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horror at the very thought of a world-beating English sparkler, Ronald and I agreed that it would be a bit of fun to take you up on your challenge in another way. So, in five years’ time, we’re going to have our own private Judgment of Paris.”
    Hilarian raised an eyebrow. The Judgment of Paris was the name given to the infamous Paris wine tasting of 1976. Prior to that date, it was taken as gospel that French wines were the best in the world and, to prove it conclusively, a wine merchant named Steven Spurrier organized a blind tasting comparing French wines to their American equivalents. The idea was to put the upstart Yanks in their place. Eight of the nine tasting judges were French. And they judged the best wines to be American. When the competition was reprised several years later, some of the French houses tactfully refused to take part.
    “Weren’t there three competitors in the original judgment?” Hilarian mused. “I mean in the myth, of course.”
    “Exactly,” said Odile. “You’re not the only one who had a classical education. Aphrodite, Athena and Hera.”
    Hilarian gave Odile a small round of applause.
    “And so we will judge wines from three different nations. All made from this year’s harvest. Champagne for my country. ‘Champagne’ from the United States for Ronald here.” Odile made little quotation marks in the air to remind her companions that she fully subscribed to the French view that no sparkling wine produced outside the Champagne region should ever be called by that name. “And from your country, Hilarian, a sparkling white wine. Whatever you want to call it.” She flicked her hand dismissively. “Or if you prefer, we can make you an honorary Italian and you could champion Asti Spumante instead. Might give you a better chance.”
    “Ha ha ha,” said Hilarian.
    “What do you think?”
    “It’s not what I wagered,” said Hilarian.
    “No,” said Ronald. “It gives you better odds. You only have to beat two other wines with your chosen vintage.”
    “How much?” Hilarian ventured.
    “Let’s stick with your original stake,” said Odile. “Fifty thousand dollars each.”
    Hilarian tried not to wince. Fifty thousand dollars. What was that in pounds?
    “Don’t be ridiculous,” said Ronald to Odile.
    Thank goodness, thought Hilarian.
    “It’s got to be fifty thousand sterling!”
    “Even better,” Odile laughed.
    “Are you serious?” Hilarian asked her.
    “Of course,” said Odile. “Winner takes all. Agreed? I’m going to buy myself a nice little Mercedes with your cash, boys.”
    “I wouldn’t be too cocky, Odile,” said Ronald. “You remember 1976.”
    “Not as well as you, old man,” said Odile. “Are you in, Hilarian?”
    He couldn’t afford to be. He had an ex-wife, two teenage sons to put through university and a telephone-number overdraft. But the moment of reckoning was five whole years away. Maybe he would have fifty grand to spare by then. He didn’t want to look a party pooper. Or give Ginsburg a reason to think he wasn’t doing quite as well as him. And perhaps … a tiny flicker of optimism tickled the back of Hilarian’s brain. His wasn’t a
totally
impossible position. Some of the finest palates in the world had mistaken the Sussex sparkler Nyetimber for vintage champagne. And if he did win, what he could do with a hundred thousand pounds … 
    “I’m in,” he said as confidently as he could. “You know I think East Sussex has a terroir that easily rivals that of the Marne. And if there’s one good thing about global warming, it’s that it has been fabulous for the Great Britain grape. We’ve had a couple of outstanding years. I’d be happy to put a hundred thousand pounds on an English sparkler.”
    “Then let’s raise the bet!” said Ginsburg.
    “No,” said Hilarian quickly. “Really, fifty grand is fine. I wouldn’t want you to have to raid your retirement fund, Ronald.”
    “Then it’s settled,” said Odile.