Free Vintage by David Baker Page A

’43. Right there. Look at that. And does that look like a J or a T to you?”
    Bruno shrugged. Morty studied him carefully before rifling through a bookshelf behind the counter, finally retrieving a thick catalog with yellowed paper. He slammed it down in a spiral of dust and leafed through the pages, muttering to himself. “It’s definitely a T . There it is. Clement Trevallier. They’re still around. Near Pommard . . . town called Les Cloches. Smack in the middle of the best vineyards.”
    â€œSure, I’ve heard of ’em. I used to live around there. They make some pretty good juice.”
    â€œDamn right they do. Sylvie Trevallier, the owner . . . she doesn’t mess around. I hear she’s a real piece of work. Won’t talk to the press. Doesn’t go in for fancy glass or labels. Real stubborn, micromanager-type . . . directs all the operations herself. But year after year she makes stuff that stands toe-to-toe with the big boys. In any case . . . this ’43 . . . it’s a fake.”
    â€œWhy do you say that?”
    Morty spun the book around and tapped the page. In the inventory of labels there was no ’43 listed. The listings jumped right from the ’42 to the ’44. Bruno’s heart leapt.
    â€œNo ’43? Why not?”
    â€œOccupation. Nazis. Story goes they shipped all the good stuff to the party leaders in Berlin. Some of it turned up again . . . but not the Trevallier. One of the lost vintages.” Morty paced, holding the cork, his eyes sparkling. His grin was as unreadable as ever around the cigar stub. He slipped his glasses down onto his nose and squinted at the cork more closely. “It’s a damn good fake, though. I’ll give you a buck fifty for it.”
    Bruno could use another hundred and fifty dollars. But why would Morty offer so much for a fake?
    â€œNo, thanks.”
    â€œOkay, two hundred,” Morty said with a hint of annoyance.Bruno tried not to smile. He recognized by his friend’s tone that Morty thought the cork was authentic. “What are you going to use it for . . . a good luck charm?”
    Bruno held out his palm and Morty reluctantly relinquished the cork. “I could use a little luck.”
    â€œWell, I tell you what. Maybe it isn’t a fake. You find yourself one of those little guys still in the bottle, then you’ve really got yourself something. Find a case and you could buy yourself a nice bungalow in Belmont.”
    Morty winked. If it was real, then that meant that somewhere, out there, a vintage of wine assumed lost to the Nazis, maybe just a case or maybe even a single bottle, had survived the occupation. Had this cork been pulled from the last bottle? Or did more exist out there somewhere? And why was this under a file cabinet in a warehouse in Chicago? These questions coaxed the return of Bruno’s headache. Some good luck charm.
    Suddenly it no longer seemed so magical. After all, it was just a cork. The legendary lost wine that was once sealed beneath its pulpy texture was long gone. Like everything in Bruno’s life, it was now a dusty reminder of past glories.
    â€œThanks for the patchwork,” Bruno said, slapping Morty on the back as he headed for the door. He put the cork in his pocket, ready to forget about it. More immediate on his mind was Carmen’s parent-teacher conference and his chance to finally present Anna with his new business plan.

SEVEN
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A Revelation
    One can hide, within the humble pirozhki, a message. It is at the cook’s discretion to stuff them with wild mushrooms, giblets, sweetbreads, fresh apricots or bitter chocolate. And the guest is only required to bring a sense of wonder and a willingness to entertain surprise.
    â€” B RUNO T ANNENBAUM, “A W ALK T HROUGH L ITTLE W ARSAW, ” C HICAGO S UN- T IMES
    B runo sat in the passenger seat while Anna drove. She