Barker took one more sip. “Montagny Tête de Cuvée 1985,” he declared with the confidence of an expert, “bottled by Louis Latour.” We all looked toward Hamilton, who was unable to hide a triumphant grin; but in contrast, the butler’s face went ashen-gray.
“You’re right,” said Hamilton. “It was bottled by Latour. But that’s about as clever as telling us that Heinz bottles tomato sauce. But as my father died in 1984 I can assure you, sir, you are mistaken.” He looked round at his butler to confirm the statement. Adams’ face remained inscrutable. Barker turned over the card. It read: “Chevalier Montrachet Les Demorselles 1981.” He stared at the card, obviously unable to believe his eyes.
“One down and three to go,” Hamilton declared, oblivious to Barker’s reaction. The footmen reappeared and took away the fish plates, to replace them a few moments later with lightly cooked grouse. While its accompaniments were being served Barker did not speak. He just stared at the other three wines, not even hearing his host inform Henry who his guests were to be for the first shoot of the season the following week. I remember that the names corresponded roughly with the ones Hamilton had suggested for his ideal Cabinet.
Barker nibbled at the grouse as he waited for Adams to fill a glass from the first decanter. He had not finished his terrine after the opening failure, only taking the occasional sip of water.
“As Adams and I spent a considerable part of our morning selecting the wines for this little challenge, let us hope you can do better this time,” said Hamilton, unable to hide his satisfaction. Barker once again began to swirl the wine round. He seemed to take longer this time, sniffing it several times before putting his glass to his lips and finally sipping from it.
A smile of instant recognition appeared on his face and he did not hesitate. “Château la Louvière 1978.”
“This time you have the correct year, sir, but you have insulted the wine.”
Immediately Barker turned the card over and read it out incredulously: Château Lafite 1978. Even I knew that to be one of the finest clarets one might ever hope to taste. Barker lapsed into a deep silence and continued to nibble at his food. Hamilton appeared to be enjoying the wine almost as much as the half-time score. “One hundred pounds to me, nothing to the President of the Wine Society,” he reminded us. Embarrassed, Henry and I tried to keep the conversation going until the third course had been served—a lemon and lime soufflé which could not compare in presentation or subtlety with one of Suzanne’s offerings.
“Shall we move on to my third challenge?” asked Hamilton crisply.
Once again, Adams picked up a bottle and began to pour the wine. I was surprised to see that he spilled a little as he filled Barker’s glass.
“Clumsy oaf,” barked Hamilton.
“I do apologize, sir,” said Adams. He removed the spilled drop from the wooden table with a napkin. As he did so he stared at Barker with a desperate look that I felt sure had nothing to do with the spilling of the wine. However, he remained mute as he continued to circle the table.
Once again Barker went through his ritual, the swirling, the sniffing and finally the tasting. This time he took even longer. Hamilton became impatient and drummed the great Jacobean table with his podgy fingers.
“It’s a Sauternes,” began Barker.
“Any halfwit could tell you that,” said Hamilton. “I want to know the year and the vintage.”
His guest hesitated.
“Château Guiraud 1976,” he said flatly.
“At least you are consistent,” said Hamilton. “You’re always wrong.”
Barker flicked over the card.
“Château d’Yquem 1980,” he said in disbelief. It was a vintage that I had only seen at the bottom of wine lists in expensive restaurants and had never had the privilege of tasting. It puzzled me greatly that Barker could have been wrong about the Mona Lisa of wines.
Barker quickly turned toward Hamilton to protest and must have seen Adams standing behind his master, all six foot three of the man trembling, at exactly the same time I did. I wanted Hamilton to leave the room so I could ask Adams what was making him so fearful, but the owner of Sefton Hall was now in full cry.
Meanwhile Barker gazed at the butler for a moment more and, sensing his discomfort, lowered his eyes and contributed nothing else to the conversation until the port was poured some twenty minutes later.
“Your last chance to avoid complete humiliation,” said Hamilton.
A cheese board, displaying several varieties, was brought round and each guest selected his choice—I stuck to a Cheddar that I could have told Hamilton had not been produced in Somerset. Meanwhile the port was poured by the butler, who was now as white as a sheet. I began to wonder if he was going to faint, but somehow he managed to fill all four glasses before returning to stand a pace behind his master’s chair. Hamilton noticed nothing untoward.
Barker drank the port, not bothering with any of his previous preliminaries.
“Taylor’s,” he began.
“Agreed,” said Hamilton. “But as there are only three decent suppliers of port in the world, the year can be all that matters—as you, in your exalted position, must be well aware, Mr. Barker.”
Freddie nodded his agreement. “Nineteen seventy-five,” he said firmly, then quickly flicked the card over.
“Taylor’s, 1927,” I read upside-down.
Once again Barker turned sharply toward his host, who was rocking with laughter. The butler stared back at his master’s guest with haunted eyes. Barker hesitated only for a moment before removing a checkbook from his inside pocket. He filled in the name “Sefton Hamilton” and the figure of £200. He signed it and wordles