“So, Captain,” proclaimed the unusually expansive Groedl, “tell us what you have planned.”
“Of course, Dr. Groedl. Gentleman, I begin you with a palate-pleasing Laphroaig 1899, bottled by Mackie and Company. One of the finest of our English enemies’ malt Scotch whiskeys. How it ended up here, I have no idea. Sip it, perhaps over ice. Note the peat-bog intensity, the sense of smoke and fog, the somehow ‘brown’ sense of flavor. Use it only to sharpen the palate and to absorb the tiniest of blurs from the vividness of its impact. When we win the war, it is my dream to violate my religious discipline for one night and drown myself in its glories, preferably in my new castle in Glasgow, but until then it must be savored at the micro level.”
“I don’t know what he’s talking about,” said Panzer Muntz, “but by God, I like his spirit.”
“Next, with the Ukraine wheat-fed filet de boeuf, I offer a superb 1929 Château-Chalon. That was a wonderful year, with a cold winter and a beautiful spring and summer. It is by far the queen of the evening’s selections, and I hate to spend it so early in the ritual, but the chef informs me that beef must precede fowl and fish, by ancient tradition.”
“It is so wrong,” said Panzer Muntz, “when fowl precedes beef!” It was meant as jest, so everybody laughed, including Salid, including the Ukrainian mistresses.
“Then with the fowl,” said Salid, “I am delighted to announce a Gustav Adolf Schmitt Niersteiner Heiligenbaum 1937. It does not stand up to the other two, but if you regard it, chilled, as mild comic relief, you will find it acceptable. I mean this as no comment on the great tradition of German wine making, only as a comment on what was available.”
“At least he’s not trying to stick us with any Ivan pisswater,” said Group Leader Schultz, perhaps enabled by too much Laphroaig. There was some laughter but not much.
“The birds, by the way,” said Salid, “are Hungarian chukker, flown in fresh. Dr. Groedl found room on the plane, God bless him.”
Applause, and in the flickering candlelight, Dr. Groedl took his bows.
“Then, for the fish course,” said Salid, “which would be cold Latvian sturgeon, again fresh, supplied courtesy of General Muntz from 3rd SS Panzer attached to Army Group North,” to more sincere rounds of applause, “a Château d’Yquem 1921, the amber vintage so storied in wine legend. I regret I could not find a Loire, since 1937 is widely heralded as the greatest year for that superb vintage. But alas, as we have all found, one must work with what one has.”
“And he hasn’t even told you about the dessert,” crooned Dr. Groedl.
“The dessert! The dessert!” went the cry through the small throng of guests, in thrall to the young Arab aristocrat.
“I suppose I shall go ahead and unveil the surprise,” said Salid. “I thank whoever was the sommelier in the Hotel Berlin here before the war, as he had one bold stroke that I think you will enjoy. Perhaps it was meant as an exhibition or something to attract a sporty European ski crowd to the Carpathians as part of Poland’s own five-year plan. The fellow managed not only to acquire a Veuve Clicquot Dry 1927—not the best, but still a fine year—he acquired it in a quantity that I think will impress you and that I guarantee will ensure this to be a memorable night for all of us lucky enough to be in attendance. Gentlemen, I give you . . . Balthazar.”
Balthazar was not the biggest champagne bottle, but up near the top of the list, and at the captain’s command, four husky Serbs of Police Battalion, in their own dress 13th SS Mountain uniforms and red fezzes, appeared from the shadows with the huge green bottle. It contained twelve liters of M. Veuve and M. Clicquot’s superlatively refined and delightful bubblejuice and resembled one of the mighty siege mortars that Von Manstein had used to level Sebastopol a few years earlier, in the Reich’s headier days.
“I assure you, le déluge will be to your liking,” said Salid.
“Gentlemen, to our table hoppe, hoppe, hoppe,” said Groedl.
* * *
The food was gone. The candles had burned low. The monocles and pince-nez had fallen to the ends of their tethers. Ties were loosened or removed. Cigar smoke filled the air. Some of the more adventurous of the men had slid off into the shadows and glades of the garden with their mistresses or companions, and occasionally an orgasmic grunt would signify another German victory over the Reds. Those who remained at the table had gathered at its head, where Dr. Groedl presided benevolently. He had just finished a fascinating story of the mystery illness that had plagued his beloved dachshund, Mitzi, throughout most of 1943, and her miraculous cure at the hands of a Jewish veterinarian whom Groedl had made certain to provide with authentic Kommissariat citizenship papers so that he would not be carted off to—well, no need to specify.