The Vintage Caper

racks of bottles and the neatly stacked wooden cases. “The ’61 Latour, for instance, would fetch between $100,000 and $120,000 a case, the ’83 Margaux around $10,000, and the ’70 Pétrus—well, Pétrus is always big numbers. I guess that’s worth about $30,000, if you can get it. Every time a bottle of that vintage is drunk, the scarcity pushes the price up just as much as the quality of the wine.” He refilled their glasses and studied the fine spiral of bubbles rising upward. “But to answer your question: no, I’m not tempted to sell.” He smiled. “To me, it’s like an art collection. Liquid art.”
    “Ballpark figure,” said Evans. “What do you think your collection is worth?”
    “Right now? The Bordeaux is worth around three million. That will go up as time goes by. Like I said, scarcity pushes price.”
    The photographer, who had exhausted the creative possibilities of wine bottles and cellar racks, now advanced toward Roth, light meter in hand, to take a reading. “Portrait time, Mr. Roth,” he said. “Could we have you over by the door, maybe holding a bottle?”
    Roth thought for a moment. And then, with infinite care, took a magnum of the 1970 Pétrus from its resting place. “How about this? Ten thousand bucks, if you can ever find it.”
    “Perfect. Now, over to your left, so we get the light on your face, and try holding the bottle up against your shoulder.” Click click . “Great. Bottle a bit higher. A little smile. Fabulous. Terrific.” Click click click . And so it went on for another five minutes, giving Roth a chance to vary his expressions from happy connoisseur to serious wine investor.
    Roth and Evans left the photographer to pack up his equipment and waited for him outside the cellar. “Got everything you want?” asked Roth.
    “Absolutely,” said the journalist. “It’s going to be a really nice piece.”
    • • •
    And so it was. A full page in the Weekend section (headlined, predictably, “The Grapes of Roth”), with a large photograph of Roth cradling his magnum and several smaller shots of the cellar, accompanied by a suitably detailed and flattering text. Not only was it flattering, but it was also filled with the kind of detail wine lovers expect, from the number of bottles produced for each vintage to tasting notes from experts like Broadbent and Parker; from grape varieties to more arcane matters like the dates when picking commenced, periods of maceration, soil conditions, and tannin content. And, sprinkled throughout the text like truffles in foie gras , there were the prices. These were usually expressed by the case or by the bottle, but sometimes by smaller, more affordable measures, as in $250 a glass or even (for the Yquem) $75 a sip.
    Roth, after reading and rereading the article, was more than satisfied. He thought that he came across as an informed and serious man. Nothing flashy or nouveau riche, as long as the reader disregarded the passing references to the lodge in Aspen and Roth’s fondness for private jets. But even these were perfectly acceptable, indeed quite normal, in the upper reaches of twenty-first-century California society. So, all in all, Roth was confident that the piece had achieved its purpose. The world—or at least the world that counted, his world—had been made aware of the fact that he was not only a wealthy and successful businessman, but also an aficionado of vintages, a veritable patron of the grape.
    This was confirmed many times in the days following the appearance of the article. The maître d’s and sommeliers of Roth’s favorite restaurants treated him with an extra touch of deference, and nodded approvingly at his choices from the wine list. Business acquaintances called him seeking advice about their own, less distinguished, cellars. Magazines requested interviews. The piece had also run in the International Herald Tribune , with a worldwide circulation. Overnight, it seemed, Danny Roth had become the wine guy.

Two

    It was Christmas Eve in Los Angeles, and all the traditional sights of that most joyous of seasons were on display. Santas in sunglasses—some wearing red shorts as a concession to the heat—rang their bells and wagged their false beards as they set up camp in the prosperous parts of town. In Beverly Hills, a few of the more festive lawns had been dusted with artificial snow imported from China. Rodeo Drive was a-twinkle with the glint of platinum American Express cards. A bar on