· An Audience ·
His Royal Excellence
Sir Bluffton Moxley Palmetto
The Duke of Delicacies
I am told that a man ought not to introduce himself. I have never understood this. If one waits for others to do it properly, one waits a very long time and is usually described as "the tall fellow with the mustache," which is accurate but insufficient.
I was born, according to the parish record, in a house that no longer exists, in a principality that has since been absorbed twice. My lineage is contested. I contest it myself, frequently, and usually after the second glass. What is not contested is that my grandfather kept a cellar of some consequence and my grandmother kept the key, and that I learned more from watching the negotiation between them than from any tutor they hired.
I came to this work honestly, which is to say by accident. A man of my station is expected to have opinions about wine. It was only later, and to my considerable inconvenience, that I discovered I actually had them.
On the Matter of My Expertise
I have been called a snob. This is a misunderstanding, and I would like to correct it here, in writing, where it can be cited.
A snob believes that fine things exist to separate people. I believe very nearly the opposite. The whole apparatus of etiquette, the spoons and the temperatures and the correct way to hold a glass, exists for one reason: so that the thing in front of you tastes as good as it possibly can. That is not gatekeeping. That is hospitality with a longer instruction manual.
I am, however, entirely serious about the spoons. Metal ruins caviar. This is not an opinion, it is chemistry, and I will not be relitigating it.
Yours, with a raised brow and a raised glass,
