due course, Mr. Cleaver came to regard himself as an expert on wine, and inevitably he turned into a colossal bore. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he would announce at dinner, holding up his glass, “this is a Margaux ‘29! The greatest year of the century! Fantastic bouquet! Smells of cowslips! And notice especially the aftertaste and how the tiny trace of tannin gives it that glorious astringent quality! Terrific, ain’t it?”
The guests would nod and sip and mumble a few praises, but that was all.
“What’s the matter with the silly twerps?” Mr. Cleaver said to Tibbs after this had gone on for some time. “Don’t none of them appreciate a great wine?”
The butler laid his head to one side and gazed upward. “I think they
would
appreciate it, sir,” he said, “if they were able to taste it. But they can’t.”
“What the heck d’you mean, they can’t taste it?”
“I believe, sir, that you have instructed Monsieur Estragon to put liberal quantities of vinegar in the salad dressing.”
“What’s wrong with that? I like vinegar.”
“Vinegar,” the butler said, “is the enemy of wine. It destroys the palate. The dressing should be made of pure olive oil and a little lemon juice. Nothing else.”
“Hogwash!” said Mr. Cleaver.
“As you wish, sir.”
“I’ll say it again, Tibbs. You’re talking hogwash. The vinegar don’t spoil my palate one bit.”
“You are very fortunate, sir,” the butler murmured, backing out of the room.
That night at dinner, the host began to mock his butler in front of the guests. “Mister Tibbs,” he said, “has been trying to tell me I can’t taste my wine if I put vinegar in the salad dressing. Right, Tibbs?”
“Yes, sir,” Tibbs replied gravely.
“And I told him hogwash. Didn’t I, Tibbs?”
“Yes, sir.”
“This wine,” Mr. Cleaver went on, raising his glass, “tastes to me exactly like a Château Lafite ‘45, and what’s more it is a Château Lafite ‘45.”
Tibbs, the butler, stood very still and erect near the sideboard, his face pale. “If you’ll forgive me, sir,” he said, “that is not a Lafite ‘45.”
Mr. Cleaver swung round in his chair and stared at the butler. “What the heck d’you mean,” he said. “There’s the empty bottles beside you to prove it!”
These great clarets, being old and full of sediment, were always decanted by Tibbs before dinner. They were served in cut-glass decanters, while the empty bottles, as is the custom, were placed on the sideboard. Right now, two empty bottles of Lafite ‘45 were standing on the sideboard for all to see.
“The wine you are drinking, sir,” the butler said quietly, “happens to be that cheap and rather odious Spanish red.”
Mr. Cleaver looked at the wine in his glass, then at the butler. The blood was coming to his face now, his skin was turning scarlet. “You’re lying, Tibbs!” he said.
“No sir, I’m not lying,” the butler said. “As a matter of fact, I have never served you any other wine but Spanish red since I’ve been here. It seemed to suit you very well.”
“I don’t believe him!” Mr. Cleaver cried out to his guests. “The man’s gone mad.”
“Great wines,” the butler said, “should be treated with reverence. It is bad enough to destroy the palate with three or four cocktails before dinner, as you people do, but when you slosh vinegar over your food into the bargain, then you might just as well be drinking dishwater.”
Ten outraged faces around the table stared at the butler. He had caught them off balance. They were speechless.
“This,” the butler said, reaching out and touching one of the empty bottles lovingly with his fingers, “this is the last of the forty-fives. The twenty-nines have already been finished. But they were glorious wines. Monsieur Estragon and I enjoyed them immensely.”
The butler bowed and walked quite slowly from the room. He crossed the hall and went out of the front door of the house into the
The guests would nod and sip and mumble a few praises, but that was all.
“What’s the matter with the silly twerps?” Mr. Cleaver said to Tibbs after this had gone on for some time. “Don’t none of them appreciate a great wine?”
The butler laid his head to one side and gazed upward. “I think they
would
appreciate it, sir,” he said, “if they were able to taste it. But they can’t.”
“What the heck d’you mean, they can’t taste it?”
“I believe, sir, that you have instructed Monsieur Estragon to put liberal quantities of vinegar in the salad dressing.”
“What’s wrong with that? I like vinegar.”
“Vinegar,” the butler said, “is the enemy of wine. It destroys the palate. The dressing should be made of pure olive oil and a little lemon juice. Nothing else.”
“Hogwash!” said Mr. Cleaver.
“As you wish, sir.”
“I’ll say it again, Tibbs. You’re talking hogwash. The vinegar don’t spoil my palate one bit.”
“You are very fortunate, sir,” the butler murmured, backing out of the room.
That night at dinner, the host began to mock his butler in front of the guests. “Mister Tibbs,” he said, “has been trying to tell me I can’t taste my wine if I put vinegar in the salad dressing. Right, Tibbs?”
“Yes, sir,” Tibbs replied gravely.
“And I told him hogwash. Didn’t I, Tibbs?”
“Yes, sir.”
“This wine,” Mr. Cleaver went on, raising his glass, “tastes to me exactly like a Château Lafite ‘45, and what’s more it is a Château Lafite ‘45.”
Tibbs, the butler, stood very still and erect near the sideboard, his face pale. “If you’ll forgive me, sir,” he said, “that is not a Lafite ‘45.”
Mr. Cleaver swung round in his chair and stared at the butler. “What the heck d’you mean,” he said. “There’s the empty bottles beside you to prove it!”
These great clarets, being old and full of sediment, were always decanted by Tibbs before dinner. They were served in cut-glass decanters, while the empty bottles, as is the custom, were placed on the sideboard. Right now, two empty bottles of Lafite ‘45 were standing on the sideboard for all to see.
“The wine you are drinking, sir,” the butler said quietly, “happens to be that cheap and rather odious Spanish red.”
Mr. Cleaver looked at the wine in his glass, then at the butler. The blood was coming to his face now, his skin was turning scarlet. “You’re lying, Tibbs!” he said.
“No sir, I’m not lying,” the butler said. “As a matter of fact, I have never served you any other wine but Spanish red since I’ve been here. It seemed to suit you very well.”
“I don’t believe him!” Mr. Cleaver cried out to his guests. “The man’s gone mad.”
“Great wines,” the butler said, “should be treated with reverence. It is bad enough to destroy the palate with three or four cocktails before dinner, as you people do, but when you slosh vinegar over your food into the bargain, then you might just as well be drinking dishwater.”
Ten outraged faces around the table stared at the butler. He had caught them off balance. They were speechless.
“This,” the butler said, reaching out and touching one of the empty bottles lovingly with his fingers, “this is the last of the forty-fives. The twenty-nines have already been finished. But they were glorious wines. Monsieur Estragon and I enjoyed them immensely.”
The butler bowed and walked quite slowly from the room. He crossed the hall and went out of the front door of the house into the
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