowing that whoever shared the wine with him would end up a suicide? Should he even care knowing his own life would end soon as well? Or should he be selfish and drink it all himself? It would be the last wine that he ever drank.

He returned home, to Boston. Ten maddening days passed. The wine consumed his every waking thought, as well as filling his dreams. The anxiety of waiting, of making the preparations to drink the wine, took their toll on him. He needed to drink it soon or he might go mad. Although many might already consider him mad for having bought the wine. But, he did want the perfect experience so that took preparation and time.

In the end, he decided on drinking the wine at his home, within his study. It was where he had drunk many a fine wine, a room of dark leather and mahogany. And he would be alone. The entire bottle would be for his pleasure only.

He chose to decant the wine, to sieve out any sediment as well as to allow it to breathe for a time. There was no foil or wrapping covering the cork. The cork was firmly embedded in the neck of the bottle though. He used a corkscrew to carefully extricate the cork, wary that the cork might be brittle. But that was not the case and it smoothly slid out of the neck.

Once the cork was removed, his nostrils were caressed by the incredible aroma of the Gnothi Seaton. He wasted little time in pouring the wine into a crystal decanter, the rich liquid cascading through the steel mesh strainer above the decanter. As he poured the wine, he inhaled in the aroma, his nose very close to the wine.

How to describe the indescribable? He had never smelled such complexity in any wine before. There were the typical fruit smells, from cherries to strawberries to black currants. There were hints of chocolate, smoke and leather. Coconut, vanilla, and even butterscotch. There were smells he could not identify, but which were tantalizingly pleasurable. These smells wafted in and out, melding and separating, as each sniff brought something different to his senses. There was only harmony in the differing smells. Everything just seemed to fit.

But that was not all of it. For the mélange of scents also triggered a torrent of memories within him, a montage of rapid flashes, joyous moments in his life. What an incredible rush. The aroma simply placed him in the perfect mood, elevating his pleasure, dispelling any negativity. There was only happiness, utter bliss. Any depression was immediately banished.

With almost inhuman restraint, Andrew prevented myself from immediately drinking any of the wine. He let it sit in the decanter, letting it breathe, letting it develop, loosen. Yet he could not take his eyes off the rich, dark liquid. It sparkled with vibrancy, with life. The colors continually shifted and almost glowed. It was hypnotic.

Five hours passed as though it were but a moment. He realized that he had been staring at the wine the entire time, mesmerized by its contents. It was now time to taste the wine, to sip its tantalizing contents. Andrew carefully poured some of the dark red wine into his finest crystal Riedel, filling it only about one-third of the way.

He held the stem of the glass and then rotated the base, swirling the contents of the wine, aerating it. He scrutinized the legs, the remnants of moisture on the inside of the glass from where the wine had swirled. He held little stock in the legs, seeing them merely as an indicator of the alcohol content of the wine. And these legs seemed to indicate only a moderate alcohol level.

He then stuck his nose deep within the bowl of the glass, inhaling deeply. The scents that he had detected earlier when he uncorked the wine were still present, though more intense and vivacious. They once again sparked a flood of memories, a rapid montage of the highlights of his life. No other wine had ever touched him like this one. And that was merely with its nose.

Impatiently, Andrew raised the glass to his lips, tilting it, letting the dark wine flow into his mouth. He held a mouthful of wine as he placed the glass back onto the table. He swished the wine around in his mouth, letting it touch and flow over every part of his palate. At one point, he opened his mouth a tiny bit, sucking in a bit of air, continuing to move the rich liquid around.

Every inch of his mouth was alive with flavor, luscious fruits on the front palate, delicate tannins, chocolate, smoke, vanilla, and countless other flavors. And with each moment, the wine transformed, a revolving litany of tastes and variations. He had never had a wine so complex, so multitudinous in its variations. Yet it all meshed into a harmonious whole. There was not a discordant note in the entire liquid song.

Yet the flavors were not everything for even more memories were now triggered within him, a slew of feelings, reminisces, and recollections. Each moment a time when he was happiest, when he felt that the world existed only for him, when the light was the brightest. It made him realize how fantastic his life had been, how the highlights of his life far outweighed any negative experiences. He understood himself, his experiences, his relationships, in a new perspective. This wine had encapsulated the perfection of his life. It was rapture and bliss.

He finally swallowed the wine, reveling in its extremely long finish which seemed to stretch on for many minutes. One taste of this wine had elated him beyond belief. Finishing the glass would make him ecstatic. And that is what he did, reveling in each mouthful.

The wine was perfection and had fulfilled every promise. He could not have asked for anything more from a wine. Absolute satisfaction. It had been worth every dollar he had paid, and knowing what he did now, he would have paid even more.

The wine had also fulfilled the destiny of its name, Gnothi Seaton. Know Thyself. Andrew now knew myself, his life, the culmination of his purpose. It had opened his mind, expanded his horizons and explained so much. It had been a burst of enlightenment. Satori.

He also realized that this wine would have done the same for anyone. It would have transformed whoever tasted it. There was no subjectivity here. This wine would have been perfect for everyone.

Over the course of the rest of the evening, he savored the rest of the bottle, until only a few remnants of sediment remained. A perfect evening. One that he wished would not end.

It was only when the bottle was empty though that harsh reality intervened once more, threatening his paradise. He knew that his life would never be better than it just had been. Everything else would be a downward slide away from perfection. Yes, he had memories but they would fade with time, getting sullied and tainted. How could someone who had tasted perfection ever be satisfied with less?

Andrew understood why all the others had committed suicide. What was left to live for? They had seen perfection in the bottle and knew they would never have that again. Far better to take that perfection to the grave rather than plod through the rest of their years clinging to the imperfections. To them, life would have been miserable knowing that each day only brought them further away from perfection.

He had prepared for the eventuality of suicide. A pistol was on the mantel, loaded with a single bullet. He knew that he could never really enjoy another glass of wine. His palate had been ruined forever. Yet he had tasted the perfect wine, and that was an accomplishment. Why not just end it all now, secure in that knowledge? It would be easy.

Andrew walked over to the mantel and placed his right hand upon the pistol. He understood so much now, comprehension filling his mind. He realized the obsession that motivated some men, that singular drive that made them crave the perfect wine. And he could empathize with their desire, once they had tasted perfection, to end their lives. It made such sense to them. What else was there to live for?

Gnothi Seaton. Know Thyself. That wine had brought him self-knowledge, had opened the deepest recesses of his soul and revealed to him the secrets of his life. And with that self-knowledge, he saw the parallels to those who had gone before, those who had tasted perfection and then taken their lives.

But he also saw the differences.

Where they had seen a room with no doors, no exits, Andrew saw a vast chamber with a myriad of portals. Yes, wine had been his obsession. It had consumed so much of his life. And he had now partaken of the Grail of his wine quest. But as that obsession had ended, he realized he was capable of more. Why couldn’t he simply redirect that singular motivation toward a different area? Suicide was not an option for him.

Tomorrow, Andrew would start a Quest for the Perfect Food.