Tainted Tokay Read Online Free PDF Page A

from the hotel, for a performance of Mussorgsky’s Night on Bald Mountain . The casting promised t o be brilliant.
    The performance, however, failed to deliver. Elisabeth did a poor job of hiding her yawns, and even though Benjamin enjoyed the symphony, the orchestration wasn’t as magical as it was in the movie Fantasia , which he had s een as a child.
    Only Consuela had risen to her feet and burst into applause. Claude, joining her in the standing ovation, beamed at his darling, thrilled that he had given her an evening to remember. Benjamin and Elisabeth ex changed a look.
    Afterward, at Walter Bauer, a tiny restaurant on a narrow street in Old Vienna, the two couples sat next to a dark wood-paneled wall and admired the va ulted ceilings.
    â€œClaude, you surprise me. I would have thought the two-Michelin-star Steirereck was more to your taste,” Benjamin said.
    â€œI didn’t want you to get too distracted by the thirty-five thousand bottles they have in their wine cellar. Besides, I consulted w ith Elisabeth.”
    Elisabeth smiled. “Benjamin, you’ll like this one. It’s unpretentious. It has a Michelin star, and the owner has mentored some of Austria’s finest chefs. It ’s a good fit.”
    They ordered a mix of traditional dishes, served with flair, and enjoyed a lush aged Blaufränkisch, one of Austria’s champ ion red wines.
    Claude swirled and sipped. “It’s quite subtle.”
    â€œNote the blackberries and citr us-like spice,” 
Benjamin said.
    Elisabeth studied the robe and aromas. After a few moments, she tasted the wine and swished it in her mouth, as Benjamin had taught her. She grinned when she put the glass down. “Now, that’s what I call a burst of tann ins midpalate.”
    Consuela didn’t contribute to the discussion. She was drinking water. An uncomfortable silence fel l on the group.
    Claude shifted in his seat. “Why is it, Benjamin, that I’ve never heard anything about Austrian wines before?”
    â€œBecause of scandal, my friend. In the nineteen eighties, some Austrian winemakers were lacing their wines with diethylene glycol—or antifreeze, if you prefer. They did it to make late-harvest wines seem more full-bodie d and sweeter.”
    Elisabeth and Claude fr owned and stop- 
ped sipping.
    â€œDon’t worry. They were caught. But the Austrian wine industry collapsed and needed well over a decade to recover—with the help of stricter laws.”
    Elisabeth turned to Consuela. “Do try the wine.”
    Consuela pursed her lips and batted her 
eyelashes.
    â€œOh, why not?” the woman said. “It is vacation.”
    A glass of wine loosened her up a bit, and Consuela started talking about herself. She mentioned Caracas and Buenos Aires and hinted at a lifestyle strewn with travels and grueling tours—she was a dancer. Benjamin listened intently, but much of her past remained a mystery. He looked to Claude, hoping their host would fill them in, but the man remaine d tight-lipped.
    â€œWere you born in Buenos Aires?” E lisabeth asked.
    â€œNo, in La Plata,” Consuela said. “It’s not f ar from there.”
    â€œMy husband often goes to Mendoza to make wine for the Bordeaux producers who have vineyards in Argentina, but he has always refused to take me along.”
    â€œElisabeth, how can you say that?” Benjamin said, pretending to be offended.
    â€œYes, of course, you’ve promised that we’ll go someday. But even though you’re still an English gentleman at heart, thanks to your father, you’ve picked up some less-than-desirable Gascon traits: when you throw out an invitation, my dear, you never specify the month or even the year.”
    Claude came to his friend’s defense. “Why is it that significant others always want to tag along on work trips? No matter how exotic the destination, there’s never enough