The Perfect Wine (An Original Short Story)

The Perfect Wine by Richard A. For almost thirty years I have been a wine connoisseur, an obsessed oenophile of discriminating tastes. My quest has long been to seek the most rarefied of wines, those bottles containing liquid bliss, the epitome of exquisiteness. I have traveled the globe, seeking ever rarer bottlings, the most unique of cult wines, always hoping to find the perfect wine. My father had unwittingly made some keen investments in his youth so that upon his passing I inherited a sizeable fortune. So, I was able to be somewhat of a dilettante, working when it pleased me. This allowed me to dabble in whatever caught my fancy, and provided me plenty of free time to dedicate to various leisurely pursuits. It was also my father who introduced me to the mysteries of the grape, beginning with small glasses of wine with dinner when I was twelve. At first, I enjoyed the wine more for its forbidden nature. Most of my friends were not allowed any alcohol at all so I was envied by my peers. But, as the teenage years began to pass by, I started to acquire more of an appreciation for the taste of the grape. At that point, I began an immersion into the realm of wine. I quickly surpassed my father in knowledge of viniculture and viticulture. I ravenously devoured books and magazines on wine, quenching my thirst for knowledge as well as my physical thirst. I spoke to sommeliers and oenophiles, questioning them about every facet of the grape. I attended lectures and seminars, acquiring more and more knowledge. My tastings began to expand past the narrow confines of my father’s repertoire. I eventually realized how his tastes were more plebian in nature. Where his tastes ran to common French and Italian wines, cheap Beaujolais and Chianti, I experimented with more expensive wines, as well as wines from countries all over the world. There was no limit to my horizons. Over the years, I have sampled literally thousands of wines, including what are often considered the world’s finest. First growth Bordeaux, California cult Cabernet, the finest Australia Shiraz, Spain’s famed Unico, the noted Italian Sassicaia. I consider my nose and palate to be highly refined, to be able to carefully analyze the quality of any wine. But, through all of these tastings, I had yet to find a perfect wine. Others believe there are “perfect” wines, those which score the highest possible rating under their various systems. Yet their ratings are not persuasive to me. Such wines may be near perfect, but they all possess minor imperfections which are sufficient to mar them from being perfect. I almost doubt that a perfect wine can exist. In addition, perfection is probably too subjective of a concept. What one man considers perfect under his system may not be considered so by a different man under a different system, or even the same system. A truly perfect wine would be one that would appeal to all equally, or at least all with a developed palate. This would not apply to the masses who quaff liter after liter of cheap jug or box wine. Their tastes are irrelevant. Mindless sheep whose sole consideration is the low price of a wine. But, I have now reached a point in my life where most wine bores me. It seems that my nose and palate crave only the best now. Anything less and the experience is miserable. It is as if I now see most wines as akin to those rather nasty jug wines. I have become the most demanding of task masters, requiring the strictest of standards from vintners. Despite that, I still have failed to find a wine that truly transcends me. The elusive, and maybe illusory, Grail of my wine Quest. Though possibly my Grail is not so illusory. In the rarified oenophile circles that I travel, there is always gossip and rumor revolving around new cult wines, especially those unavailable to the general public. Small production, hand-crafted, elite quality, wines. Extremely expensive wines. Yet none of us balk at such prices as we crave only the best. I have had the privilege to taste many such unique and rare cult wines. Yet still no perfection. But could that change? Gnothi Seaton. Two Greek words which refer to one of the Delphic maxims: Know Thyself. Ancient words once carved in front of the shrine of the Delphic Oracle so that all suppliants could ponder them. In addition, it was a key Socratic principle, the path to enlightment, to perfection. Powerful words. Powerful idea. It is also the whispered name of a legendary wine. An elixir of the gods. A so-called perfect wine. Five years ago I heard the first inklings about this wine. At the time, it was vague gossip, hearsay multiple times removed. Foolish ramblings which few would ever take serious. Idle boastings. But, over the next three years, I began to hear more and more about Gnothi Seaton. And I began to listen more carefully, to collect and analyze every bit of information I could locate. Was it real or merely an oenophile myth? For the last two years I hunted for this wine, seeing it as my Grail. I interviewed and interrogated anyone who claimed any knowledge of the wine, anyone who might be able to provide a clue to its existence. And during this time, I compiled a profile of the wine, a profile of which the accuracy seemed most likely. Though I would never know for sure until, if ever, I actually found the wine. Some of my fellow oenophiles felt that I was delusional for pursuing the rumors and myths. For all their talk, the vast majority did not believe in its existence. It made for intriguing speculation and discussion, but mainly on a theoretical level. They could discuss their qualifications and standards of assessment for a perfect wine. Though I could not explain my reasons even to myself, I knew there had to be some truth amidst the legend of Gnothi Seaton. And now I believe I have found it. My intense analysis of the myriad, disparate rumors and gossip concerning the wine led me to a remote Greek village, maybe fifty miles north of Sparta. Once there, I found a gnarled vintner, a wizened man whose age no one could determine though there was a fanciful myth that he was almost twenty-five hundred years old. It was this gnome-like vintner who allegedly crafted Gnothi Seaton, he who might have created my Grail. When I questioned him about the wine, he posed some of his own questions to me first, testing my knowledge of Gnothi Seaton. So, I told him everything I had heard. And I told him about my life, my intense desire for that wine. In retrospect, I am sure he clearly saw my desperation. I was almost setting myself up to be deceived, to be conned. At the time, I was not worried about such a potential. I wanted to believe the wine existed. After I stopped speaking, he pondered the matter for maybe a minute or two and then offered to sell me a single bottle. But, the price would be 99% of my net worth. I stood there stunned, shocked by his outrageous demand. How could any wine be worth that much, even a perfect wine? And what exactly would this old man do with all those millions? He lived in a ramshackle hut, in dirty, thread-worn clothes. The entire village probably was not worth a fraction of that amount. If this vintner had sold the Gnothi Seaton before, at such an exorbitant amount, then where had the money gone? Was he merely a fraud trying to steal me blind? Before I could respond, he continued, stating that the wine came with an unconditional guarantee. Payment would only be made if I was completely satisfied with the wine. Otherwise, I owed nothing. So, that eliminated much of the chance of a deception, at least on his part. I could always lie. I could drink the wine, enjoy it, and then claim it did not fully satisfy me and owe this little man nothing. The risk was all his. But he had not finished speaking. His offer included a caveat as well. The wizened vintner warned me of the wine, a warning he urgently recommended that I carefully consider. I must admit that his warning did give me chills, although I felt that it might only be hyperbole. Gnothi Seaton was a blend of rare, indigenous Greek grapes, though the vintner would not specify the varietals or where they grew. There were few vines visible in the area of the village so the vineyard must be elsewhere, maybe a remote mountain valley somewhere. I was familiar with the usual Greek varietals, such as agiorgitiko, xynomavro, and mavrodaphne, but knew there were many more that I did not know, and which were rarely used. The wine was supposedly crafted from an ancient recipe, from a wine that some of Homer’s heroes allegedly drank. It had been passed down through a single family, always on the paternal side, over thousands of years. And only a single case was ever made during any twenty year span, and sometimes not even that much. The wine was supposedly Perfection, the Ideal Wine, the Form upon which all other wines were but pale shades. Yet such perfection came with a heavy price. It would ruin you for all other wines. You would never again desire to drink any other wine. After such perfection, you could never settle for any less. But, the vintner would only sell you a single bottle. Ever. You would have but a single bottle of perfection. And then never again would wine touch your lips. It would be a once in a lifetime experience. It would be the completion of a grand quest. But afterwards, there would be nothing but the memory. And we all know how quickly memory can fade over time. Then the old man told me the rest of the story, the important caveat. Of those people who had chosen to purchase a bottle, every one of them had committed suicide within one month of drinking the wine. After such perfection, they felt they had nothing left to live for. Their quests were over and there would never be another. And they wanted to die when the memory of the perfect wine was still fresh in their minds. Losing the memory of that perfect wine would be a horrible fate. I believed the old vintner. I had nothing to verify his words yet they rang of truth. His eyes did not lie. They shone with ancient knowledge, with specialized arcane lore. He truly believed the words he spoke. And so did I. The price of the wine was now a minor consideration. The primary issue now was whether I was willing to drink a wine, knowing I would probably be dead within a month. Perfection at the cost of oblivion. I would be paying to substantially shorten my life. I would essentially be paying him to kill me. In a manner of speaking. If I did not buy the wine, how could I live knowing the perfect wine existed but that I did not possess it, that I had not tasted it? Would that be a worse fate than death? Would I regret it throughout the rest of my life? What if I bought the wine but did not drink it now, rather saving it until I was older, and closer to death? Could I wait that long? What would happen if I died suddenly, not having tasted the wine? Such an agonizing decision. I stayed the night in the village while contemplating my future. I enjoyed some succulent spicy lamb yet I refrained from tasting any of their wines. I could not do so when I was so near to perfection. I would not sully my palate. My sleep was restless, the little I was able to get. I had to decide in the morning, one way or another. In the end, I had no real choice. My obsession controlled my life, my thought processes. From the moment the wine was offered to me, my fate was sealed. I, like those before me, had followed a one-way path to the object of my Quest, a path leading to success and eventually to death. The inevitability of it all consumed me. No matter the cost, I had to feed my addiction. Like some low-life junkie hooked on smack. Yes, I will buy the Gnothi Seaton. Yes, I will sign over 99% of my fortune. And yes, I am sure that the wine will completely satisfy me. And upon the completion of my Quest, upon the attainment of perfection, I will find a way to end my life. The futility of life afterwards will propel me to oblivion. As will the desire to preserve the memory of that single perfect wine. Like that previously mentioned junkie, my hands shook when I signed over my money to purchase my fix. I did not even read the multi-page contract he provided me. It mattered not. Only the wine was important. At any price. The old vintner smiled when he handed over a bottle of the Gnothi Seaton, having already known what my decision was to be. It was more a knowing smile than a mocking one. He had seen my obsession many times before, in other men. He knew my fate, maybe even better than I did. The wine was in a standard Bordeaux style bottle with a very simple, hand-written label. The label only provided the name of the wine “Gnothi Seaton.” There was no vintage date, no name of a winery or winemaker. There was no foil or wrapping covering the cork. Only a tiny sliver of wax over the top of the cork. The bottle had obviously been wiped clean of any dust so I could not tell how long it might have sat in his cellar. I took the bottle, carefully placing it into a wooden box for safe-keeping. I could not risk an accident, the chance of breaking the bottle. I thanked the vintner and then left the village, heading back toward the airport. I had more decisions to make now, all revolving around the wine. Where should I drink the wine? What would be the perfect setting? Outside or inside? Where do you drink perfection? With or without food? If with food, then what food should be paired with it? The old vintner had mentioned that food would be unnecessary but I felt having it around anyways might be beneficial. Should I share the wine with anyone? If so, should I charge them as well? Could I live with the guilt of knowing that whoever shared the wine with me would end up a suicide? Should I even care knowing my own life would end soon as well? Or should I be selfish and drink it all myself? It would be the last wine that I ever drank. Ten maddening days passed. The wine consumed my every waking thought, as well as filling my dreams. The anxiety of waiting, of making the preparations to drink the wine, took their toll on me. I needed to drink it soon or I might go mad. Although many might already consider me mad for having bought the wine. But, I did want the perfect experience so that took preparation and time. I knew that I could not wait, could not save the wine. Now that I possessed it, I had to taste it. What junkie would ever save a bag of perfect heroin? I understood that my life neared its end, that I was accelerating the expiration of my life span. But I just did not care. I decided that I would drink the wine at home, within my study. It was where I had drank many a fine wine, a room of dark leather and mahogany. There was a large fireplace and it was a room designed for decadent comfort. I would also be alone. Selfishly, the entire bottle would be for my pleasure only. It was not that I worried about others dying because of sharing the wine with me. That was not really much of a consideration. No, I simply wanted all of the wine for myself. I could not share perfection with anyone, not even my closest friends. I decided that I would have a plate of various cheeses available while I drank the wine. I did not want to create a full meal, or even a bunch of appetizers. But, a selection of find cheeses might be sufficient. With a selection of breads and crackers. I might not eat anything with the wine, but I wanted to be prepared anyways. As for the day of the tasting, I chose a Saturday that happened to be my father’s birthday. It seemed fitting since it was he who introduced me to wine in the first place. I could toast to his memory and maybe he would be looking down on me at that moment. Saturday then arrived. At 1:00 p.m., the preparations complete, I entered my study and locked the door. My eyes locked on the bottle of Gnothi Seaton on the table next to my most comfortable leather chair. I walked forward to my fate. I chose to decant the wine, to sieve out any sediment as well as to allow it to breathe for a time. I used my corkscrew to carefully extricate the cork, wary that the cork might be brittle and break off as I was unsure of its age. But I worried for nothing as the cork smoothly slid out of the neck of the bottle. And as the cork was removed, my nostrils were caressed by the incredible aroma of the Gnothi Seaton. I wasted little time in pouring the wine into my crystal decanter, the rich liquid cascading through the steel mesh strainer above the decanter. As I poured the wine, I breathed in the aroma, my nose very close to the cascading wine. How to describe the indescribable? I had never smelled such complexity in any wine before. There were the typical fruit smells, from cherries to strawberries to black currants. There were the hints of chocolate, smoke and leather. Coconut, vanilla, and even butterscotch. There were smells I could not identify, but which were tantalizingly pleasurable. These smells wafted in and out, melding and separating, as each sniff brought something different to my senses. There was only harmony in the differing smells. Everything just seemed to fit. What a nose. But that was not all of it. For the mélange of scents also triggered a torrent of memories within me, a montage of rapid flashes, joyous moments in my life. What an incredible rush. The aroma simply placed me in the perfect mood, elevating my pleasure, dispelling any negativity. There was only happiness, utter bliss. Any depression or negativity was immediately banished. No other wine had ever done this to me, especially to this extreme. I now understood true transcendence. With almost inhuman restraint, I prevented myself from immediately drinking any of the wine. I let it sit in the decanter, letting it breathe, letting it develop, loosen. Yet I could not take my eyes off the rich, dark liquid. It sparkled with vibrancy, with life. The colors continually shifted and almost glowed. It was almost hypnotic. Hue, intensity and clarity were all exceptional. Five hours passed as though it were but a moment. I realized that I had been staring at the wine the entire time, mesmerized by its contents. It was now time to taste the wine, to sip its tantalizing contents. Enough time should have passed to open up the wine more. I carefully poured some of the dark wine into a crystal Riedel, filling it only about one-third of the way. I held the stem of the glass and then rotated the base, swirling the contents of the wine, aerating it. I scrutinized the legs, the viscous remnants of moisture on the inside of the glass from where the wine had swirled. I held little stock in the legs, see them merely as an indicator of the alcohol content of the wine. And these legs seemed to indicate only a moderate alcohol level. Some assessed a wine's quality buy the length of the legs but I felt that was foolish. I then stuck my nose deep within the bowl of the glass, inhaling deeply. The scents that I had detected earlier when I uncorked the wine were still present, though only more intense, bolder and vivacious. And they once again sparked a flood of memories, a rapid montage of the highlights of my life. No other wine had ever touched me like this one. And that was merely with its aroma. I let a minute pass and then sniffed deeply from the glass again, feeling that rush once more. I quivered, amazed that the nose had brought me such exquisite pleasure, almost hesitant to taste it. Could I handle what the taste of the wine might do to me? But, impatiently, I raised the glass to my lips, tilting it, letting the dark wine flow into my mouth. I held a mouthful of wine as I placed the goblet back onto the table. I swished the wine around in my mouth, letting it touch and flow over every part of my mouth. At one point, I opened my mouth a tiny bit, sucking in a bit of air, continuing to move the rich liquid around. Every inch of my mouth was alive with flavor, luscious fruits on the front palate, delicate tannins, chocolate, smoke, vanilla, and countless other flavors. Smooth, silky, and supple. Savory spices of black pepper and cumin and sweet spices of cinnamon, cloves, and licorice. And with each moment, the wine transformed, a revolving litany of tastes and variations. I had never had a wine so complex, so multitudinous in its variations. Yet it all meshed into a harmonious whole. There was not a discordant note in the entire liquid song. Yet the flavors were not everything for even more memories were now triggered within me, a slew of feelings, reminisces, and recollections. Each moment a time when I was happiest, when I felt that the world existed only for me, when the light was the brightest. It made me realize how fantastic my life had been, how the highlights of my life far outweighed any negative experiences. I understood myself, my experiences, my relationships, in a new perspective. This wine had encapsulated the perfection of my life. It was rapture and bliss. I finally swallowed the wine, reveling in its extremely long finish which seemed to stretch on for many minutes. One taste of this wine had elated me beyond belief. Finishing the glass before me would make me ecstatic. And that is what I did, reveling in each mouthful. The wine was perfection and had fulfilled every promise. I could not have asked for anything more from a wine. Absolute satisfaction. It had been worth every dollar I had paid, and knowing what I did now, I would have paid even more. The wine had also fulfilled the destiny of its name, Gnothi Seaton. Know Thyself. I now knew myself, my life, the culmination of my purpose. It had opened my mind, expanded my horizons and explained so much. It had been a burst of enlightenment. Satori. Over the course of the rest of the evening, I savored the rest of the bottle, until only a few remnants of sediment remained. A perfect evening. One that I wished would not end. I had finally completed my Quest and found the perfect wine. It was only when the bottle was empty though that harsh reality intervened once more, threatening my paradise. I knew that my life would never be better than it just had been. Everything else would be a downward slide away from perfection. Yes, I had memories but they would fade with time, getting sullied and tainted. How could someone who had tasted perfection ever be satisfied with less? I understood why all the others had committed suicide. What was left to live for? They had seen perfection in the bottle and knew they would never have that again. Far better to take that perfection to the grave rather than plod through the rest of their years clinging to the imperfections. To them, life would have been miserable knowing that each day only brought they further away from perfection. I had prepared for the eventuality of suicide. The pistol was on the mantel, loaded with a single bullet. I wanted my death to be quick and relatively guaranteed. An overdose was not foolproof. And none of the other potential methods really appealed to me. Just place the barrel of the gun in my mouth and blow the back of my head off. I knew that I could never really enjoy another glass of wine. My palate had been ruined forever. Yet I had tasted the perfect wine, and that was a supreme accomplishment. Why not just end it all now, secure in that knowledge? I walked over to the mantel and placed my right hand upon the pistol. I understood so much now, comprehension filling my mind. I realized the obsession that motivated some men, that singular drive that made them crave the perfect wine. And I could empathize with their desire, once they had tasted perfection, to end their lives. It made such sense to them. What else was there to live for? Gnothi Seaton. Know Thyself. That wine had brought me self-knowledge, had opened the deepest recesses of my own soul and revealed to me the secrets of my life. And with that self-knowledge, I saw my parallels to those who had gone before, those who had tasted perfection and then taken their lives. But, I also saw the differences. Where they had seen a room with no doors, no exits, I saw a vast chamber with a myriad of portals. Yes, wine had been my obsession. It had consumed so much of my life, so many years. And I had now partaken of the Grail of my wine quest. But, as that obsession had ended, I realized I was capable of more. Why couldn’t I simply redirect that singular motivation toward a different area, a new obsession? Suicide was not an option for me. Tomorrow, I start the Quest for the perfect meal. THE END